Mick Jagger once said that “the only true performance is one that attains madness”, and it’s a rule The Casanovas seem fond of. Unlike so many of their earnestly furrowed-brow peers, they are happy to bury themselves in the theatricality of rock. Feet on the monitor. Aiming the guitars at the audience like a gun. All the moves. And while the stage-names and Bettancourt-esque guitar hysteria may have drifted slightly to the wayside, you can still be sure of a good night out with The Casanovas - and that’s exactly what they provided at their triumphant return to Melbourne.

Hampered only by a muddy PA, The Casanovas ripped through all the hits (Nasty, 10 Outta 10, Shake It, AC/DC’s Riff Raff) with irrepressible spirit, mopping the beer-soaked floor with the flaccid Detroit-rock-lite of supports The Specimens and The Cants. Support slots for The Casanovas ought to come packaged with a disclaimer, as they steamroll any competition with their irony-devoid, and – gasp! – fun take on classic bogan rawk. And therein lies the magic: live, The Casanovas manage to snare some of the playful charm which made early AC/DC so magical onstage. Tommy Boyce tosses off his best rock moves with an impish “oh, this old thing?” nonchalance, while Patrick and Damian play up like naughty school boys who played Highway To Hell at assembly instead of the school song; you can’t help but fall in lurve with them.

A bloke in tight jeans and a ‘tattoo artists’ t-shirt stands with his arms folded and mutters to himself, “that was a bloody good gig”, and nods his head sagely, while two tiny blonde girls in denim skirts claw the posters off the wall, no doubt in order to plaster them above their beds.
And as the final power chord dissipates into the smoke and sweat of The Tote early on Saturday morning, it’s clear the room has fallen for The Casanovas all over again.
It’s good to have them back.