If this is the face of Australian 'indie' music....

...shoot me now.

Chris and I went to the Corner Hotel on Friday night to see The Grates. Never has a more apt moniker for a band been conceived, for grate they bleedin' well did.

We were cajoled into going along by Chris's friend, Eko (aka 'the King' and the titular character of this post), and acquiesced in the spirit of 'a good night out at the Corner'. Our feet instantly froze when we remembered that King, for all his charming attributes, is guilty of the guillotine-able crime of liking James Blunt. In fact, such is his legend as a fan of the bland and MOR that Chrissy has in the past plundered King's CD collection to make a joke mix CD for me.

Anyway, the tickets had been bought, and we were stuck with them if we were to save regal egos and preserve good feelings.... or were we? Well, yes we were, because I failed in my 11th hour bid to off them at work and on this here blog (but not on ebay where I am very possibly blackbanned for offering Franz Ferdinand tix, then rescinding my offer, then offering them again - a dark crime in webworld).

So there we are at the gig. We chat to Eko and his equally-good-music-shunning friends, who are pumped to the max but with backs turned to the stage and clutching Jagermeisters. When the Grates come on we do what all decent gig-going folk do and shuffle to a possie where we (or at least, gangly Chris) can see them.

They bounce onto the balloon and shiny foil lined stage. Our little lead singer friend pogoes around tirelessly, stopping between kiddie-punk songs like the schoolyard chant '19 20 20' to deliver seamless, Play School hostess banter with the audience. Now, it might be that Chris and I hated it because I am a grizzled old-timer who likes to hear some smash-the-state polemic (or at the very least a bit of angst), and Chris is an ex Tool gig stage diver turned Sigur Ros listening aural aesthete - but it could also be that the Grates sucked. They were incessantly upbeat and their nursery-rhyme shouty shouty handclappy pop would have left the sardonic Punters Club audience of long ago absolutely cold. As it did me. Surrounded by lyric-mouthing drones who whooped and cheered every time our giggling girly hostess made some cringingly, cloyingly cute remarks about losing pink hats or hating people from Perth, Chris and I started to see red. Why was it that nobody else did? It was like being at some religious convention or cult!









And that was what really got me - there is something sinister about JJJ-feted, styled-within-an-inch-of-their-eyeballs bands like The Grates. Firstly, they can't handle heckles. It's clear from their stage-managed, cutesy banter and demeanour that they are not used to hearing "I want to see you fall over and bleed!"... though perhaps this sort of running commentary (delivered from the lips of a rather tanked punter in a red checked shirt who shall remain nameless) should probably really only be reserved for the truly vile (paedophiles and the like) rather than harmless bad musos.

Secondly, and more importantly, they arrive on the scene complete with slick (consultant-developed) web site and unerringly enthusiastic, air-punching fan base intact. How does that happen without some huge push from above by a record company mastermind or some other shadowy svengali? It doesn't. Their DIY look is as carefully crafted as the overproduced pop over at FOX or NOVA - and sonically even less palatable. I hate to say it but I'd rather listen to James Blunt.