Forty-five minutes into their Valentine’s Day show, the Oblivians put down their instruments, stood their ground, and made a demand of the house: More beer.
Joy! Joy and death! Momento mori, final fulfillment, revellers in the music of the ecstatic sigh. The last breath; the psychotropic dance. My eyes grin wide.
Tom ripped on his camouflage guitar, the bassist jumped around like a cocker spaniel, but I kept thinking “When will the guitar player put his shirt back on?!?”
Their bassist was singing through some kind of echo box. Some songs reminded me of rockabilly. I didn’t know what that girl meant when she called them pop.
Whereas Orb was essentially DJ-ing a club, the brothers were playing a rock ‘n’ roll show. They worked the crowd like it was just another knob on the board.
Sure, to the uninitiated, The Crowns are merely pepped up Stray Cat Strutters, but perhaps they will lead the masses toward the salvation sounds of rockabilly.
Rollins Band had a hard act to follow in Skunk Anansie. Skin compels you to watch her, her motions intriguing, falling somewhere between sinewy and robotic.