Jet / The Casanovas -

Evelyn, 30th November, 2002

It’s not every Saturday night you get to see two of the newly crowned Hottest Bands In The Universe Right Now for the price of one. That’s right shoppers, come on down to the miracle tent and get your fill of heavenly riffs and roll. The Evelyn in Brunswick Street is, accordingly, stuffed to the gills with feverish believers ready to bare their stamped wrists to the saviors of rock as we know it and be healed. ‘Didn’t you see that wedding in Israel where the roof collapsed’, pleads the desperate door-man, beating back frothing indie-kids, ‘I can’t let any more of you in!’

Canonized choirboys Jet give it some Iggy and get sweaty on the flying-v during their set.
It’s the first time the local plebs have seen them since the A&R suits went mental over the Melbourne four-piece, and many in the audience have heard little more of them than the inevitable hype. Jet give their all at first, beating out rounds of crunchy riffola suites tempered with gooey chick-melting slow dances. The one that sounds like ‘Lust For Life’, ‘Are You Gonna Be My Girl’, is a little ripper, and has the feverish crowd praising glory be to The Stooges – even if they don’t know who they are. But something’s missing by the end of the set when they beat through a mechanized ‘Take It Or Leave It’. Jet look weary, like the scrutiny is too much for their little hearts to bear. Nic seems to be looking for the ‘Exit’ sign. There is no frisson between crowd and band, as though the pit is just giving a stock reaction to nearest-common-denominator-rock sound bites. Stimulus, response, stimulus, response.
But it can and will get better. As soon as Jet stop trying to sound like their heroes, you get the feeling it’ll be smooth sailing - because a Garage Rock Revival band who sound themselves really would be a revolution.

If Jet are the altar boys of nu-rock, then The Casanovas are the high priests. With the opening blast of a chunky power chord they flatten the remaining indie-kids like empty Big-M cartons, turning the shrunken but faithful crowd into a seething pit of non-ironic metal salutes and sweat-soaked, head-banging fringes. This is what it’s all about! Tommy Love is Bon Scott reincarnate and the second coming of Angus Young in one High Voltage package. He stalks the stage like a consummate showman, pulling iconic rock poses like some Alberts sponsored action figure. Moist-jeaned girls who look like they’ve stepped out of a 1978 Westco catalogue jump up and down, squealing ‘We love you, Tommy!’ and waving at their hero. Spotty-faced young men in Sabbath t-shirts reach out towards the stage, as if to touch the golden waves of glory pulsing from his Les Paul and be transformed into bogan-babe slaying Rock Gods.
It’s a maelstrom of panel-van-pumping, AC/DC-worshipping, sweat-soaked thunder-from-downunder. Rock and roll Gloria in excelsis. Who can deny the sheer rock genius of a line like, ‘I’m into monogamy, baby / Though it sounds like wood’? It’s about iconic moments, and the music is just the soundtrack. It’s only a cliché if you want it to be.
Just give in to the r-o-c-k, and you’ll be saved.

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