I heard the first of Sex on Toast (SoT) last Thursday through brick and plaster and am pleased to report they sound great if you happen to be stuck outside while they play inside. Semi-incidentally, finding Hugs & Kisses (Xoxo) is its own odyssey.
Xoxo’s door is tucked away inside a brick alcove totally invisible from La Trobe Street, or even Lonsdale, depending on the side from which you’re approaching. You’re dealing with alleyways from whatever side, and real cobblestone bastards at that, so if you or your companions are wearing wedges of any intensity, you/they will have to de-wedge. Say you’re coming from the La Trobe side; ANZ branch at 10 o’ clock, suit-fitter at 2, Xoxo entrance at an elusive 11.56 or thereabouts. There’s supposed to be purple neon above the door; your reviewer found nothing remotely aglow.
Being not of an orienteering mind, your reviewer and his companion (she having had to de-wedge, re-wedge, de-wedge) struggled to find an in. Sex on Toast would start without them. By 9.10pm, entry was gained thanks to a guy who, bless his heart, got his coat stuck in the door. After ordering his-and-hers drinks, we joined the throng.
SoT are an explosive lot. It looks like fun comes to them pretty easily. Xoxo’s cordoned music pro area is painfully small so it’s worth saying they did a good job calibrating their quirks to suit. The nine-or-so piece ate and metabolised their audience quick smart, standing in one long semi-formal West Side Story-esque rank and smiling/nodding/back-slapping each other in time. Each member has their own holding pattern, which basically has them jiving along in neutral until they’re required to contribute something jazzy at a louder and more flashy level than the rest, after which time an aforementioned back-slapping is duly awarded. Sometimes, mostly in the singer’s case, it’s awarded pro rata.
The boys played all the hits, including the delightful Takin’ Over of Miami Vice-era pomp and gusto. Sax and trumpet valves poppled out melodies to the tune’s cheeky time signature with finesse so intense it seemed pantomimed by the holder. Their brass exemplified, better than the guitar or the drums, giving it that weird feeling you’re watchingmusic, like in an athletic, breathing sense, not only hearing it – hence the suspicion of panto. A few slow-jams were given, too. One was surely their newest single Hold My Love, a song reminiscent of Prince in a way that seems equal parts lazy and appropriate for me to mention, and at least one other was over encumbered with chorus-ified, reverberated vocal bleats.
SoT’s fun would occur with or without an audience. It’s fun to dress up and understand complex jazz modes and positively drip with macho-sexual irony. For reasons best not spoiled, Ricky’s tour should be seen. SoT are the best kind of band you can hope to walk in late on.
BY NATHAN HEWITT
Loved: Counted ten handle-bar moustaches. Heard somebody compliment them as ‘moustakas.’
Hated: Feedback issues aplenty.
Drank: Carlton Draught.
