Supergrass

Maybe it was the weather. Temperatures soared to well over 30 earlier in the day, and at 10pm the thermometer had barely dropped. A hint of rain suggested a cool change was on its way, but cool somehow missed its target inside The Forum at Sydney’s Entertainment Quarter – in every respect. Missing out on opening spots by Cloud Control and Panic’s frontman Jae Laffer because it was just too sweltering to even think about heading inside, meant that by the time Supergrass were about to take the stage, the lower concourse of The Forum was jam-packed. Finding a spot, squashed between the floor and a staircase, and suffering a barrage of abuse from drunken backpackers for daring to get between them and a hint of the motherland, I can’t say I was comfortable. A security guard trying to get everyone off the staircase and onto the floor didn’t exactly help matters, so by the time Supergrass took to the stage I was rattled, hot and feeling very claustrophobic.

With “SUPERGRASS” emblazoned across the stage like a Killers album of old, the boys assumed their positions with every ounce of flair you would expect from a rock band. They strutted their stuff, kept to the program and played loud and driven tunes, without a hint of distracting banter, as the best and tightest of rock bands do. But Supergrass were an intergral part of the Britpop movement, right? Or has all my musicology been wrong? Blur, Oasis, Supergrass. I’m pretty sure that was how it went. So why, oh, why did Gaz Coombes and his mates parade around like they were better than that? When they played the Enmore back in 2002 the show was fun. There was room to dance, the boys filled their set with more than a smattering of chit chat, and everyone left buoyant, transported back to a time when three minute catchy tunes were more than de rigueur – they were gleefully demanded. With little room to tug at my sweat-soaked jeans, let alone tap my feet, with the bitching of drunken Brits louder than the music, and with nothing but the same boring song for a whole set (or so it sounded) coming from the stage, fun would probably be the last word I’d use to describe the evening.

The set was filled to the brim with new stuff from newly released Diamond Hoo Ha (Diamond Hoo Ha Man, Rebel In You and most of the other tracks from the album), which is just what you want to hear from a band who were big a decade ago. The occasional classic that was wheeled out was done so with bad acoustics and a worse attitude. Caught By The Fuzz was missing a verse. Richard III was brief, and felt like it was thrown in as a concession. The remainder of the set reflected the remainder of the evening – with a non-descript and uninspired collection of songs that all sounded the same.

To be fair though, it was the venue, less than the band that made for such a bad aural experience. The acoustics were dreadful from the third floor, where I escaped to when I couldn’t stand the sweltering fire-hazard-inducing crush of the lower floor. The second floor, where I moved to see if things perhaps sounded better, was filled with punters more concerned about getting their next beer from the noisy bar than seeing the band. Over three levels, there was nowhere to dance, and listen and enjoy.

Reviews from the Saturday night show suggest that it was a completely different affair – that the set was enjoyable, that the band were a pleasure to watch. The temperature was also about 20 degrees cooler. I’m hoping it was the weather, because it would be sad to think that a band so integral in shaping the direction of British music had languished so far from where they started. Super they certainly were not, but perhaps another toke in the future might bring with it a more enjoyable high.

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