The Smallgoods

When we have demonstrated the wherewithal to maintain an enviable standard of rock led by titans such as the late Tim Hemensley and Bon Scott, the persistence of imposter-groups only dampens the ardour of those few gems which slip through our grasp. Pray that record labels continue to leave effete rock wandering in the wilderness long enough that it may summon the vitality it once possessed. In the meantime, we dote upon certain hallowed grounds like mad obstetricians hoping to witness the glory of new talent being born. The Corner Hotel in Melbourne is one such venue where miracles and catastrophes occur with a fair degree of regularity. The strains of hope first insinuated themselves when I heard Melbourne power pop quintet, The Smallgoods, recently released mini album This Is The Show. For such an abbreviated effort, This Is The Show verily expounds a pop thesis. Walking a tightrope, balancing above the interwoven arms of past progenitors acting as a net below, these likely lads capture a Beatles-charted legacy like it was couriered straight from Abbey Road Studios. When I reviewed their album last month, I wondered whether their live performance would envelope the listener with the same tumble-dried tightness, yet do so with enough poise as to suggest the darker elements the album alludes to. And I confess, I desperately wanted to know whether the strains I thought I heard were spirited from Duane Allman’s grave, or riffs siphoned off in the popular manner of postmodern thievery. For once the stage was a stage. This intentionally dramatic effect officially commenced with a maroon velour curtain parting its folds to reveal a whitewashed (or as white as the Corner gets — sort of nicotine-stained white) stage dotted with deliciously tasteless cut-outs of ‘shrooms (not champignons I might add). Such an ode to psychedelic shtick was touching. After all, it shows commitment to a greater cause. Replete with 2 ½ gallon cowboy party hats and a bushy faux mo set askew under each nose, one didn’t know whether to go home and check if you properly turned the gas off, or remain equal parts mesmerized and bemused. I forced back the creases burrowing into my brow and looked on with wanton hope. Very quickly a gamble became a gambol, and how we frolicked in the whitewater issuing forth under the pealing waves of the first two songs, played in the same order as This Is the Show. Making for an overture of sorts, dirt-hemmed guitar runs hinted at an illusory Skynyrd freakout, a spiraling monster-typhoon of rhythm, later pacified with the glucose ministrations of organist Shags, appending seamless Hammond organ fills and highly combustible accenting, mellowing the two songs, avidly buffing and polishing the tunes like an ice-curler at the Winter Olympics. And so a formula started to reveal itself as the clippy bass lines and positively plasticine Hammond organ would rise, rise and rise in each and every song. Interestingly, it was only those tunes from the new album that featured the blues-drenched guitar work of Ashley Naylor channeled through the host body of Ben Mason, and coincidentally, it was the contrast these moments provided that carried the concert along. As such their material from their debut album Listen To The Radio came across as filler. Having spotted a pattern, I almost felt like the game was up, but these lads pulled yet another rabbit from the hat (the said cowboy hats and other accoutrements being long since abandoned, even jackets were shrugged off under the searing lights). The opening bars of songs like “Who’s Never Seen The Sun?” cite the same simple melodic feel reminiscent of The Knack, and within a short time, the song had been wound round and back upon itself, and laid to waste under the molestations of their appetite for what might be described as prog-pop. Like many bands, the sound could be dutifully summed up by drawing a box marked ‘bastard progeny of enormously influential British band, Radio –‘ around their split-personality-rock. Backdoor criticism of which would be incorrigibly negligent. So I will leave that cue for The Strokes’ next paltry effort that some of us sure to swoon over in florid gushes of purple prose. Hereby, I confess The Smallgoods are the Jet that was meant to be. They are the effete rock which will drop you off the beaten track, which is where you really want to be anyway. Although it’s by of the by, the Smallies would (will?) have pulled off far sillier antics than Jet has to date (were it not for them shifting units, Jet has gone safely uncharged, unarraigned, and unsentenced, the silver-tongued felons that they are). How can you adore a rock band without abhorring it at the same time? You can’t — shock and awe is a rock brand, not an aircraft carrier. Jet provokes a meh response at most. Rock is hypocrisy, and in the flesh The Smallgoods gloriously perjure themselves, solicit strangers, and lie across the face of music, unblinking, wasted in their own world of gummy tunes that stick in your head like bird droppings sent from heaven and laced with ‘shrooms (not champignons).