Motel Love make you want to start listing the bands who defined power pop. The four-piece offer a nostalgic experience, but it’s not a stagnant homage. Tonight they set forth from the 1970s, bringing Big Star, The Scientists and Elvis Costello with them, cruised through the 1980s to pick up The Replacements, and made it back here from the 1990s, Teenage Fanclub and Guided By Voices in tow. Feeding on this well of influence, it’s no surprise that the majority of their tunes (sung by three different vocalists) were damn catchy. Some songs suffered from having too many chosen favourites chucked together at once, but even that wasn’t greatly off-putting; just slightly schizophrenic. What made Motel Love foremost a likeable band was their willingness to punch it all out, with no concern for gloss or fine-tuning.
Gold Class, on the other hand, were a strangely glossy, well choreographed unit. At the risk of sounding lazy, the origins of their sound seem patently clear. The set list revolved around brooding atmosphere, focal bass riffs and (occasionally very memorable) melodic austerity; all definitive features of 1980s post-punk. Everything was presented in sharp detail and, essentially, Gold Class were very good. But the overly rational approach to song construction prevented any real emotional connection. It didn’t help that the singer spent the majority of the set wearing a firmly reticent gaze and his hand lodged in his trousers pocket. Gold Class were a fine piece of German engineering, but it wouldn’t hurt to smear a bit of currywurst on the furnishings.
The Peep Tempel aren’t wearing a veil. In their case, the exact lineage or relation to the present context is of no great importance. The Melbourne three-piece (who occasionally gained a fourth digit tonight) make rock music, pure and simple. And between shaking our bodies perhaps too vigourously and screaming the names of women we’ve never met, their headline set allowed no room for reflection.
The Tote was jam-packed with people who clearly have a lot of time for The Peep Tempel. The band wasted no time in establishing that they were here for some fuckin’ hard earned fun. Right from the top, the watt-metre was pointing in the red and the intensity grew more severe with each successive rock stomping tune. Meanwhile, it was a strangely cozy environment, such was the absence of pretension. You genuinely felt that the blokes on stage were your mates.
After cracking through a fun, funny and bullshit-free set list, the band vetoed a planned encore and simply carried on. When it did come to a close, it’s safe to say that all votes were in favour of The Peep Tempel’s doctrine.
BY AUGUSTUS WELBY
Loved: The Tote’s PA makes bands sound illegally nasty.
Hated: That morning-after deafness.
Drank: PeepBR.
