Gig Review: Rocket Science @ the Annandale Hotel (21/12/07)
July 9th 2008 23:33
They’ve taken a back seat for long enough. They’re always the proverbial bridesmaid but maybe, just maybe, Rocket Science’s time has finally come.
Rocket Science have always held a lofty rank on the local music scene’s pecking order but surprisingly their ‘60s-influenced, swaggering garage rock has managed to hold just a tenuous grip on the public’s consciousness – and only just. It’s unfortunate that The Vines got to the finish line first.
You see, they’re the Terry Molloy of Australian rock. They coulda been contenders but somehow the only spoils which awaited them was a one way ticket to Palooka-ville. Therein lies the conundrum. They’re perhaps one of the best live acts this country has seen and yet they’ve faded into a virtual obscurity, eliciting queries of “what ever happened to Rocket Science?”
Well a lot has happened – and perhaps nothing at all. Of course, Roman Tucker’s much publicised fall has proven to me more of a setback than initially expected. Cranial swelling, an induced coma and post traumatic amnesia are not something one can readily bounce back from.
All this counts for naught when the band finally takes to the stage. Tucker struts and preens from the get go. Full of bravado, screaming amidst the fuzz and distortion and bashing his keyboard to within an inch of its life. The boys are finally back and it ain’t gonna be pretty.
They launch into a much punchier rendition of Run Like a Gun and whilst Paul Maybury and Dave Gray steadily bookend Tucker, he plays like a man possessed. “I went to the funeral parlour, to see if I could get in”, he sings and as he shakes his head a spray of sweat envelops his lithe form and onto the front row who are eagerly lapping up his shtick.
They preview a new song Alive and the crowd whoops and yells but something tells me that no matter what Tucker sings it would still be heartily received. They’re not here to celebrate this particular moment, nor this particular song. The crowd is here to lionise a band for which such an honour is well overdue.
Tucker marchers like a cheerleader, his hands flailing like a windmill. He is a snake hipped rock rockette bringing his filtered garage punk to this motley crew which consists of equal parts hipsters, dilettantes and social miscreants. The crowd is thick but there are not enough numbers for a city that likes to vociferously declare its penchant for live music. Sydney has once again failed to come to the party. Maybe we’re deluding ourselves if this is the best reception we can offer one of this countries better live acts.
If truth be told, the performance is characterised by a cloying sense of muchness. There is no ebb. There is no flow. Their songs meld into each other, an endless barrage of distortion and shrieking vocals and it’s not until Being Followed that the band hit their stride. Everyone’s been waiting for this song. For the familiar tone of the organ and that killer bassline. The crowd is receptive, the bartender is playing air guitar and my companion is spilling precious beer on those within close proximity to him.
Kit Warhurst proves his mettle on drums and is an intriguing presence on stage. It’s hard to be noticed when your frontman is preening like a peacock but Warhurst is a consummate musician and manages to do so with aplomb.
Tucker jerks and flails, a paroxysm of tics and twitches that have come to be his trademark. The assembled crowd is transfixed. He’s like an epileptic pied piper. He waves his hand around the theremin, fixing an intense gaze on the antenna for protracted intervals. He engages in a studious display of aerial fingering that casts an ethereal pall over the room. At times I think he’s catatonic. Or under the influence. Probably both.
When he’s not engaging in carnal relations with his theremin, Tucker disappears under his keyboard, a disjointed hand still working the keys. He finally jumps up and emits a screeching yawl amid the discord of the guitars. T he insurrection ends as quickly as it began.
We quickly step out into the rain soaked street and wear the thin spray of rain drops like a familiar overcoat. The night is deathly still. We open our mouths to speak but neither of us hears a single sound. The tinnitus impairs our hearing; the din swallows the murmur of our voices. Rocket Science have quite literally assailed our senses in a way that no band has ever done before and we like it.
If there was any justice in this unforgiving world, I would wake up tomorrow 5 kilos lighter, the Tim Tam genie would be at my constant beck and call and Rocket Science would receive the recognition they so rightly deserve. Sadly, such chimerical designs have no place in this world. These love handles are here for the long haul and the man I’ve been pining for is nothing but a clever advertising ploy.
