Amyl And The Sniffers
Academy 1, Manchester
9th November 2024
Amyl And The Sniffers return for a full UK Tour with the new album Cartoon Darkness in tow. Expect some grown-up language amid the brutal musical assault and fun times Nihilism. MK Bennett sinks in.
As every good Australian knows, being rambunctious is a part of the national psyche. If you can, through several twists of hard work, luck and good planning, turn that into an international phenomenon, selling out whole tours as you go, then so much the better. It’s no secret that the not-so-secret weapon is Amy Taylor, who may well be all the things attributed to her, including the heir to Iggy Pop’s coverted Most Likely To Fall Offstage, Break A Limb And Carry On Dancing Award, but she is, and wonderfully so, a brilliant frontwoman in a band beloved everywhere they go.
Here at the Academy, they were welcomed like conquering heroes to a packed house, not a breath of air in the room as they launched into Do It Do It, a most AC/DC meets ’77 punk affair with a blistering vocal and excellent visuals, the backdrop a live feed or previously recorded footage of the front row, making it seem even more immersive.
Part Rat Scabies and part Bon Scott, the apparent connection to the old Aussie rockers ran deep, Amy herself, a modern riff on Scott’s take no shit and let me be me attitude, right down to her dress code, and Scott, who was one of Rocks great charismatic frontmen always needed another reprobate in arseless jeans as a successor and 40 years after his death, here she is, in your face feminist rage to the front, in a loop, forever kicking arseholes in the teeth.
They also bring that rare event to the venue – the mosh pit that goes most of the way back, a beautiful Northern mix of old Punks and young Rockers, all dancing in unison and making a mess. These are not long songs, but they are memorable, as the proto-rap/punk genius of Security moves the crowd up a gear, it’s New Roseism making it fly like a half-remembered dream.
Guided By Angels is a road trip through your brain, picking up burnt synapses along the way, though the guitars and main vocal are still too low, it is okay, there is no need for perfection in technical terms. It is also the song that makes you realise how much Amy is the soul of the band, as every melody, riff, and chord change, every counter melody and beat is tailored to and subjugated to, Amy’s voice. Given her star quality, it was a sensible decision.
The set is almost completely the last two albums, where they have found their sound, but a strange shift occurs around here: four or so songs in, the more bass-oriented songs anyway, get a bit more New Wave, a little Post Punk if sometimes too briefly, a little Knack here, a little Gang Of Four there, and it is an enhancement, Knifey benefits from both the incredible lyrics and the relaxed arrangement, less frenetic and more thoughtful. Maggot is exceptional, a crowd favourite (‘You’re more than a maggot waiting round for the carcass”), causing those on the floor to pogo and dance even harder. It’s a maelstrom down there, but it’s a happy one. They sound like half a dozen bands they have almost certainly never heard of: Reagan Youth, Vice Squad, Subhumans, MDC. More sociological than specifically political, it is a much-needed Feminist energy, a call to arms as all good Punk should be.
The run-in from herein is pop-punk perfection, with the majestic and dystopian Chewing Gum, which we hope is fiction and not a narrative, a song from the reflective end of the catalogue like late period Wire. Also proudly considering themselves Pub Rock, presumably because of its connotations with the working-class culture over there and the occasional nod to the bad boy boogie. There are also brief echoes of Australia’s greatest-ever punk band, The Saints. Big Dreams may well be the closest they ever get to the Big Rock Ballad, but it’s a lovely melodic melancholy thing, a tale of small-town suffocation and broken dreams when you’re broke when everyone is broke.
A short enforced absence from the hall means Jerkin’, the lyric and the video of the year, is either not played or missed, a tragedy either way and possibly some ill-advised but fun football banter, too. The following two songs, Tiny Bikini and U Should Not Be Doing That, are both big hitters, classic Punk-pop despite their relative newness, hooks like an Anglers box, like a Boxer’s training camp, a Clowns cane.
Come to the encores and Balaclava Lover Boogie, excellent, noisy and self-explanatory. Balaclava is home to some or all of the band; it is a Melbourne suburb named after a battleship that sailed during the Crimean War. Unless you have the soul and wit of a Scarecrow’s colostomy bag, you can only enjoy the Amyl And The Sniffers show. Amy once said this was a perfect band name for them because poppers were a few seconds of pleasure followed by a massive headache.
A more Proustian view of poppers might be a smell or aroma of remembrance, a temporary but beautiful memory, surrounded by family you may never see again, strangers given community, half seen and always there, a scar to bind us and a song to smile for.
Please note: Use of these images in any form without permission is illegal. If you wish to contact the photographer please email: mel@mudkissphotography.co.uk
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All words by MK Bennett, you can find his author’s archive here plus his Twitter and Instagram
All photos by Melanie Smith – Louder Than War | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Portfolio
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