Jeff Martin and the Armada

As Jeff Martin said throughout the night, The Armada is here.

And it’s not going anywhere. Of course, they didn’t arrive until two hours after the doors opened at Sydney’s Metro Theatre. It’s a sizable venue which still feels like a classic rock venue, rather than a place where rock takes place occasionally and there’s over priced drinks and merchandise. Well, those things are staples and I s’pose the price is worth it for the show you get, and god damn can Jeff Martin put on a show… But still, $6 for one can of VB? Shit.

The Armada officially brings drummer Wayne Sheehy into the fold. The two having performed a softer concert here just nine months ago, rousing the loyal Tea Party/Jeff Martin fan base. And we couldn’t be happier to see them return with bassist Gareth Forsyth and all the beautiful weight of eclectic, worldly blues rock.

Again though, that was two hours into the night, we first had to get through two opening acts, a battle of beer rationing, and the awkwardness that arises when you loiter alone in the corners awaiting the start of a concert. On the one hand, there’s a pride available to the loner at a concert; the music is your companion and you are not distracted by conversation or the imminent arousal of a date. On the other hand, you’re never the only loner, and the unavoidable waiting periods test your ability to pretend you’re waiting for someone else or otherwise occupied and unavailable for conversation. Of course you can allow conversation to spark up, but I have never found an interesting conversation in this manner. Ever.

It’s a bit judgemental, but that’s what happens in the din with the pungent lustre of red and blue neon peaking through the shadows and the shirts. I mean, no one looks approachable or interesting with a VB in their hand. And so, as the first openers' act drew near I climbed the stairs and passed the railed ledges, fans already having staked out their post. Finding a long yellow couch (bench?) I took a seat and waited, eyeing off a sketchy looking loner with bloused cargo pants (tucked into the army boots if you didn’t know. Not sure if it’s a bad thing to already know), shirt tied round his waist forming an backside skirt, and a sad look, accentuated by a trimmed goatee hiding the droop of his face.

One assumes Mr. Martin himself picked the artists as the first spot went to a self-proclaimed ‘morbid country rock singer’ with a throbbing voice redolent of Nick Cave, yet without a number of essential skills. An opening act should virtually never exceed their time limit and/or their welcome, and despite a bastion of content supporters by his feet, Henry Wagons both of those things. At first I was reasonably supportive of his efforts, seeming mildly charismatic or at least very comfortable and with a powerfully sonorous voice, enlightened by a Jack Black sensibility. Of course, Jack Black would never have taken himself so seriously, and he wouldn’t have failed so miserably to maintain humour in between ever single song. The very image of Henry Wagons derided any respectability earned by his ability to play the guitar, throw a tune together and belt out some notes at appropriate crescendos; that of a man-child in pseudo-hip attire, a fluffy beard and a brand new pair of converses.

As his set began to near the forty minute mark, his prolix confidence was ebbing the flow of support, not alone of course, his limited skills contributed it’s share. As he began his tenth song a communal sigh could be felt and I even saw a man storm off and down the back stairs. I don’t know what he was going to do, probably just have an angry cigarette, but I had a glimmer of hope that he was a crew member going to tell somebody important about the situation.

I’ve rarely seen crowds turn adamantly against a support act before, usually there’s simply a tide of apathy and the message is sent with overly audible chit chat from the crowd. Tonight, Wagons opened himself up to repeated heckles simply with his song titles such as Why, and asking for the time, “Time for Henry to get on his Wagon!”

Of course, to be fair, Wagons was billed for a 45 minute set, and although I didn’t know that at the time, it certainly felt like more than enough for a support act. His total of around 65 minutes was absolutely more than enough.

The second act, Mystery Spot, had a much easier and shorter set, they were an instrumental group who’s presence soothed in the dark blue of the now anxious and burgeoning crowd, haunting modern eastern melodies to prepare for the Armada. I motioned for a vantage point and found the very edge of the upstairs railing, the crest of the stairs, a great viewpoint with even a narrow counter to write on. But I was to be nudged from there though, by a lanky loner in skinny jeans when his girlfriend returned from the bar. And so I slid back wards a couple of metres and maintained the view from the edge of the bar. Perfect all round view for what was to come.

Distortion swelled in the darkness until the elongated, throbbing introduction of the new song Morocco electrified the Metro’s appreciative audience. Until I discovered through buying the limited release, self titled album later on, I thought the hook line to the song was To Rock You. Intentional? Fitting, to say the least. The moved straight into Overload from The Tea Party’s 2004 album Seven Circles, and gave no pause for breath (or for idiots cradling tawdry cameras above their heads). Jeff throttles the guitar with a Hendrix-like deviation and Gareth pummels the bass line and jumps about swinging his long blonde locks. With that, a ten minute proclamation that Jeff Martin has returned stronger than ever, he greeted the roaring fans, and perhaps subtly warned the naysayer’s and dubious devotees, wafting around with their own agendas, satisfied simply by being able to say they went to a concert, who was it? The Armada. Who? Jeff Martin from the Tea Party’s new band.

