Amyl And The Sniffers

Cardiff Clwb Ifor Bach

Antipodean charmers unleash hand-medown beast.

Rock fashions come and go, but Australia’s Amyl And The Sniffers have grasped the universal truth that the gloriously dumb thrill of hollering, headbanging gutter-punk primitivism will never die. Fronted by kick-ass singer Amy Taylor, this mullet-haired Melbourne quartet make a knowingly retro racket that is both a parody and celebration of garage rock’s golden age, especially the Australian “pub punk” scene of the late seventies. Punchy singalong chants like GFY (Go Fuck Yourself) and Shake Ya are hardly subtle, but two-minute shotgun blasts of sweaty, shouty, sweary excitement is the band’s forte.

Taylor radiates a kind of hilarious loose-cannon charisma, channelling prime-time Joan Jett and Debbie Harry at times, but with some of the high-wire mania of Iggy Pop and Johnny Rotten too. On the downside, the Sniffers currently have a limited stylistic range which could become more of a liability as they graduate to bigger venues. Some critics have also questioned their cartoonish image as a problematic caricature of beery, boorish, working-class life. True or not, it scarcely matters when they play this music with such obvious affection, energy and humour. As Jason Williamson of Sleaford Mods observed, “at least they look like they’re scum instead of pretending they are”. Sometimes the best kind of compliment is one that feels like a punch in the face.