Brit Pop isn't dead!

Ricky Wilson is a bit out of sorts. “It’s half nine,” he grumbles in his endearing Leeds accent “Which is pretty early in the morning for me.” As it turns out, Ricky’s just trying to make sense about where waking up before midday was in his rock star contract. “It doesn’t make any sense! We do these wonderful things; we make an album, we go on tour, we work really hard…and you know what our reward is? Getting up really early, and talking on the telephone to someone.” Wilson and I brainstorm some other interviewing options. Facebook? “I kind of like that, because you have to do everything in bullet points.” Skype? “Yeh see that’s good. But then I guess we both have to be awake still, don’t we?” Really, Ricky would prefer to have every journalist in the room with him. Slight problem, we’re about a 22 hour plane ride away from one another. There’s only one solution, isn’t there? The Kaiser Chiefs have to come to Australia again.

Supergrass @ The Forum, Oct 3:

Supergrass are one of those bands I’ve loved since I was a wee lad, but sort of got lost in the indie fabric as I reached gig-going age. That’s probably because they released the dreadfully introspective ‘Road To Rouen’, which was pretty much universally disliked by all of their fans. Credit to the boys then, because they’ve bounced back with ‘Diamond Hoo Ha’, an absolute glam ripper of an album that makes Jack White look like a little girl who writes lame James Bond theme songs with Alicia Keys…oh wait. Anyway, I’ve never seen the Forum so packed in my entire life, with equal amounts of Brits and Aussies eager for a glimpse of the ‘90s most critically underrated band. Obviously somebody in touring thought Supergrass wouldn’t fill a bigger venue. Big mistake. The place is so crowded that you have to jostle for a view of frontman Gaz Coombes’ onstage antics amidst throngs of thirty-somethings madly pashing like they’re at their formal all over again.

Put simply, this band is explosive. So much so that I felt guilty about abandoning them for Coldplay at age 17. Gaz writhes about on stage like he’s got a snake in his boots, replete with ‘70s porn moustache, fedora and courtesy-fan-blown hair, he looks and sounds every inch the rock star. Ripping out ethereal guitar solos that make all the women around me lose consciousness for a few seconds, Gaz leads his merry men through a killer selection of old favourites like ‘Moving’, ‘Sun Hits The Sky’ and the delightfully misogynist-baiting ‘Mary’, which quite literally blows the roof off the place, and results in the first decent mosh pit I’ve seen on a Friday night in a very long time. Gaz has now recuited his entire family into the band, with brothers Rob and Charly filling out keys and second guitar respectively. The dynamic between them (and bass player Mick Quinn) is unbelievable, especially considering that they manage to get some pretty difficult harmonies dead-on (despite having walked off a plane in 35 degree heat a few hours prior).

There’s something immediately refreshing about seeing a rock band who don’t throw up disguises and personas but simply love to play live. Supergrass are testament to the fact that a great front man is only as good as his backing outfit, who, incidentally, are superb. Not one bum note or out-of-tune chorus the entire evening, and you know what that means? Professionalism, dammit. We should stop glorifying crappy guitar bands who can’t even get their shit together for forty minutes and remember Supergrass, who gave us ‘Caught By The Fuzz’ long before Amy Winehouse started smoking crack. Not many gigs have made me this happy. Supergrass, I’ll never forget thee….

The motto: Listen to good music. Bigpond won't be huge on it, but it'll make you smile

-Jonno