The set list was half new songs and half revisited songs, with a number of appreciated, skilful samplings from Jeff’s favourite artists, and lot of guitar changing. The first notable change was when a roadie brought an unmistakable likeness to Jimmy Page’s double-necked red Gibson from The Song Remains The Same tour. Martin even claimed “this is just a little something I borrowed offa Page…I’ll give it back, don’t worry”. After treating that guitar to a couple of the new songs, he switched to a custom made acoustic double-necker for the now epic, ‘The Kingdom’ first heard on his 2006 solo release, and now spiced up with a few lines of Lennon’s ‘Imagine’ but ending in a furious duelling of guitars.

Mr. Bloused Trousers actually was waiting on a girlfriend, a younger girl with long falling black hair, fishnets and an even sadder look. As the night unfolded they played out a drama distracting and enthralling me. They had a position somewhere in the ledges and yet some argument had erupted not long into the show and they would flit back and forth, with her pouting, planted on the yellow couch, and him attacking her with pleading enquiries again and again. I thought it was over when toward the end, he blanked her on his way to the restroom, but oh no.

No comments from the band as Jeff adjusted his position and began smoothly flicking the top neck, a familiar tune known immediately. The Majestic Song is greeted rapturously by the fans, their heads like pebbles bathed in turquoise until Wayne rises up to invoke overhead clapping. In the six-string section t’ward the end Jeff snapped a string, but as he said later “My double-neck just became a 17-string. Oh well, shit happens”.

Following the sincerely stirring, The Rosary, an ode to his inspirational Grandmother from the new album, Jeff was brought what looked like a black Les Paul with which he showed his deep love for the blues. The visceral movement of notes and interchanging melodies accentuated by the slide, “In my time of DYING” reverberates from him and the crowd is silent, “Don’t want no---body to moan. All I want for you to do… is take my body home”. And then began the revitalized riff to Black Snake Blues (Featured on Exile and the Kingdom, and again on The Armada). Clapping started without invocation from Wayne. The sampling continued, touching on Like a Rolling Stone, Hoochie Coochie Man, and Whole Lotta Love while Gareth Forsyth again displayed his power and energy complimented continually by Jeff’s calmly ferocious playing.

This led into four further explosions of pure Jeff Martin played enthusiastically and heavily, reaching all the way back to Splendor Solis’ feeling of wandering exultation. Still using his bluesy Les Paul on Cathartist Jeff delivered possibly, his most electrifying work of the night, to a horrifyingly still crowd. Stupefied or simply not a moshing collection of fans, practically the whole audience from the floor, up the rising ledges with leaning rails, to the upstairs bar and cushioned bench seemed reluctant to really move. Except for the position stealing girlfriend before me, posing extravagantly with her bouncing boyfriend and Jeff‘s heartfelt artistry in the beyond. ‘Coming Home’ had the more feminine fans, (draped in beige summer dresses) occupying the small, seated, balcony to my left, writhing and flicking the air with snarls of giddiness, and by the time they kicked into Fire in the Head and Jeff asked “Do you want some rock?” they all knew the answer. It could’ve dampened the surging spirit of that moment when confusion as to the lyrics and the tempo of you, stand, silent, knowing, always, in time… but not with this band at the helm (No pun intended, honestly. Screw you then, I say that’s just natural phrasing).

The crowd was enlivened. Sporadic dancing hit solitary fans in non specific sections of the venue, and annoyingly, one particular skinny-jean wearing hipster directly in front of me. I mean, he knew, he had to know, that I was behind him. I had the perfect view from the edge of the upstairs bar, looking directly down the stairs with the stage unfolded. With his vest- and thick-rimmed-glasses wearing girlfriend, he held the end of the balcony railing, and that was our agreement. He saw the writing pad…

If all this up to now, was not yet proof that The Armada are an extremely talented, diverse and electrifying band, the fact that I’m continuously debating as to which moment really transcended a regular performance, which damn guitar solo was the best, surely must nod in the right direction. Yes, ‘Cathartist’s piece was amazing, but for his new song Invocation, Jeff pulled out a bow, a la Jimmy Page once more, and continued to dare other artists to match his diversity of skill.

The Les Paul ended the night with another new song called Goin' Down Blues, and simply saying the title lets you in on the sonorous voyage the Armada will take you on. (Seriously, I did not plan that. It’s a pun-susceptible name) Jeff taunted the hangman and Lucifer as he whipped away from the mic stand and faced his band mates with yet another elongated digression before calling out “Good Night” to indicate the Encore break.

The bloused trousered, shirt skirted, goatee to hid the sloping chin guy stomped back from the crowd directly to his nubile, pseudo-goth girlfriend and plunged onto his knees, a dramatic, possibly teary, apology in the concert lull? Dump him. Whoever you are, that guy looked like a douche, dump him.

And so they returned, Jeff without his jacket and looking remarkably fit, ready to deliver two final songs for Sydney. The return of haunting acoustic melodies with typical eastern twangs came with an ‘Untitled’ song off of the new album, and Jeff invoked a mysterious dancing woman calling out “where is she?”. The two summer dresses had just made the decision to leave their older dates, men with a desperate look, piqued by the frivolous beauty of their dates, yet crushed by their own lack of enthusiasm for the moment. “Where is she?” It seemed like a rhetorical question to me, but these women called out as they reached the stairs, “Here. She’s here!”… “Hey-ho” and a wave and a giggle. But once they cleared my view, what I assumed was Mrs. Martin had sauntered onto the stage and writhed along with the music until Wayne’s anticipated solo completed an extended Sister Awake.

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