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Kick Out the Jams

The Vines at the House

of Blues, March 28

Listen up, all you would-be scenesters: Arriving fashionably late doesn't always pay off. Case in point: You drag ass getting to the House of Blues on a Friday, and when you finally arrive, you're immediately assailed by a chorus of "Dude, you should've seen The Music. They wail!" (Or some other equally noncommittal refrain of the disinterested).

Fortunately, all is not lost--not with the looming arrival of the industry-anointed leaders of the international garage-rock revival (otherwise known as The Attack of the Plural Nouns): Sydney, Australia's The Vines. Fronted by stoner luminary Craig Nicholls, The Vines promise serious rock for serious listeners. After all, "I don't want to be a rock star, I want to be an artist" is Nicholls' mantra, his Rodney Dangerfield-esque ("I don't get no respect") cry for creative legitimacy. In fact, Nicholls would have us believe that he is the tortured artist for the new millennium, the post-Cobainian answer to pop music's dearth of somber gravity. This, of course, from the angst-ridden soul whose daddy is an executive for Sony Music, who claims David Spade's Joe Dirt had a significant impact on his life, who professes a profound love for Tony Hawk and Coca-Cola and whose roadies monitor the condition of his bong water. Sheesh, it's a wonder he isn't paralyzed by his rage.

Somehow, though, he manages to compel himself out of his malaise, taking the stage to the deafening screech of tiny-teed teens and properly trimmed punks. Warbling against a seizure-inspiring background of strobe lights, Nicholls flails through the expected fare: "Get Free," "Outtathaway!" and "Autumn Shade"--all the while wrestling with his guitar strap and unsettling the rest of the band with his erratic bounds and impulsive windmills. Highlights of the show include "Mary Jane" (if nothing but for the chuckle at the thinly veiled reefer reference) and The Vines' three-song encore, which culminates in an unexpectedly vigorous rendition of "Highly Evolved."

Still, even after a deluge of $6 cocktails, Nicholls' concluding tantrum--during which he smashes down drummer Hamish Rosser's cymbals and hurls his guitar against the bass drum--feels forced (especially since you know this is a nightly ritual). And after the show, you are regaled by declarations of The Music's superiority, exclamations that make you kick yourself for having that extra cocktail and circling the parking structure in a futile quest for the ideal spot. But at least you learned your lesson: Never show up late for a show when the headliner is an overhyped pothead masquerading as a haunted art rocker. You never know when that might come in handy.--Newt Briggs