The Chats / Chubby & The Gang / Dennis Cometti – Belfast, Limelight, 23rd March 2022

For a midweek only-just-creeping-out-of-COVID-restrictions show in Belfast, the Limelight is heaving. It’s a testament to the city’s indomitable spirit that there is such an upbeat and soon-to-be-raucous crowd for this feast of mostly antipodean shed rock.

I can’t tell you what a relief it is that Dennis Cometti is not a wistful, lightly-bearded sensitive young man with songs about not being worthy or good enough. That said, it’s hardly likely such an artiste would find themselves fronting up for The Chats. The eponymous Dennis is a three-piece punk band who declare themselves to be from Australia. That they’re Australian is instantly without question: they’re wearing Australian Rules football vest tops and very short shorts. And mullets. Not flowing 80s mullets but straggly, and in one case Paul Calfian bowl cut, rugby mullets. Don’t be fooled, however, by this lighthearted and idiosyncratic approach to stagewear. Dennis Cometti rock like absolute bastards. It’s a simple methodology: urgent, singalong slabs of thunderous, melodic three-chord punk. It’s fast and often furious yet underlined with a slightly unsettling humour. Ramones-y if you will, not complex but affecting short, sharp punk outbursts that hark back to 1976.

Next up it’s Chubby And The Gang, from Lahndahn, who bring a powerful evocation of the energy of Iggy Pop and the New York Dolls to the contemporary punk scene. There are also echoes of Sham 69 in their thunderous and socially-charged racket. But it is a glorious racket, loud and angry. Charlie Manning-Walker is an engaging and highly charged frontman, passionate about delivering his fire and vitriol. He’s rarely still and there’s an intensity to the whole band that is invigorating. If there’s a downside of this performance, it’s the perennial support band sound mix issue that detracted a bit from the overall experience.

Having been primed by Dennis Cometti, Aussie scallywags The Chats come as no surprise to this audience. While their intensity seems throwaway and disdainful, there’s a lot more going on musically than it appears. There are hints of early Green Day in their melodic approach, or even that rough version of Lemonheads before Evan Dando found the polish. What sets The Chats aside from these antecedents, however, is their relentless dedication to celebrating the grimly ordinary, Specifically, the Australian experience. In their focus on the minutiae of Australian grub life there is a black humour.

Their palette is one of greasy food, smoke breaks, drinking and the clap, Onstage, they’re simultaneously seething and funny. It’s like watching a super-talented toddler having a brilliantly eloquent tantrum. Nothing adds up. None of this should work. But it does work, and brilliantly. And it’s over way too soon. The Chats have been having a laugh and so have we. But with them, not at them. No fucks given and a gloriously idiosyncratic contemporary punk masterclass.