Live Review: The Wombats
November 2, 2009, 9:05 pm
Filed under: Live Reviews


The Wombats
Mandela Hall
27th May 2008

It’s a school night alright, there’s hundreds of the buggers; grade eleven to thirteen adolescents crawling over each other like day old Labradors with day-glo collars. Indie Villains or ingenious kitche-popsters, whatever your opinion is of The Wombats’, their brand of mild, rudimentary indie-dance seems to please the kids. Under the sweat-dripping Mandela Hall ceiling a teen brawl bubbles maniacally, very much so ‘celebrating the irony’, because the Wombats are just a joke that just isn’t funny.

At odds with their image as cheeky perma-grinning scamps, the threesome are wordless and dour. There’s an indifference to their performance which is maddening when you consider that they’re just the latest in a long line of drama-school-derived Indie fabrications to be routinely out-charmed by the bouncer team. In the eyes of this curmudgeonly writer they’re lucky to be on a stage at all. Not that the kids are bothered, wigging-out to every particle of the joyless, 2-bit banality from opener ‘Kill The Director’ right through to the odiously self-conscious ‘Moving To New York’ .

The catchy / repetitive/ cynically ingratiating ‘Backfired At The Disco’ heralds in total anarchy with the exploding aneurysm of a song granted extra bulk by the Mandela’s acoustics.

Its the plain injustice that The Wombats pull such a huge turnout while the glut of excellannt bands that visit our capital these days play to crowds of 20. The power of daytime airplay Ladies and Germs. What’s worse is the headless mania and the false idolism heaped on them by tonight’s rapturous crowd. I suppose kids are forgiving like that though if their able to bounce on their friends shoulders and sip at a coke bottle of Southern Comfort in the safety of the hormonal throng.

Truly a repugnant shit-stain on our Noughties experience, if the Liverpudlians think that filling repetitive, facsimile pop songs with a little self-referencing fools anyone over the mental age of 21 into thinking they are clever and subversive, they’re way off the mark.

The last tune is as Matthew Murphy informs us ‘a new one’ which makes a mockery of the idea, being that it’s more of the same flimsy patchwork of practiced frivolity that’s as much fun as a skin graft. It’s entitled ‘Packed My Bags To Leave’. What you waiting for Matthew?

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