July 7, 2004

The Datsuns : Manchester University

The new album may be abit of an old banger, but the band are still fuel-injected...

If AC/DC's Angus Young took over the School Of
Rock, tonight's gig would be the first topic on his
syllabus.

"Y'see, if you're gonna rip off our three-chord stadium-rock schtick," he'd tell the kids in his trademark Aussie drawl, "you gotta get it right. There's a fine line between sounding incendiary and being absolutely
fucking shit."

Forget about The Darkness (and don't worry, if you
haven't already, it won't be long), tonight The Datsuns
show how supercharged gonk-rock is supposed to be executed. Since these abundantly hairy New Zealanders
hit our shores two years ago they've perfected the
trick of taking the three heaviest power-chords this side
of Led Zeppelin, AC/DC and Rainbow, welding them to
some yelped "woah woahs" and "yeah yeahs" and
splicing it all with just enough piss and vinegar to get
away with it.

Returning from their live hiatus an infinitely sassier
and - oh yes - sexier proposition, tonight The Datsuns
set about two important tasks. First things first: tearing
through the crowd-pleasing hits like a gang of teenage miscreants on a joyriding spree seconds after being
released from borstal. 'Harmonic Generator' still has
all the brash swagger of a beered-up Liam (and packs
a far weightier punch), while 'MF From Hell' sends the assembled throng into a frenzied fug of sweat,
testosterone and spilled pints. When the band stride
on for an encore of glam stomper 'In Love', meanwhile,
it's little short of monolithic.

However, tonight also sees the band road test a clutch
of new songs from second LP 'Outta Sight/Outta Mind'. Sliding seamlessly into The Datsuns' arsenal, songs like
'That Sure Ain't Right' and new single 'Blacken My Thumb' take the standard gonzo-metal aesthetic and multiply it
like a warren of promiscuous rabbits.

Throughout, fuckbomb singer Dolf - tight of trouser
and beaming like he's just planted a bomb under the
Big Brother house and Gordon Ramsay's fucking kitchen
- kicks, screams and gyrates his way around the stage
like a caged animal being jolted with a cattle prod. Reinventing the wheel or not (clue: not), the likes of
'Cherry Lane' and 'Messin' Around' are met with of the
sort of pandemonium usually reserved for one of Pete Doherty's (numerous) comebacks.
All in all, it's like they never went away.

Outta sight? Fuck yeah.

Rick Martin