Entitled VIP shithead amateur.

Saw the Vines last night.

’Twas one of those ‘guest list’ jobbies, which is always rather wonderful, especially considering the $38.40 cavity check to which my fellow lank haired punters were submitted.

Unfortunately, and I hate to be a shaggy haired, flaccid, third rate Lester Bangs about this, the distinctly cost free nature (not withstanding hilariously priced, watered down bottom shelf voddies and the ever so rock ‘n roll boutique beers) of the endeavour was practically all there was to recommend it.

Now, Melbourne crowds are renowned for their ‘prove to me, all knowing, bedroom dwelling, nine buckets a day, VB quaffing, owner of a complete set of original Hawkwind vinyl connoisseur of all things fine and aural, why the world at large has embraced you as demi-Gods and seen fit to reward you the specious honour of an audience with no less than Steve Jobs’ marketing division (you bastards!)’.

Prone to, at most, a self conscious nod of their self consciously shaggy (we truly are witnessing the birth of ‘indie hairspray-rock’) proto-mullets and an arthritic, vaguely in time tap of the foot, this spawn of the sticky floor spends an inordinate amount of time sneering at the enthusiastic young suburban types and their gussied up teen queen girlfriends cheerfully, gloriously moshing unaffectedly up the front, throwing entirely inappropriate ‘horns ups’ at the band, and committing that ultimate blasphemy- wearing the headliner’s shirt on the night.

Which really is more than a bit shit.

Sadly, last eve was the very first time in my gig going life that the crowd’s hipster apathy was directly in tune with the lack lustre performance delivered by the ‘really quite over it, yes indeed’ headliners.

On reflection, it’s depressingly clear that The Vines have, all told, exactly two songs:

The fast, Nirvana one where Craig Nicholls wails like a deficient toddler with an indefinite supply of intravenous raspberry cordial, effects a few loose limbed Cobain-centric guitar moves and devolves into amusingly contrived chaos.

(Guitar change by the blonde one with the fetching ladies’ bob)

And the slow, power ballady one, where Nicholls inexplicably bangs on a plummy, incoherent High Street accent, the bass player (who looks exactly like the quiet lad you sat next to in maths, and exudes a similar stage presence and general level of interest) tries in vain to hold it all together with a few dreary old Lennon-McCartney harmonies.

So- repeat eight or nine times, and where is that exit, kind sir?