Mike Noga And The Gentlemen Of Fortune

A rainy night, Bruce Springsteen had just saved music on whatever Seven Ages Of Rock episode that was, and since it was moving on to U2 and Live Aid, it seemed as good an excuse as any to get the hell away from the telly and to the Annandale for some other angles of that rock thing.

Drizzly midweek nights make for mixed audiences. There were a few of the tousled-haired and skinny jeans element; members of various other bands, either catching up or checking out what they might steal; the standard musically curious and/or thirsty; and an odd knot of well-scrubbed college girls who, at a guess, turned up for Holiday Sidewinder’s comfortably uncomfortable opening spot (sans Bridezilla), but to their credit stayed ‘til closing.

Compare and contrast with The Gentlemen Of Fortune enjoying their rare time together. On personnel alone – a Dallas Crane, a Ladyboy or two, and the eponymous Drone out the front – they’re worth more than a pub half full. “C’mon, move a bit closer – we’ve come a thousand kilometres to see you.” There’s a cautious edging forward, making sure there’s still escape routes, or maybe just a way to the bar.

Once they start up, you know the drummer-turned-frontman is loving it. They banter like mates, in-jokes and piss-taking abounds, and they even get the publican to deliver beers to stage. Gus Agars adds the smart-arsery from the drum-stool, much like Noga himself sometimes does to Liddiard’s corrugated iron screech.

This is a band that knows what they’re about. There’s country-blues howl to a lot of it, illustrated early on with the big roll of ‘Down I’m Feeling’. Stevie Hesketh’s keyboards take it various ways – rattley piano swing one minute, big swirly organ the next.

Noga’s slightly sandpapery vocals sit well among it, as does his apologetic kazoo solo. “We can’t afford a brass section,” he jokes. “We’ve only just got enough for a $2.50 piece of plastic.” He doesn’t quite “dance like a motherfucker” as he promised, but does get some grind in the hips. As do we with plastic glasses in our hands.

He’s forever swapping between acoustic and electric instruments, always wanting to hear that bit more from the foldback, sparring with the porn-moustached Graeme Cameron, sometimes almost seeming like he’s after the approval that he’s doing the guitar thing right. He shouldn’t worry, he is.

There is some range to The Gents. ‘Turn Your Light On Me Again’ is further down the country lament line. Anchored by Pat Bourke’s bass, it washes over you and drags you back out to sea. But the real bolter is the set-closing ‘Down Like JFK’. “There’s a hole where my head should be.” Yeah, know that feeling. Hesketh’s honky-tonking driving it up through the gears. Cranked out, it makes the muggy night sweatier. They wander off, but there’s enough applause - including from fresh young things down front - for them to come back, paying an obvious creative debt with Dylan’s ‘Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here With You’.

For a bunch of guys moonlighting from their various “day-jobs” it works with an ease and a joy you’d like to see more of. Go see them the next time their schedules allow.

by Ross Clelland