On the cusp of brilliance, this band just need to increase their reserves of chutzpah, audacity and shameless life sparkle to achieve the kind of stellar success that they dream of.
Looking like Sacha Baron Cohen with Anthony Kiedis’s hair and Marc Bolan’s makeup, singer and feisty frontman Jason Guy leads his team into battle – but he needs to grasp that nettle (and shriek with the pain of it) if he really wants our hearts to sing and our crotches to smoulder. I bet you he really screams out one helluva dynamic performance, if he puts his mind to it – but tonight the arrogance and the attitude is somehow missing. A flattish ‘Get it On’ (T.Rex) was, however, fun and welcoming and the punters at The Hob Staines lapped it all up.
Weyward guitar comes from the nimble fingers of Korush Mahdavieh, and his savagely cruel, slinky, splashing she-cat guitar sounds. Licks are so cool yet so fiery that they put flames into the bone and freeze-dry the balls all at the same time. The mouths of the excited audience froth with enjoyment as the band plays superb little numbers like the new Stonesy stoner “I Went Down’ with its architectural blues, or ‘Mikes Song’ with its refreshing slices of teasingly acidic guitar over a bluesy thumping rump of a bass/drum back-beat. Maybe the sick coyote-howls of guitar could have been smarter – wilier – but generally the quality of blues guitar from both Korush and Mike Magnussen (on rhythm) was fine and dandy. Bass (James Collyer) was also formidably good – with its muddy roots and sooty dark soul firmly planted in those damp Mississippi banks. One could almost smell the catfish gut. And drums (Alex Gray) were crisp, bright and sinful.
My only criticism is that this kinda music – perched midway between the rock blues of The Black Crowes and the sleaze of Rattlesnake Remedy – must be performed with more sneer … more arrogant rut. In fact, it ought to be performed with a hell-bent attitude leading towards growling hysteria. But, that said, driving tunes like “Go Go” with those thrumming drilling rhythms and gummy guitars licked with a hot pepper paste of slimy, sinewy vocals or that crowd pleasing conclusion to the gig – a right royal slug of brilliant “T.N.T.” – made for an enjoyable and lucid experience and the crowd just loved it.
A bit later Jason later told me he was fighting a bad attack of influenza – so that is may be why the performance lacked a bit of lustre.
Weyward Chile is an exciting band from those muddy groves of sleazy Southern Rock. Best after a double dose of Southern Comfort and a hot chick in a string-vest at your side. Tasty!