Josh Pyke

Choices of support bands always interest me. What is the main prerogative of a support? Some like to use a well-chosen support band to whip the punters into enough of a feeding frenzy wherein, upon the headliners arriving, they would truly burst with energy and enthusiasm. Or, in the case of Josh Pyke’s support, Cloud Control, to lull the crowd into an angry boredom so that the onset of Pyke would be so much more appreciated. “It’s not that I don’t like you, I just wish you wouldn’t speak” said Kate Miller- Heidke once in Blah Blah. And such is the gist of my feeling towards Cloud Control. I don’t wish to criticize a band that seem to be genuinely trying their little hearts out, but I could not have been more bored if I were an actual plank of wood. Their watery indie rock/pop had little substance and even less flavour. There was nothing I could grab onto in any of their songs; they came out, and floated away. I had hoped to enjoy them, and tried, yet I found more interest in a Tetris-type game on my phone.

I squeezed my way onto a tiny patch of floor with a surprisingly clear view of Mr Josh Pyke. The sold-out event was a sweltering mass of bodies, young and old [I saw both mid-fifties elderlies and 20-something metro types], but the general consensus seemed to be: it was worth it. Pyke played largely from his new record, Chimney’s Afire, including the adorably jaunty Our House Breathing, complete with happy crowd sing-along. What I realised as I stood, aching legs and heart a-flutter, was that I hadn’t really enjoyed- or, perhaps, truly experienced, Chimney’s Afire until I heard it in the live sense. Songs like Variations, which I often drifted from when it came upon my iPod, was wholly reborn as it emanated from the Hi Fi PA. I believe this reinstates what every punter worth his salt knows; it’s always better live.

Pyke’s star has risen dramatically; no longer another flannelette-d facial-haired singer/songwriter crooning about his girlfriend, but a homegrown poet musing upon life’s little intricacies. Tracks like Beg Your Pardon and opener Lines on Palms show his charming endowment of sincerity and intelligence. I don’t mean to sound sycophantic, but Pyke really is up there with Oz’s top songwriters. I felt sorry for the buffoons who, while we waited patiently in line outside the venue, walked past us and yelled sarcastically; “Who would wanna go to the Hi Fi Bar? I’d hate to go the Hi Fi Bar!” We would. Because we like heartfelt, pleasant music. And, by the look of you, you like ecstasy, Jager bombs and beeping your horn at girls in the street to get their attention. Whereas I went home, warm in my heart with the love of a good night’s music, said drongo- I can only assume and am probably correct- went to Billboards, felt up girls in the line at the bar, danced maniacally to house music , got drunk and ended up sick and twisted at McDonalds at 3am, before vomiting in a cab.

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