When a band sells itself on an image of sneering intensity – even one that speaks to a community as powerfully and truthfully as Royal Headache does – it can be hard to find support acts that aren’t merely imitating their swagger.
Fortunately, openers Gallucci had no such illusions, even admitting, “this is our first time playing on stage”. They broke into rock jams accented by sweet saxophone breaks from “our own Tim Wall”, and were exactly the burst of fun rock energy needed to kick off the night.
The No couldn’t muster the same humble charm, instead choosing to stay silent behind mops of hair and waves of late-Cure inspired seriousness. While they didn’t exactly hold the crowd, their closing song was easily their best – more aggressive, assertive and inventive than they’d proved across their set.
It was Low Life that struck as the imitators, constantly griping about the exact balance in the foldback. First, the bassist demanded they restart a song after flubbing the timing, then walked off during the third song, pissed about some cabling error. That was the last this critic could be bothered to watch. Some frontmen can carry off feigned disdain for their audience – others just come across as pricks.
Had the Ramones been motivated by the shame of confession, the need for self-exorcism, they may have sounded like this.
Shogun doesn’t hate his audience – he’s saved all that rage up and directed it inward. It was easy on Friday night to see why he’s garnered the acclaim he and Royal Headache have in the past few years: you’re unlikely to see a more committed performance from an Aussie frontman. Every ounce of his blood and sweat were poured into every song, and flanked by a band of young, seemingly intimidated musicians, he stood out like a madly sermonising prophet in the garb of the everyman. When he tells you he’s “just been so low”, you believe it.
One opportunistic stage-diver attempted to recapture the energy of Royal Headache’s notorious Opera House set, but he need not have made the effort. The boiling dance floor of the Factory paid Shogun’s irrepressible energy back in full, even held back as they were by the venue’s metal barrier.
Flanked by a band of young, seemingly intimidated musicians, [Shogun] stood out like a madly sermonising prophet in the garb of the everyman.
“You thought that was weird – check this out,” said Shogun, as the band launched into one of their groovier new tracks. But there was nothing weird about it; the new tracks are less rabidly punkish, but still consistent with the vibe of their classics.
The raw power the band exudes makes one think of what it must have been like to witness those first few punk gigs decades ago, when no one knew how to quantify this new form. Had the Ramones been motivated by the shame of confession, the need for self-exorcism, they may have sounded like this. Royal Headache are the kind of generational act that we’ll undoubtedly cite back in years to come – to say we were there when Shogun preached in the flesh.
Royal Headache were reviewed at the Factory Theatre on Friday June 30.
