It’s not like me to review the same band twice in a row, but there is a reason behind my fangirling.

   “Are they still going?” was the question that followed almost every mention of going to see Jet. Almost as frequent was this exchange, recounted verbatim:

   “Who are Jet?”

   “You know, Are You Gonna Be My Girl?”

   “Oh yeah! God, are they still going?”

   My favourite remark came in the amused and slightly condescending dismissal of the band with, “Jet, haha brilliant! So retro!”

   Having learnt the back catalogue crash course-style in the week since rediscovering them at Portugal’s Optimus Alive festival, the week preceding their only UK date before disappearing back to Australia, I find these questions harder and harder to comprehend. Not least because Are You Gonna My Girl?, the song that propelled them into mainstream consciousness, has been far surpassed by their later musical output.

   I’ve speculated for longer than the dilemma probably warranted, but it remains a source of bafflement to me that Jet have managed to stray into obscurity in the UK, especially after the experience of seeing them live outside a festival setting.

   Opening with a snarling That’s All Lies, the tone of the gig was set. Retro it was, but in the best of ways. At the front amongst the pogoing the atmosphere was more reminiscent of a 70s punk gig, raw with aggression and resulting in much bruising from over-exciting jumping.

   The set list was nicely split between the three albums. Highlights included the monstrous Black Hearts (On Fire), seeing the venue’s crowd-surfing ban pushed to the max and frontman Nic Cester smouldering his way through the lyrics. La Di Da proved an unlikely touching singalong, and the outrageous tidal wave of riffs that is Start The Show was played ironically in the encore. 

   Nic played his part to perfection, swaggering with Godlike arrogance and his vocals alternating between a combustible growl and deranged screaming. His love for demanding a bit of audience participation apparently never gets old either, judging by Seventeen and Beat On Repeat.

   Meanwhile drummer Chris Cester, also on backing vocals, attacked his drum-kit with the intensity of an unhinged vigilante pulverising a floored mugger. The effect was too big for Shepherds Bush, and only served to reinforce the question of, why aren’t they bigger?

   Are You Gonna Be My Girl? inspired its expected spree of head banging and shouty-pointing from the crowd, and songs like Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is, Hey Kids, and Walk have choruses made for stadiums. Songs with less impact and similar appeal have achieved that in the past (Arctic Monkeys, anyone?), and with much less stage presence and charisma to back them up. So why not Jet?

   There are a few theories that carry weight. One, that they are Australian and therefore not taken inherently seriously by the rock ‘n’ roll aficionados governing UK airplay. Two, that Are You Gonna Be My Girl?, while so incredibly successful at making their name, with a tune that is played in introductions and adverts to this day, became their downfall in the eyes of the UK music Press. They ‘sold-out’, or became ‘too commercial’ or ‘mainstream’; all these words and phrases now so commonly used with fashionable distain.

   Whatever the explanation it’s a sad conundrum. Far from the gimmick that the UK’s knowledge of them makes them out to be, Jet are a fantastic and truly underrated rock ‘n’ roll band. Capable of far more than walls of noise and catchy riffs, their songs range from the grandiose to the gritty; wryly comical (“There is good and there is better/Just like imitation leather”, courtesy of Beat On Repeat), uplifting, raw, anthemic, intelligent, and simple, the best examples of which are sadly not given half of the credit they deserve.

   Come back soon, Jet. I do hope that one day we’ll be ready for you.   

I’ve never liked support bands. Even when they’ve been support bands I’ve liked, I’ve never liked support bands. Bands that are on before my preferred band on a festival bill count as a support band. They tend to serve nothing more than a better (though this is often not the case…) way to pass the time than staring morosely at a drum-kit and backdrop while supporting myself on the barrier because I no longer have the will to stand up straight.

   Jet were, at first, in the unfortunate position of being such a band. Two bands on before the Manics at Optimus Alive Festival in Portugal, I hadn’t even fully recovered from the sprint to the barrier in temperatures of over thirty-five degrees.

