Wolfmother
September 16, 2006
Jannus Landing
Words: Xander Storms
Photos: Michael Rabinowitz

Somewhere along the fine line of parody and homage lies Wolfmother.   Whether they fall on the ironic side with Tenacious D, The Darkness, or Andrew W.K. (whom I strangely suspect is quite sincere with his beer commercial ditties) is up to you.  But, I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that Wolfmother may be the harbinger of the return of fantasmetal, that archaic offshoot of metal that deals with gnomes, witches, unicorns, dragons, warriors and anything Napoleon Dynamite excels at drawing.   It is just geeky enough to avoid the darker fringes of demonic rock.  With all of their album art being penned by Frank Frazetta, long-time illustrator of Conan the Barbarian and John Carter of Mars, I half expected fans to arrive with their eight-sided dice in tow or dungeon master as a date.   Little did I realize that drunken cock rock fans would be there instead.  (Perhaps they scared all the warlocks away.)

And Wolfmother gave these rockers of the cock a soundtrack to fight to.  Starting with “Dimension” vocalist Andrew Stockdale emerged more stoic than the screaming maniac announcing himself at the beginning of their self-titled album.   Appearing as a wiry scarecrow, with a Slash-worthy ‘fro that moved to its own beat, Stockdale subdued the opening ceremonies.  That is until the night’s first of many reverbs and the group exploded into an MC5-esque unmerciful sonic attack.   Stockdale obviously perfected his role as Robert Plant of the group; his wooly sideburns bouncing to a galloping guitar and piercing vocals that leave sharp paper cuts in listener’s ears.

On “White Unicorn” Stockdale starts with an anecdote about boat trip he and the boys took out into bay earlier in the day.  The engine died and the group finds themselves stranded.  Always thinking of his fans, Stockdale pleads (nay, commands!) to the captain, “We must return!  I have to bringeth ‘da rock to St. Pete!”  And, bringeth he did.  The crowd detonated with approval, testosterone practically being spat back into the band’s faces.

With “Unicorn” acting as the centerpiece of the show, Wolfmother descended the second act into a series of slogged out guitar solos.  Stockdale poured his music out like ancient grog, droplets of notes languidly falling off the stage.  Keyboards by Chris Ross lead the audience through a psychedelic wormhole and the shift was on toward ashen heroin rock.  Akin to Pink Floyd, Ross lead out the remaining set with the trickle of his bass.  At that point, the booster rockets were shut down and the ship slipped into Jupiter’s orbit.

Myles Heskett’s patient cymbals lead the crowd back to earth on “Joker and the Thief.”  Stockdale tells the Dylan-inspired allegory with lyrics so confident, he could have been shouting them from a spire.  As their strongest track, it showcases “Kashmir”-like hooks whilst Stockdale masturbates the bridge of his guitar.

“Woman” completed the power set with a confident impression that this band was legitimate but with one inexplicable act —Stockdale throwing his guitar into the amplifier (a pitiful effort of mock defiance) — revealed the parody of arena rock Wolfmother was trying to emulate.  Up until that point, they almost had me.  With the crescent moon over my head, the warm night breeze on my back, and the fog of sensimilla in my lungs, the lure of the power chord enraptured me.  But, all goodwill dissipated into hackneyed staleness in a move so clichéd it’s scripted in the instructional manual of every Les Paul beginner guitar kit.   It was as if Stockdale succumbed to the immature obnoxiousness of the mosh pitting crowd.  The question mark of Wolfmother’s currency hung in the air as long as its D-scale reverb.

Now, I do not begrudge the feedback-heavy arena rock chords of the mid-70s, but along the way of thoroughly enjoying this Aussie act I could not help except envision Spinal Tap on stage replete with midgets dancing around a miniature of Stonehenge.  Like all retro bands, Wolfmother coalesces around the best the past had to offer, like the scream of Ozzie Osborne and Nazareth (who in turn ripped it from Robert Plant), the galloping lead guitars of Iron Maiden, and the buzzing of Deep Purple.  However, after listening the question lingers on if Wolfmother gives themselves enough room to grow or will be perpetually cast as a Led Zeppelin tribute band. 

If only the Dungeon Masters showed up.  They always add an air of legitimacy to every gathering.