The front cover of the Datsuns’ fifth and latest album, Death Rattle Boogie, features a beautiful woman with an enraptured expression on her face covering her head (presumably since it is being exploded by rock); while the sky opens up and the edges of the album sleeve distort and crumble.
This is an accurate depiction of what it’s like to see the band live.
Trans-Australasian rock royalty, the Datsuns have been transforming venues into heaving, sweaty caverns of thick riffs, spiky guitar lines, and chugging bass since their much lauded early 2000s breakthrough. Last Thursday, it was St Kilda’s beloved beachside hotel, the Espy, which was awarded the honour.
But first, the crowd was treated to a local sampling of garage sound in the Pretty Littles, the Deep End, King of the North, and Redcoats.
Specialising in wickedly crude party rock, the Deep End recalled Whitesnake or Poison in their squealing solos, pulverising rhythm section and luscious, wind-milling hair.
With song titles like ‘DTF,’ and ‘Get It On,’ if they didn’t retreat to some kind of filthy tour van with a bunch of groupies and several bottles of Jim Bean post-show, then Axl’s last name isn’t Rose.
Hard rock duo King of the North created the kind of tight, infectious sound many bands with more members struggle to achieve.
Danny Leo’s drumming wasn’t so much a backing instrument but a splintering voice of its own, and despite the concentration it must take to work all of those effects, vocalist/guitarist Andrew Higgs had jumped into the crowd by the second song.
His bullets of short, sharp strumming drove what was a thoroughly enjoyable and far too short half-hour performance.
Redcoats were a step back into more refined, fuzz-filled rock: twisted psychedelia that would be the fitting soundtrack to a metalhead’s acid trip.
The twanging lead guitar melted into the messy, thickly layered rhythm section, a swamp of sound wallowing beneath the howling vocals of (possessor of the coolest name ever) Emilio Mercuri.
By midnight (Datsun time), the front room of the Espy was sardine level packed.
The Kiwis entered with precision nonchalance, a demeanor they maintained for the entire set. Frontman Rudolf de Borst and guitarist Christian Livingstone were almost dismissive of their fans in their cutting banter, but that only seemed to make the audience love them more.
Crowd-surfing and testosterone were the order of the day in front of the stage – one particularly over-zealous attendee even attempted to hijack the mic; only to be pushed, face first, beer flying, back into the audience by de Borst.
The setlist was a masterclass in how to structure a gig, with impeccable waves of rise and fall throughout. Deafening, punchy choruses crashed into palpable silences, before soaring back up again moments later.
The assault of fuzz was almost too much to be tolerable, but it came close enough to the line to be just about perfect – and it was offset by periods in which de Borst’s desperate vocals were the only distinct sound.
By the time the band departed with a casual salute, ears were ringing, bruises had been acquired, and you couldn’t wipe the collective smile off the room.
View the photo gallery of The Datsuns’ show at The Espy here.