(For those of you who don’t know or can’t remember who Jet are, think “Dum dum dum du-du-dum da-da-da duh-duh-duh-da-da-duh-duh So, one two three take my hand and come with me because you look so fine and I really wanna make you mine!” Yes, that was the only song I knew of theirs too.)

   A vague memory of owning one album while only knowing one song at the age of sixteen was all I had to make me interested. Then they came onstage.

   It was symptomatic of my ignorance of them post-2006 that I was surprised at Are You Gonna Be My Girl? being played in the middle of the set. Why would they play their best song before the end? I thought. Turns out, to my surprise, that it isn’t their best song. Not by far.

   Vocalist and rhythm guitarist Nic Cester has benefited massively from cutting his hair, not least because his stage presence (which he has in excess) is now reinforced by the realisation that he is very, very attractive. The squeal of, “Ooh, the singer’s cute!” to my right confirmed my theory. He also has the perfect (almost to the point of rock parody) voice for this style of music.

   She’s A Genius was the song I could still hum afterwards and that I could sing along to after one chorus. It’s an exemplary song as far as gritty rock goes, with a riff that goes straight to your elbows and seems to demand a Michael Stipe-esque dance*. Rip It Up also ranked high in the singalong ranks. Black Hearts (and I must admit Youtube and Wikipedia have aided me in discovering what these songs were actually called) had the same effect, but with a great melody to match. There are countless chants here, made for a mass clap-along.

   By the end of the set I was genuinely sorry to see them leave the stage, which they did to a residue chant from their moment of audience participation during the catchy, but oddly moving, Seventeen. Their set had been such an unexpected jolt of fun that I had even failed to notice the festival photographers taking many shots of me gazing up at the stage, with the sort of smile on my face that made me look like I was on day release and had lost my medication…

   I don’t know enough about them to write an informed and Q-worthy review, yet reviewing them I am. Upon returning from Portugal after the end of the festival the first thing I did was check what UK dates they were playing. I have nothing to convey, nothing of journalistic worth, apart from total over-excitement in the realisation that a band I had forgotten about have not only been rediscovered, but have become rather brilliant in the years that passed. 

   If you, like me, have the opening riff of Are You Gonna Be My Girl? imprinted in your mind until the end of humanity, you will be surprised at how far they have come since. If you, like me, love uplifting, dirty and raw rock ‘n’ roll, buy Shaka Rock and I can guarantee you will not be disappointed.

* I feel the need to add, as a disclaimer, that this may be because I was on the barrier and therefore unable to move anything but my arms and my head…

So it transpires that football isn’t the only thing that the Portuguese are superior at. Music festivals can also be added to the (somewhat extensive) list.

   Optimus Alive festival is a three-day heavy rock affair in Alges, up-town Lisbon. The line-up was a failsafe combination of Florence & The Machine, Kasabian, Manic Street Preachers, Pearl Jam, Deftones, Faith No More, Jet and LCD Soundsystem. The temperature wasn’t predicted to drop below thirty degrees. There was going to be free Iced Tea. I was sold.

   So frequently in the UK festivals are much more enjoyable in advance than in the grim mud-soaked, piss-stained, beer-saturated reality. Festivals such as Glastonbury and T in the Park, costing around £200 per ticket, have gone from being lairy gatherings of over-excited music lovers to magnets for every wannabe indie kid and irritant poser under the age of 20. Those who would be content with taking amphetamines with WKD in a field for five days without seeing a single band are in the vast majority. No matter how good the line-up, I find it hard to concentrate on the immense experience of the music past the near-uncontrollable urge to line the rest of the crowd up against a wall and shoot them with air guns.

   Enter the foreign festival. Enter Optimus Alive.

