It'd be easy enough to say this was a night with two headline acts; there's the world-beating, global-rock-empire INXS of yore, with a sinewy, pale, hyperkinetic frontman oozing charisma all over the stage, and there's the new INXS, with a reality show contestant for a vocalist, and an album full of serviceable pop songs to promote. It was a little like that, as if there were two bands on stage, one looking to past glories, the other hoping for continued success.
But that would be a serious oversimplification, and an unnecessarily harsh one at that. It's true, there was a palpable tension between the dayglo 80s nostalgia and the urge to create something new and relevant, but that tension never got in the way of a good time.
And, indeed, that's what this new INXS seems to be all about: a good fuckin' time. (I imagine the old INXS had similar priorities, but I wasn't quite born when the band scored its first global hit in '83, so I can't be totally positive). And, good lord, a good time is what they deliver in abundance, to a crowd desperately hungry for it.
You can tell that this band - minus J.D. Fortune, their Mark Burnett-assisted acquisition - has been together for decades. That's obvious as soon as those lonely seconds of harmonica explode into the propulsive, urgent beats and bass of Suicide Blonde. As a show opener it's perfect, with a dirty rhythm and the opportunity for some serious rock god posing. (The only drawback: it's impossible not to remember that dorky-but-brilliant clip, and the unbelievable mullets that came with it... if you're not careful, you could spend the rest of the show imagining the entire band sporting business on the sides and a party at the back).
It should be noted that the crowd has absolutely lost its shit at this point. Barely seconds into the set, and the Luna Park punters are buckwild: thousands of hands in the air, girls paralytic from excitement, men stamping their feet, and screaming. Lots of screaming. Serious electricity. J.D. Fortune works the stage like he was made to do it - it's difficult to imagine the man before he became famous, so pronounced are his drunk, chain-smoking bad boy affectations (after the show, one punter opined to friends, as they walked by the ferris wheel, that 'that guy shouldn't try so hard,' but then admitted that he was 'still really cute though.' And that's about right).
The girls fall in love, and the guys wish they could still fit into a pair of size-28 black denims. It's really obvious: hiring J.D. Fortune wasn't a mistake, no matter what the circumstances, and how cynical and commercial some might think them. This guy is the real deal. Yes, he's a bit of a try-hard. Yes, he seems like a bit of a wanker. Yes, he does perform dubious rhyming dictionary beat poetry just before the encore. But he's a star, in that 1950s sense of the word. He's born to do it, like Craig David. He's everything a rock star should be.
He sets the stage on fire, bounding from stage left to right and back again, hopping on to foldback speakers, hugging his bandmates, lighting another cigarette, jumping into crowd of girls regressing to frenzied adolescence, lighting another cigarette, pouring out plastic cups of white wine for the crowd, telling stories about living in his car with his dog, lighting another cigarette. And the guy can sing. He attacks those opening lines of Mystify, so perfect with that bouncy, nearly-discordant piano from Andrew Farriss: 'All veils and misty / Streets of blue.' During the encore, he rips into Never Tear Us Apart like every word was written in his soul. He points a mockingly accusatory finger at the crowd during Devil Inside, and sings it like it was released yesterday.
But some of that Fortune magic dissipates when the band gets stuck into material from Switch. (I Like Your Old Stuff Better Than Your New Stuff, anyone?). The hooks and magic just aren't there... and neither is the history (how many times have you heard By My Side? Original Sin? Need You Tonight? New bloody Sensation? They've been played on radio tens of thousands of times, and with good reason: they're pop perfection. You've grown up on them. You've gone to backyard parties with INXS pumping. You've watched the film clips on Video Hits on a Saturday morning). It feels incongruous hearing these massive, legendary, nigh-ubiquitous singles squeezed between these new songs you haven't heard more than once.
But that's not the band's fault. You certainly couldn't expect them not to play their new stuff, and when they do play it, they always give it their all (as they always do. It's difficult to believe these guys, bar the singer, are at or nearing 50. They look a lot younger, and they play a lot younger too). There are moments - like the surprisingly moving Afterglow - that imply that the band should keep playing their new stuff, because soon enough - when the crowd gets used to it, and has time to build a relationship with it - it won't sound incongrous any more.
