Ever seen them get picked up, moved aside and the dance floor swarming with bounding bodies? Never? Well, Waiting For Guinness announced a new reign of anarchy at this swish city venue. Before vocalist Dave could finish his simple statement, "Shame about all these tables..." the punters, who had been filling every empty scrap of carpet with flailing and pogoing, cleared the floor without breaking stride.
This 8-piece band brought their raucous party of virtuosos to Sydney's ultimate jazz venue. With an edgy lead vocalist who wavers just this side of safe, in their glorious punk-klezmer style, Waiting For Guinness are a band to experience live. This gig featured Leno, a Mariachi player in full black and silver costume with a Gitaron (fat oversized Mexican bass). An accordion, violin, sax, trombone, trumpet, drum kit, guitars, and a banjo all squeezed on to the stage.
Guinness have put together a CD to be released in June. It will be a remarkable engineering accomplishment if they can capture the same energy they have live. At a Bondi gig the week before the chunky bald drummer, Nigel, performed in a wrestler's G-string. Although their fast-paced rhythms are derived from traditional European roots, their lyrics and arrangements (bar a couple of Tom Waits covers) are all original, intricately woven swinging songs wrenched from their own mischievous musicianship. Their words are sharp sometimes satirical, or romanticising a vagabond life. As in… "I'm all alone with all my fears/ Drink a bottle of whiskey and the newsprint dries my tears/ I build a tent / I pay no rent / Rapping on about a coloured past where the money's all been spent." It's as irresistible as The Cat Empire, but with more gypsy than hip-hop. At least one song was in Hebrew (I think) and a sorrowful Spanish number featured the mariachi player on vocals.
The most important asset this band has is that they are obviously having a festival up there on stage and we can only beg to join them with a wild gesticulation called dance. The floor was like a hot coal pit at the Basement last Friday as we hopped from toe-to-toe, and pounded the stage hollering like droogs for "more, more." I will be bouncing my arse off at their next gig down the front singing along like a sloppy drunken crooner. Not pretty, but zealously romantic.
