Atlanta,
Feb. 3, 1997
Australia's
silverchair mix innocence, grunge
The Verdict: The grunge junior varsity scores a touchdown.
By STEVE
DOLLAR, Pop Music Critic
Atlanta Journal-Constitution, February 4, 1997
Those
chipper Australian teens who conquered America with their
1995 debut frogstomp (Epic), an unabashed and enthusiastic
replay of grunge's thrash-'n'-groan aesthetic, are back for
Round 2.
Fronted
by vocalist-guitarist Daniel Johns, the trio summons the wall-shuddering
amplified wallop, dizzy dynamic mood swings and stressed-out
wailing that marked the Seattle sound circa 1991.
Importantly,
this was a period before Nirvana flamed out and Pearl Jam
got antsy about rock stardom. There was still a promise of
innocence as the music began to transform from innovation
to cliche.
silverchair
sells the cliche, but what makes the band entertaining is
its embrace of the innocence. The band's second generation
grunge moves, which sold out Monday's concert at the Roxy,
strive to compensate with sheer energy for what they lack
in originality.
Opening
its second U.S. tour at the same venue where it launched it's
first, the group punched through a tight 80-minute set that
mixed familiar power ballads and feedback-edged anthems, while
dishing up a healthy helping of tunes from its new, sophomore
release Freak Show. If anything, the material signals the
band's eagerness to dabble in variety. The most convincing
rockers slammed with breakneck ferocity or locked into juggernaut
rhythmic passages that down-throttled into deliberately slow,
repetitive riffs -- the sonic legacy that heavy metal's Black
Sabbath gave to Nirvana inspirations the Melvins.
On
the flip side, Johns, whose easy-to-toss blond locks mark
him as a natural-born hair farmer, also indulged the gentler
side of teenage angst. For Cemetery, which could have been
a song about adolescent alienation or merely having to share
a house with parents, he strummed solo electric guitar. Near
the back of the hall, a high school girl had conniptions.
She jumped up and down, raised the index and litt1e fingers
of both hands in a familiar concert salute, and shouted, in
hasty cadence: "'Cemetery!' OhIlovethissong!"
As channels
of hormonal fear-and-loathing, silverchair are blatantly lame.
During one tune, Johns repeated a a common rock-star profanity,
as if trying on a tough posture. A few moments 1ater, he was
grinning at the microphone, offering a tentative "thank
you" like the polite young surfer he is.
Go buy
a Nirvana bootleg if you want to simmer in psychotic bile;
what silverchair offer is puppy love cranked to 10.
[Atlanta
Journal-Constitution photo by Jonathan Newton]
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