It was a dark and stormy night as we ascended the kennel stairs to The Curtin bandroom.
Torrential rain and a Valentine’s dinner held us from making it in time for Mightiest of Guns; regretfully as from all reports theirs was a fine performance. This left Kino Motel first up as they continue fundraising to recoup their Wet’n’Wild holiday. I confess to spending not inconsiderable time attempting to deduce if water theme parks are “rock and roll” per se.
Shuffling onstage draped in satin and velour cardigans like 70s refuse from Warhol’s Factory, Kino Motel leave the gate at the pace of a happening, with Nico intonation meeting Haight-Ashbury vibes from Rosa Mercedes (vocals/bass) and stained corduroy riffs courtesy of Ed Fraser (vocals/guitar).
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Even having heard new LP Visions one could be confused by the dichotomy in styles which sees them engaging in a flower punk experience one moment before hungrily riffing grungily in the next. Early on I was nodding to an angular and finely crafted Verlaine-esque guitar line before the song disintegrated at the seams, drawn-and-quartered into 90s sludge.
It was not until later I realised a more apt comparison for these transgressive moments may be peak Girls Against Boys. Kino Motel hit their twin peaks on a strange Depeche bubblegum jaunt, a Lynchian singularity lost between Peaks and Highway that features a gloriously messy breakdown; and Disappears, a seedy, pornographic slow grind: “We don’t make no eye contact”.
There are other moments, notably those of shambolic intent where songs depart sounding vaguely unfinished. Did we want more or did we not – all the while unsure why it tantalises so. If they figure out how to mesh such disparate live styles into one coherent ashram visit Kino Motel will really have something. That, or the Matrix will collapse in on them.
The Kill Devil Hills have been lurking for years now, but the cherry broken on Matango! is a wondrous muddle of Bad Seedsy vocal vacillations, and dramatic and dynamic excursions vigorously expunging ancient rock maladies that should have launched them onto the national stage proper.
Kicking off like tender prey, Todd Pickett leans leerily into the crowd’s beer-gaze with weighty tom work before their voluminous reverb crashes into tumult, a pitched combat of guitars, violin, voice, and drum. Prescribed Burns finds another showcase for Pickett and guitarist Luke Dux, a nihilist tumble of roiling kick, sharpened riffs, and loudhailer vocals that pushes the PA to its outer frequency limits.
Coming off all pastoral ballad, Words from Robin to Batman evokes Bruce lost in an Asbury Park bodega wanting a hoagie when all they have is CBD oil and weed vapes.
“Your debutante just knows what you need, but I know what you want,” I hear myself mutter as we find ourselves lost in a darkness on the edge of town and, whaddya know, there’s an existential vacancy.
Or so says Alex Archer’s violin mettle: while guitars slice through the now shouty vocal mix like a late-night kitchen knife infomercial, his bow ducks and weaves and seduces from the shade of his own Coolibah tree (note: I am reliably informed it was once an Akubra before rabid bunyips got to it.)
The following Hydra would be an appropriate point to note that the PA couldn’t always manage the strain, mere loudness turning oppressive on occasion. Yet one couldn’t spoil the fun, as The KDH rhythmically hopscotch all the way from Oodnadatta for This is Karakatta, again underscoring Pickett’s vitality on the kit as Dux’s fretwork shimmies like a rodeo lasso.
The Day the Dinosaurs Died is a rambling good time, before Brendon Humphries (vocals) asks “What about a bit of geopolitical catastrophe?” and the band manifest a Phil Spector eardrum demolition from all angles on Thirteenth Sunday.
At first a plodding gypsy hymnal, like the Dirty Three masticating on a rabid goat, The Kill Devil Hills wait an inordinate time to put Did I Damage You out to pasture, destroying it with frenzies of noise and Buddy Miles-like drums concrète. Mitch Mitchell did not intend that as a compliment, but I do. The Hills consistently tease with manic crescendos that seem to last for mere seconds and leave one gasping for more.
Such gasps slow to laughs for the finale, a ruminative number I cannot comment on musically, finding myself in thrall to wondrous and joyous country jiggering made for the back alley of the Ole Opry before Hank vomits in a trash can.
All these bushy men marionetting under some Peter Garrett voodoo spell rejuvenate my hope for humanity. It’s a nigh-perfect stumbling summative hip-thrust for what must be one of the finest indie bands gyrating around our shores today; just before The Kill Devil Hills go wild and spiralling out of control towards Castlemaine with savant drums on Weight of a Woman, violin strings bowing the curtains closed.
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