Its funny how you can get swept up in a Friday night, even when you haven't done the work to earn the enjoyment of it. I guess I'm still playing catch up. Bought some Merlot cleanskins, pate and camembert to take the edge off the week for Lize, then cooked a couple of rippingly good scotch fillets with barbequed corn on the cob and baked spuds. The girl had had a hard day at the office and nine o'clock found her a bit dazed and confused, so she opted for a lie down on the couch while I decided to hit Karova and see one of Australia's best kept secrets.
The Mess Hall are two piece rock and roll, more QOTSA than White Stripes and while quite bluesy in parts, a bit more manic than the Black Keys. They cook up a dirty wall of noise, with drummer Cec's incessant pumping kick drum and sinuous drones and scattershot licks from vox/guitarist's Jed's old Tele. The vocals are exhortations and yelps and the whole thing is a damn fine example of the things that are good in music. Notably absent from the stage were ironic keyboards, designer jeans and bassplayers that look like some tit from Spandau Ballet. All plus points in my book. Caught up with the lads afterwards (though Cec seemed to spend most of his time throwing up from his exertions) and Jed was a fount of good humour and gossip. Apparently Wolfmother haven't broken up and are back in the studio which is great news for fans of Black Sabbath.
Being the old and broken man I am I snuck home in a cab at 1.30am.