The Scare

Dear Santa,
For Christmas this year, I don't want my two front teeth, I don't want a new bike, I don't even care if The Pipettes do another side show because I can't go to their gig at the East (OK, I do. But only 'cause they’re awesome). All I want for Christmas this year is swift justice to those less inclined to decent social behaviour. You know who you are. Seriously, if you're gonna dance, why are you dancing ironically? Why are the only instances of dancing I see you doing are pretending to headbang, then laughing about it, then doing some stupid robot-frenzy dancing, then laughing about it...sit down and watch the show if you're gonna be a dick and break glasses and stand all over the shards while the poor staff try to clean it up and you laugh at them. Look, it doesn't sound that annoying to you, reader, because you're just seeing the description it on a screen. But if you were there, or you've seen this kind of pre-pubescent behaviour before, you know what I'm talking about and it totally fucks your night.

Thank you,
Lisa.

That hefty rant out of the way, we arrived halfway through CobraMassive's loud, messy set. They were alright, your typical rock/metal/whatever act, but I was less than inspired (as I later mentioned to a punter who I found out was one of the band member’s girlfriends…nice, Lisa). Beer cooled my sneer and I waited for the next band.

Regular John from Sydney took to the stage, all long shiny hair and lankiness. Once again, the utter wankiness of some members of the audience came to head, when one half of a two-person dickhead crew yelled taunts at the skinny guitarist between honking guffaws ("I love bulimia! Eat something!").Said guitarist was quite slender, though I don't think that was any part of Wanky McBonehead's business. Anyway, RJ were a fast-paced rock and roll outfit, with pieces of metal and grunge lumped in for good measure. Their driving sound was accentuated by thick, meaty bass (from a bassist that looked constantly orgasmic. See Mighty Boosh season 2, episode 2 for relative joke if interested). His unsettling relationship with his bass aside, the crowd crept in like the tide toward them. Again, an alright effort, though their songs lacked construct: their riff-based blasting meant the lyrics ended up just blending into each other, with no breaks for hooks or solos.

I felt things would improve when some lovely side lamps were brought out for ambience sake. They were warming and made me feel like I was in a nice old lady's house or The Butterfly Club. A band appeared that looked like The Damned but were actually a screamo-punk band called The Scare.

Frontman Kiss Reid's energy scared the hell out of me, to be honest. His munted flailing and twisting onstage made me wonder what would happen if he ever had an epileptic fit on stage. No one would notice. They made the best out of a less than gargantuan crowd, and Kiss's stage leaps got the masses only somewhat riled up. Judging by the band's exuberant energy, I was disappointed to only see a meagre amount of crowd activity. Even during the hugely popular single Bats Bats Bats there was still no sign of the expected level of punk dedication I had been accustomed to. I expected over-excited and under-prepared rambunctious activity, I got a bunch of limp spectators who, I can only assume, don’t understand the limited room there is for self-consciousness in punk rock. Sure, they’ve got the skin-tight pants and all the energy Red Bull/drugs/insanity can bring, and obviously they’ve their pre-prepared Next Big Thing banner direct from NME, but I don’t see it. Perhaps I’m a purist; maybe I’m just cynical (maybe?) but I see The Scare as a flavour of the week that’s fading away slowly, like a Hubba Bubba you’ve had in your mouth too long.

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