| "Hey, ladies, you know he's sinnggllllee!" These are the opening words of Danish support band The Blue Van. The statement sounds so desperate and you think that the poor sods see Jet frontman Nic Cester shower groupies from London to Tokyo with special rock spunk every night of the 50 date world tour.
The Blue Van are a carbon copy of Jet, with different accents but identical scarves, feather cuts and matching Who pins picked up from the same stylist that creates the stereotypical Rock Star makeover for the Aussie sloths in Jet.
The frontman is like Brian Molko in Paul Weller's body. The keyboard player is a size zero Kings of Leon wannabe who delicately thumps at his wobbling keyboard like a bearded Victoria Beckham. As the keyboard rocks back and fourth, he screams like a pranged-out waif, pausing only to spit beer and take control of his super-conditioned locks. Their sound is so basic, so derivative, that it makes Jet sound like the most innovate band of the decade. Think Placebo doing Oasis covers while pissed and doing it all in the name of Comic Relief. There's even a compere that excitedly introduces both bands, as if it's some kind of wet tee shirt competition at the local Walkabout pub. By far the most preposterous figure in The Blue Van is the bassist. Think Spike (Rhys Ifans) from the Notting Hill flick, dressed in skintight denims and mounting amps, speakers and anything he can find on stage. When on top of an object, he gurns, does a bit of guitar playing and then performs a dance worthy of the top strippers at Stringfellows. At one point, you wonder if he might actually place a hand on the floor, rip his jeans and show his starfish to the world while trying to play his guitar behind his head. He's nothing more than a stonewashed anus on boney stilts.
Jet arrive on stage with flashing lights, big sample intro and the most self indulgent backdrop of their giant, hairy faces smeared across the hanging fabric like moldy Marmite. Put simply, the good time rock and roll ethic of Jet effectively makes them a tribute band and if you treat them like a calorie free version of Oasis staffed by stoners found outside a Melbourne Job Centre in 2001, you'll be fine. On the other hand, if you believe that all rock and roll is piracy and all good music is stolen, switched and infused with something original to create a brand new style of sound, you'll hate Jet. There's nothing new here. Even the song titles (as well as the bass lines) are nicked from Oasis – Put Yer Money Where Your Mouth Is. Yes! Fuck Supersonic, Live Forever or Definitely Maybe era influences, the light fingered chaps in Jet have happened upon Oasis' 1997 drug fuelled mishap Be Here Now. The big, slow, lolloping anthems sound like Bon Jovi and it's becoming apparent that Jet only have one decent song, the Vodafone endorsed Are You Gonna Be My Girl? The problem with giving your best song to an advert is that it creates an accidental fanbase and one that, tonight at least, resembles the people in the advert. So the Hammersmith Apollo is rammed with fresh faced, smoothie-slurping vegetarians obsessed with recording every second on their camera phones. They couldn't look less rock if they tried. There's a 22 stone man in a tee shirt which says The Feeling on the back. He's dry humping his slender wife from behind while sipping on a bottle of water. "I want them to play them the one from the advert" he whispers in her ear. When Jet shoot the motherload and strum the opening chords of his fave song, the crowd go mental. 22 stone Feeling man grabs his wife and rocks backwards and forwards like Bungle from Rainbow penetrating a live human for the first time. At this point, I decide it's time to go home.
(An extract of this review is published by In London magazine http://www.inlondon.com/News-and-Sport/News/Jet-Suck.cfm) |
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