The Metro (4 March) is a cauldron of stoner druids, merch goddesses and punk devils. Shenanigans are afoot.
I am born into the womb of rock as King Of The North are ravening their last, wildling riffs into an oncoming moshpit. Two-piece riffs hewn from Alice In Chains' dirty dress, Lightening Bolt's puppy and Giveamanakick's boots. Adoration from the home crowd.
King Of The North - Image © Kim Rudner
Next up were Cosmic Psychos. A thoroughbred slice of Aussie-punk excellence, unknown to me but yet familiar. I hear Frankie Stubbs' Leatherface in the torn throat vocals. I see Pistols in the shredding. I see a moshpit exploding as if their lives depended on it. And they kinda did.
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If Bob Hatfield and Cookie had any class they'd have dropped out of school and started a band like Cosmic Psychos. These are hard guys with stories to tell and punk love flowing in their veins.
Cosmic Pyschos - Image © Kim Rudner
A giant cheer goes up as the security personnel finally get the hint and disappear: nothing to see here mate. 'Dead In A Ditch' is their zenith. A great, Aussie punk band. Stage presence to burn. I feel blessed for having the chance to see them.
Next is Clutch. The walls are dripping. Choc-a-block. The Maryland four-piece take to the stage adored by their legions. Their axes flowing through the orangest amps. Their bass is Rickenbacker, their guitar is SG. Their guitarist looks like he owns a hardware store. The drummer is a Zidane with time to spare on every fill.
Clutch - Image © Kim Rudner
Marijuana trails and wanker vapes spill through the air. Neil Fallon blames Cosmic Psychos for his drunkenness. He slides on a telecaster. Lead wah. Brains sweat. Sydney refinds itself wearing Fu Manchu's hoodie and Kyuss' denim waking up on Rory Gallagher's couch. Yet a different nudity.
Clutch - Image © Kim Rudner
It's good Jim but not as we Marylanded it. Dropped the Clutch. Floored it.
