Walking along West End's Boundary Street, it'd be easy to mistake the building's boarded-up front for a long-abandoned pool hall than a new live music venue. We queue curiously at The Hi-Fi's side door: security briefed at short notice seem almost as clueless as the door staff, who struggle with several admission lists for this widely-publicised free event. A strong smell of new paint permeates the room; an ascent to the mezzanine finds media guests double-fisting the liquid loot proffered by an open bar.

“From where I'm standing, this looks pretty cool,” Evil Dick, frontman of local promotion winners Hits, tells the crowd. In what will become a theme of The Hi-Fi Brisbane’s opening night, the musicians on stage are treated with bemused looks from the audience. Likewise, the straight-shooting five-piece seem more content to entertain themselves than the hundreds of spectators. They seldom deviate from a standard rock beat and a massively overdriven guitar sound, but hell, this is a rock venue, and they're christening it in an entirely appropriate manner. Evil Dick channels the delivery of past punk heroes, which is a nice way of saying that he can't so much sing as holler. He willingly spills the first beer on The Hi-Fi's stage carpet in an act of both tradition and defiance, which represents the first opportunity taken to add some character to the still-unfinished room.

I'm standing sunken, front-of-stage, for the first few songs of Witch Hats' set. Only after moving to a higher vantage point do I realise that it wasn't just my position in front of Ash Buscombe's foldback: the bass really is turned up 100 percent louder than anything else. Awesome. The primeval thrash-punk sludge that the Melburnians conjure is at odds with the expectations of the crowd, who treat the bottom-heavy onslaught with the same reaction they'd show fresh roadkill. Fuck ’em, though. Witch Hats aren't here to impress any commercial radio-favouring ears. Their performance of ‘I Can't Stay At Home’ - the sole Cellulite Soul track to get an airing in a set of new material - ends with Kris Buscombe's fittingly unforgiving yowl. Their 35-show North American jaunt has evidently lent the band adequate time to tighten their masochistic style, however it's still gripped by a pervasive sense of chaos. For those paying attention, each three-minute blast accumulates a sense of catharsis few bands could conceive – let alone articulate.

There was always going to be a trade-off between The Drones' hard-earned indie credibility amid a crowd of pedestrian sticky-beaks. A quarter of tonight's audience gained entrance through The Drones' mailing list, and I'd be surprised if more than half had heard the band before tonight. There's a delicious irony entwined in the concept of hundreds failing to realise they're witnessing a generation-defining act. The Drones recognise this apathy. The spaces between songs are filled with barely-disguised contempt for the opening of a new Brisbane venue, though as singer Gareth Liddiard jokes, “At least you're all away from The Valley.” It’s a reference, of course, to Brisbane’s oft-maligned local hub of live music, Fortitude Valley.

In response perhaps to the apathy and in spite of the sneered-at occasion, the band play one of their best-ever Brisbane shows. The only difference in setlist between tonight and their pair of Melbourne performances is the absence of the Kev Carmody cover and a shuffled order. They wield older tracks with a ferocity that can't be matched by Havilah-era material, though ‘The Minotaur’ comes close.

It's half-past midnight now and only a few hundred remain. Liddiard farewells us with a middle-finger. Welcome to Brisbane, Hi-Fi.

by Andrew McMillen