The Datsuns / Sahara Hotnights - HiFi Bar 28th April 2002
It’s a Monday night and The Datsuns - the world’s greatest walking advertisement for size-too-small-Levis, Pantene, and unapologetic, Neolithic noize, these transcendental signifiers of rock - explode into town like a rock and roll cum shot, resplendent in all black, and bringing their gal pals the Sahara Hotnights along for the house party. For this is no rock show, it is a 1977 King Street sex fest, and it’s the best thing since sliced bread. This is what rock & roll is all about – it is, after all, a euphemism for sex. The Sahara Hotnights blast the folded-armed audience with an opening salvo of blistering ‘77esque rock, mewing and splay-legged and wanton rock/sex goddesses as though Regan from The Exorcist joined Television and did the soundtrack to the Summernats. They rock harder and with more exuberance than most of the flaccid boy-rock new-rock upstarts currently being fellated by the music press, spinning their finest rock moves like black widow spiders preparing to eat their suitors. Quite A Feeling and On Top Of Your World were particularly incendiary, with bonus points going to the hottest woman currently stalking the Earth, bass player Joanna Asplund, and the wonderfully unhinged drummer Josephine Forsmann. Don’t be fooled by the Zeppelin-esque posturing, this isn’t cock rock: it’s clit-rock at it’s most intoxicating. It’s testament to the boys’ club of rock and an indictment of the music press that this band isn’t staring out from the cover of every music magazine worldwide. Voted Best
Live Act in the Known Universe EVER – or something equally understated
– by the NME, The Datsuns hit the stage to Cheap Trick and then
launch into a set which distills the essence of rock: loud, riotous, sexy
and fun. Rock is not meant to be analysed and talked about with chin-stroking
earnestness, and The Datsuns approach it like a shambolic glam rock pantomime,
mugging at the audience and clapping and making eyes at each other and
feeling each other up. What’s brilliant about this rock show is
how The Datsuns have subverted the misogyny of cock-rock and embraced
heavy rock’s latent campness: when Dolf gropes Christian as he performs
a ridiculously phallic solo, or leaping about heaving and climaxing, yelping
and pleading “Lady! Take me back!”, it’s not only supremely
hilarious, it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. But beyond
the supreme sex appeal of The Datsuns, what makes them the best live act
in the world is the songs and the intensity with which they are delivered.
Witness the supercharged V8 sleaze of Super Gyration, or the sparse glam
striptease of Harmonic Generator, or the sex-on-a-stick hollerin’
of Sitting Pretty. They go from strength to strength, and return after
an already brilliant encore of Little Bruise and Transistor to work through
Freeze Sucker like some kind of voodoo demolition derby. Dolf’s
bass is pitched into the frenzied crowd, followed by Phil – guitar
in hands – and later the microphone. I was hit in the face with
a mic-stand and it felt like a kiss. Finally, Phil demolishes the drum
kit and rearranges the cymbals at the front of the stage, spits water
over the front three rows, and walks off holding his finger in the air
as if to say “Number One”.
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