Yes, it’s a cruel and heartless world and it looks like it just might be the express back to Palooka-ville for these boys. Or, maybe not. At least this one, my friends, is entirely up to you.
Rocket Science have always held a lofty rank on the local music scene’s pecking order but surprisingly their ‘60s-influenced, swaggering garage rock has managed to hold just a tenuous grip on the public’s consciousness – and only just. It’s unfortunate that The Vines got to the finish line first.
You see, they’re the Terry Molloy of Australian rock. They coulda been contenders but somehow the only spoils which awaited them was a one way ticket to Palooka-ville. Therein lies the conundrum. They’re perhaps one of the best live acts this country has seen and yet they’ve faded into a virtual obscurity, eliciting queries of “what ever happened to Rocket Science?”
Well a lot has happened – and perhaps nothing at all. Of course, Roman Tucker’s much publicised fall has proven to me more of a setback than initially expected. Cranial swelling, an induced coma and post traumatic amnesia are not something one can readily bounce back from.
All this counts for naught when the band finally takes to the stage. Tucker struts and preens from the get go. Full of bravado, screaming amidst the fuzz and distortion and bashing his keyboard to within an inch of its life. The boys are finally back and it ain’t gonna be pretty.
They launch into a much punchier rendition of Run Like a Gun and whilst Paul Maybury and Dave Gray steadily bookend Tucker, he plays like a man possessed. “I went to the funeral parlour, to see if I could get in”, he sings and as he shakes his head a spray of sweat envelops his lithe form and onto the front row who are eagerly lapping up his shtick.
They preview a new song Alive and the crowd whoops and yells but something tells me that no matter what Tucker sings it would still be heartily received. They’re not here to celebrate this particular moment, nor this particular song. The crowd is here to lionise a band for which such an honour is well overdue.
Tucker marchers like a cheerleader, his hands flailing like a windmill. He is a snake hipped rock rockette bringing his filtered garage punk to this motley crew which consists of equal parts hipsters, dilettantes and social miscreants. The crowd is thick but there are not enough numbers for a city that likes to vociferously declare its penchant for live music. Sydney has once again failed to come to the party. Maybe we’re deluding ourselves if this is the best reception we can offer one of this countries better live acts.
If truth be told, the performance is characterised by a cloying sense of muchness. There is no ebb. There is no flow. Their songs meld into each other, an endless barrage of distortion and shrieking vocals and it’s not until Being Followed that the band hit their stride. Everyone’s been waiting for this song. For the familiar tone of the organ and that killer bassline. The crowd is receptive, the bartender is playing air guitar and my companion is spilling precious beer on those within close proximity to him.
Kit Warhurst proves his mettle on drums and is an intriguing presence on stage. It’s hard to be noticed when your frontman is preening like a peacock but Warhurst is a consummate musician and manages to do so with aplomb.
Tucker jerks and flails, a paroxysm of tics and twitches that have come to be his trademark. The assembled crowd is transfixed. He’s like an epileptic pied piper. He waves his hand around the theremin, fixing an intense gaze on the antenna for protracted intervals. He engages in a studious display of aerial fingering that casts an ethereal pall over the room. At times I think he’s catatonic. Or under the influence. Probably both.
When he’s not engaging in carnal relations with his theremin, Tucker disappears under his keyboard, a disjointed hand still working the keys. He finally jumps up and emits a screeching yawl amid the discord of the guitars. T he insurrection ends as quickly as it began.
We quickly step out into the rain soaked street and wear the thin spray of rain drops like a familiar overcoat. The night is deathly still. We open our mouths to speak but neither of us hears a single sound. The tinnitus impairs our hearing; the din swallows the murmur of our voices. Rocket Science have quite literally assailed our senses in a way that no band has ever done before and we like it.
If there was any justice in this unforgiving world, I would wake up tomorrow 5 kilos lighter, the Tim Tam genie would be at my constant beck and call and Rocket Science would receive the recognition they so rightly deserve. Sadly, such chimerical designs have no place in this world. These love handles are here for the long haul and the man I’ve been pining for is nothing but a clever advertising ploy.
Yes, it’s a cruel and heartless world and it looks like it just might be the express back to Palooka-ville for these boys. Or, maybe not. At least this one, my friends, is entirely up to you.
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