Live Review: SixFtHick, HITS, DEAFCULT

Tonight is a celebration of heavy unrelenting rock'n'roll of the unkempt and dirty persuasion, so it's quite apt that burgeoning cacophonists DEAFCULT open proceedings with their sublimely tuneful racket. The six-piece band favour no less than four guitars (plus bass) so there's not much room to maneuver onstage, but it matters not as they spew forth their wall of noise, the dual male/female vocals ending up a mere hummed melody over the racket but still working wonderfully. It's not noise for noise's sake - there's a definite and defiant tunefulness lurking not too far under the surface - but this mob is going to damage some soft sensibilities down the track, no doubt about it.

Depraved rock dogs HITS are next up and in fine fettle from the get-go, opening with a dirgey and epic Bitter & Twisted before Jesus F Christ hits indiscriminately like a wet towel across the face and Take Your Pills attacks with an aural assault of pinpoint precision. Frontman Evil Dick is his usual spiteful self but it's the twin guitar attack of Tamara Bell and Stacey Coleman which packs the venom tonight, although all five members bring their A game for snarling new number Leonard Lake (which in normal HITS tradition turns out to be a depraved serial killer rather than a pleasant holiday destination). Disappointed surges through the room like an elongated wail of regret and frustration, before they conclude with a raucous Living With You Is Killing Me and a blistering finale of Peter And Paul.

There's a large and appropriately unruly crowd gathered to celebrate the two-decade milestone in the existence of the world's finest cane trash proponents SixFtHick, who repay the faith by unleashing a steady tsunami of sleazy anthems to a writing pit of the already converted, leaving no need for pleasantries to kick off the party. The Corbett brothers from the outset display their twisted simpatico up front, delivering their anti-salubrious lines either simultaneously like they share a single twisted brain or one after the other like a one-two punch from a heavily-inebriated ninja. Behind them all the band lay down a thick bed of rock'n'roll for the foundation, Dan Baebler in particular distinguishing himself with his endless barrage of thick guitar lines although the rhythm section of Tony Giacca (bass) and Fred Noonan (drums) barely put a foot wrong either. They cover material from all though their undecorated career, the driving Beat Myself a mid-set highlight before they unleash some relatively recent material in the form of the ominous White Light, Wet Heat and the seedy Live Girls, but it matters naught what tunes they offer up because the drunken throng seems enthralled regardless, determined to have a good time and damn the consequences. The Crowbar's super-low ceiling is a barrier to the Corbetts' usual vertical clambering but they compensate with plenty of writhing and contorting, Ben staggering around with his wifebeater pulled over his head and displaying his torso with a menacing machismo as the band locks in dutifully behind him. The stage is a maelstrom of writhing angst and swinging microphones and the mosh pit before them ignites the dark and sweaty room, and there's no room for the fainthearted up the front as the floor transforms into a single pulsing entity. Soon enough even the encore comes and goes like some manic sermon, Geoff happily taking drinks gifted by the crowd and skolling them as bodysurfers drift happily by. It's a fitting birthday celebration for this fine outfit, drunken and vaguely debaucherous but with everyone staggering home happy and only mildly damaged, as has so often been the case over the preceding 20 years. Here's to the next 20 'Hick!