by Emma Haigh

I slept for almost 12 hours last night due to a lie-down that extended from a quick kip to a drooling dream-state. Today I’m a bit stumblier than usual, and a bit more headachy, a bit goofier on the inside, but in general the chipper hip happy gally is hip happy. The apparent need for 11.65 hrs lapse into unconsciousness is likely due to the long walk home from the long night out on Tuesday seeing the resplendent and glorious Phantom Planet, and support Cherub.

Given the innovative wunderenergy, and ever-evolving nature of the Planets, the Cherubs were somewhat stagnant performers. If you spent most of your time crouching awkwardly and just listening like I did, they were very good in a The Strokes knocked up The Strokes and called it Strokes Jr kind of way that is very popular right now, but always worth tuning into. It’s just that they looked like someone had read the indie manual, made plastic cut-outs of what today’s sub-core hipsters are looking for, and then actively encouraged them to play as mechanically as possible and under NO CIRCUMSTANCES were they to attempt to engage with the audience because then there’d be trouble. However, the lead singer’s spastic, fire-ants-in-socks dancing did appeal to my sense of epilepsy, and they are a consistently solid enough talent that I’d recommend at least buying the album of.

However, it was the delightfully edgy LA-based 5-piece that caused me to spend the next four hours lying awake reliving each and every awe-inspiring moment of what can only be described as an excellent finale to their European tour. Raw, physical and highly emotive, they immediately expel any doubts that may have arisen after the recent shake-up to their make-up.

Without warning they shake you to a core beneath the core you thought was your core. These guys play for the audience, not at them with animation that demands participation in return for their undivided attention. Unfailing responsive, we are asked if we’d like to hear Always On My mind (how could we say no?), given the choice between Lonely Day and California (Lonely Day all the way!), mocked for our ecstasy when they announce Knowitall (“I expected more from you, but you still get the song!”), drenched in champagne, and urged to sing along. By the time they get to their new single, Big Brat*, we’re all kicking on the meta buzz off this candy for the senses.

Between The Guest, and being abandoned by drummer Jason Schwartzman (mid-way through recording their latest album, no less, to become a fulltime *actor*), they’ve developed a harder, more full-on sound that shoves unflagging bass and drums to the forefront, and go monkey go! I say. Having known Jeff Conrad and admired his work for years, they remain as intuitively connected and unaffectedly stalwart as ever. While there remains a level of the sunshine and lovin’ that drew earlier crowds, the evolution is a myriad of contradictions. Infectious high energy is complimented by a veneer of clear skies and picnics in the grass. Superiorly clever Ogden Nash lyrics sutured with the persistent pummelling glare of Alex Greenwald’s vocals. Dizzying and frenetic pulsating sneers collide with slow musical interludes that drain into nothing but a Thank you. Therein lurks a subversion of garage-rawk: a gritty and raw edge that remains as highly polished as it is highly calculated.

Best part of the night: a toss-up between Alex Greenwald leaping onto his amp and singing upside-down, swinging over the front row from the mic cord he’d looped over a support beam on the ceiling; and Darren Robinson dropping his guitar and running to join the drums for the last song (and then Alex joined in the percussion fun and they were beating the shit out of the kit.. man that was good).

*Phantom Planet by The Phantom Planet is out now, and whether you were at the gig or not, go buy it.

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