Perhaps it's more accurate to say there were two audiences tonight; the amped-up, nostalgic audience ready to fall in love again with songs they've known forever, and the slightly confused audience who can't quite remember the lyrics they're supposed to be singing along to. Luckily, with the help of a band who know how to get the job done, the former beat the latter. And the audience fell in love again.
(Originally published at FasterLouder).
But that would be a serious oversimplification, and an unnecessarily harsh one at that. It's true, there was a palpable tension between the dayglo 80s nostalgia and the urge to create something new and relevant, but that tension never got in the way of a good time.
And, indeed, that's what this new INXS seems to be all about: a good fuckin' time. (I imagine the old INXS had similar priorities, but I wasn't quite born when the band scored its first global hit in '83, so I can't be totally positive). And, good lord, a good time is what they deliver in abundance, to a crowd desperately hungry for it.
You can tell that this band - minus J.D. Fortune, their Mark Burnett-assisted acquisition - has been together for decades. That's obvious as soon as those lonely seconds of harmonica explode into the propulsive, urgent beats and bass of Suicide Blonde. As a show opener it's perfect, with a dirty rhythm and the opportunity for some serious rock god posing. (The only drawback: it's impossible not to remember that dorky-but-brilliant clip, and the unbelievable mullets that came with it... if you're not careful, you could spend the rest of the show imagining the entire band sporting business on the sides and a party at the back).
It should be noted that the crowd has absolutely lost its shit at this point. Barely seconds into the set, and the Luna Park punters are buckwild: thousands of hands in the air, girls paralytic from excitement, men stamping their feet, and screaming. Lots of screaming. Serious electricity. J.D. Fortune works the stage like he was made to do it - it's difficult to imagine the man before he became famous, so pronounced are his drunk, chain-smoking bad boy affectations (after the show, one punter opined to friends, as they walked by the ferris wheel, that 'that guy shouldn't try so hard,' but then admitted that he was 'still really cute though.' And that's about right).
The girls fall in love, and the guys wish they could still fit into a pair of size-28 black denims. It's really obvious: hiring J.D. Fortune wasn't a mistake, no matter what the circumstances, and how cynical and commercial some might think them. This guy is the real deal. Yes, he's a bit of a try-hard. Yes, he seems like a bit of a wanker. Yes, he does perform dubious rhyming dictionary beat poetry just before the encore. But he's a star, in that 1950s sense of the word. He's born to do it, like Craig David. He's everything a rock star should be.
He sets the stage on fire, bounding from stage left to right and back again, hopping on to foldback speakers, hugging his bandmates, lighting another cigarette, jumping into crowd of girls regressing to frenzied adolescence, lighting another cigarette, pouring out plastic cups of white wine for the crowd, telling stories about living in his car with his dog, lighting another cigarette. And the guy can sing. He attacks those opening lines of Mystify, so perfect with that bouncy, nearly-discordant piano from Andrew Farriss: 'All veils and misty / Streets of blue.' During the encore, he rips into Never Tear Us Apart like every word was written in his soul. He points a mockingly accusatory finger at the crowd during Devil Inside, and sings it like it was released yesterday.
But some of that Fortune magic dissipates when the band gets stuck into material from Switch. (I Like Your Old Stuff Better Than Your New Stuff, anyone?). The hooks and magic just aren't there... and neither is the history (how many times have you heard By My Side? Original Sin? Need You Tonight? New bloody Sensation? They've been played on radio tens of thousands of times, and with good reason: they're pop perfection. You've grown up on them. You've gone to backyard parties with INXS pumping. You've watched the film clips on Video Hits on a Saturday morning). It feels incongruous hearing these massive, legendary, nigh-ubiquitous singles squeezed between these new songs you haven't heard more than once.
But that's not the band's fault. You certainly couldn't expect them not to play their new stuff, and when they do play it, they always give it their all (as they always do. It's difficult to believe these guys, bar the singer, are at or nearing 50. They look a lot younger, and they play a lot younger too). There are moments - like the surprisingly moving Afterglow - that imply that the band should keep playing their new stuff, because soon enough - when the crowd gets used to it, and has time to build a relationship with it - it won't sound incongrous any more.
Perhaps it's more accurate to say there were two audiences tonight; the amped-up, nostalgic audience ready to fall in love again with songs they've known forever, and the slightly confused audience who can't quite remember the lyrics they're supposed to be singing along to. Luckily, with the help of a band who know how to get the job done, the former beat the latter. And the audience fell in love again.
(Originally published at FasterLouder).
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