The Datsuns : Manchester University

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

The Datsuns : Manchester University

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

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