The ghostly spirits of indie nobodies who usually haunt Norf Lahndahn tut-tut as Fat Dragon‘s Jamie hurls himself about the stage and grabs the mic stand like a [I]proper [/I]rock star. Not cool, not cool at all, they whisper. But then, indie nobodies rarely get laid. Jamie looks as if he does EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.
Fat Dragon are a rock band. No, come back, they aren’t some insipid impression of a rock band like, say, Reef, though they [I]do [/I]indeed look like they all just stepped off the set of a Pepsi Max commercial. And, despite the oriental-print surf shirts, the Stax-driven wall of noise, Fat Dragon don’t subscribe to the Rocket From The Crypt school of kitsch-rock. Fat Dragon probably can’t [I]spell [/I]’irony’.
So, the Southampton five-man-gang slam into the 400mph Foo Fighters grooves of single ‘Secret’, blast us with Day-Glo melodies and neon starpower. They wink mischievously and drop the lascivious funk of ‘Do The Missionary’, like the Chilis without the wanky bass solos. The guitarists step to the front of the stage and unleash ugly solos throughout the blitzing Zeppelin arse-quake of ‘Lazy Bones’, Jamie launching into the front row to the audible pleasure of the ladies dancing down there. And they inform us, in no uncertain terms, that this indeed will be the Year Of The Dragon. Sounds about right.