British glam rockers The Darkness have a big thing for trash. In the tradition of prime Mott the Hoople or The Sweet, the band—in particular, vocalist/guitarist Justin Hawkins—loves to get down and dirty, and then wallow in it.
Oddly, the band's dedication to no-holds-barred hedonism has the professionalism that, say, Aerosmith lacks with the spontaneity that Queen could never muster. But The Darkness and Hawkins are more than just playing a role and putting on a good show; these guys are into essence. In short, this band is really a big, sloppy, loud, gob of saucy fun.
The new album, Hot Cakes, has a blunt tip-off of where it's headed right before the first chorus of the first song, the autobiographical "Every Inch of You." Up to his neck in churning guitars and a den of bottomless percussion, Hawkins cuts through the noise with his bloodcurdling shriek to "SUCK MY COCK!!!" Obviously, these guys couldn't give a damn about subtlety or elegance.
Still, "Every Inch of You" fits right in with the best of the group's previous two albums, Permission to Land and One Way Ticket to Hell ... and Back (2003 and 2005, respectively) with brazen distinctive hooks, guitars and percussion slopped on top of one another like a stack of syrup-drenched pancakes; Hawkins' banshee wail; and a furious propulsion reminiscent of the business end of an out-of-control Mack truck.
"Nothing's Gonna Stop Us" is a giddy, brutal, careening, unstoppable upper of a rave-up while "Everybody have a Good Time" is pure pop-sludged up with walls of dirty guitars. Connoisseurs of metal could bitch that the song is too poppy but who cares? Hot Cakes and especially "Everybody have a Good Time" and "Every Inch of You" are so delirious, goofy, good-natured and infectious that you can't care what variety of music it is.
The Darkness' near-sold-out show at The Vic was, well—how do you put this delicately?—the kind of show where you would expect wet panties from both genders to get flung on the stage by the pound. Yes, Hawkins wore a clingy black-and-white striped patent leather jumper zipped a full three inches below his navel (or, rather in the tradition of Peter Berlin, the jumper wore him). And, yes, he took full advantage of the outfit to demonstrate his precise ass-slinging finesse. I can't tell you if the man is gay (his refusal to say in the press has given the band a queer following) or if he just practices in front of the mirror in airtight Speedos. But as a seasoned gay man who has experienced male booty in all its glorious flavors I have to admit that I wanted him like no one that I've seen in years.
Hawkins, of course, wasn't the half of it; onstage The Darkness resembles nothing less then a virtual three-ring circus. Guitarist Dan Hawkins, Justin's brother, was all business, doling out solos with muscle, rock-star machismo and blunt force. Bassist Frankie Poullain, with his stoic poodle cut, anchored the stage with his physical stance. With his legs apart, knees bent and feet encased in an oversized pair of cowboy boots with the toes pointed inward, the man looked like a rhythmic Rock of Gibraltar.
As a band that celebrates hard glam rock 'n' roll, The Darkness kept the show stripped-down and basic: no pyrotechnics, fog machines, light shows, hydraulics, sequins or dancers. The show was all beat, breath, swagger and charm with a set list loaded with one hard rock raver after another: "One Way Ticket to Hell," "Friday Night," "Get Your Hands Off my Woman," and "I Believe in a Thing called Love." Ballads? They didn't bother since obviously they had decided that this was not that kind of show.
Of course, having Justin Hawkins as a frontman made it damn near impossible to care about glam-rock cliches from another era. Alternately impish, coy and mocking, Hawkins found it hard to take anything seriously. It didn't matter if he was doing prolonged headstands at the drum riser, cracking jokes about the ingredients of a fan's fresh vomit ("At least they were a vegan ... I can see some carrots and some peas and some..."), joking about his pre-rehab drug days or spontaneously climbing off the stage into the balcony, to him, it was all a great big joyride—which was, well, appropriate.