   Firstly, it’s unbelievably clean. Even on the third day, pre-Pearl Jam, on a Saturday, when the queues for the portaloos (which were really more like clever portable communal bathrooms) demanded a fifteen-minute wait, they were nothing less than spotless and full of clean toilet paper. Seeing Pearl Jam without having to attempt the notorious “hover” manoeuvre to avoid syphilis, was mind-blowing.

   Secondly, the people were awesome. I mean genuinely awesome. The people who you would seek out at parties. That no one was visibly paralytic and/or throwing glasses of their own urine over parts of the crowd was instantly a step up from previous British experiences. But everyone I met while there had brilliant stories of musical escapades to tell; Madrid to see Bon Jovi, Rome to see U2, a row of Deftones fans racing Manics fans to the main stage barrier. Great scenes.

   The atmosphere is electric but never tips over into aggressiveness. Seeing siblings looking after their eleven-year-old brother near the back of the main stage whilst sipping pints of beer during Pearl Jam was particularly touching. At the front it was lairy but self-contained; even the mosh-pits were exhilarating rather than a desperate struggle to keep your femurs intact.

   It’s romantic, maybe naïve, to want British festivals to retain this sense of fun, this sense of wonder, without the cheap posturing and exhibitionism. But at least there’s always the chance to go overseas, which, when the combined cost of both the flight and weekend ticket comes to less than a Glastonbury or Reading/Leeds ticket alone, is a lot more affordable than you’d think.

   Lisbon, Germany, Spain, even Belgium. They all beat the British festivals in this Champions League.

Toulouse didn’t sell itself well. From the moment I arrived to about four hours before doors the rain poured solidly, almost mockingly. Also the venue, Le Bikini, doesn’t appear to live up to its glamorous title, being situated in the middle of a largely deserted industrial estate full of nothing but warehouses and a very conspicuous Mexican Grill. Also, this gig is cursed.

   No really, it is. The first time Kasabian were due to play here the gig was cancelled a week before the event for no publicised reason. The second time the gig was cancelled an hour before the event due to three members of the band suffering from seafood-induced food poisoning in Marseilles.

   So third time lucky then?

   Queuing was a solemn and short affair. Two hours before doors I was worrying whether the four people there would turn out to be the extent of the crowd; such was the conviction of the French that this gig was destined to never take place. But after the very shakiest of starts Toulouse produced the most wild, jovial, enthusiastically-singing crowd of the European tour. Where they all came from, I don’t know. Maybe they were all hiding in the warehouses?

   The band matched the crowd’s stellar form, despite Tommy’s…shirt. Also despite a set list that was cut annoyingly short compared to other dates, they still managed to fit in the expected (Empire, Underdog, Club Foot, Fire, and a stomping version of Vlad The Impaler that saw Serge on his back, writhing on the floor of the stage playing the outro) and the unexpected (the return of the mighty Reason “K-I-L-L!!!” Is Treason).

   Serge, usually inclined to stand away from his microphone with his head down and his customary “Don’t look at me. No, really, do not look at me” expression, spent most of the gig dancing, stamping, pouting, and on the floor. I suspect alcohol may have played a part but I am not complaining because, due to his burst of hyperactivity, he handed me his set list.

   Tommy was quieter than usual, but then most things would look subdued next to his…shirt. I jest. He was also on good terms with the front rows, grabbing people’s hands, winking and executing some very Roger Daltrey-esque whirls of his microphone.

   One suspects this is the last leg of the West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum tour, and this instantly begs the question, where now? “African groove”, “sexual groove” and “middle east” are the phrases that have appeared in the Press so far. But whether they come from Serge or from uninformed speculation has been unclear.

   For a fan it means the excruciating division of opinion: on the one hand too much success will spell the end of all this, the chats at stage door, the small venues, the barrier within touching distance of the stage, the winks, the smiles, the elements aside from the music that made us fall in love from the front row. With success come stadiums, high stages, miles of barrier, and a distance between the band and the fans that can hardly ever be reversed. On the other hand, to wish for a sub-standard album would be unthinkable.

   Whatever happens, at least we have the gigs like Toulouse. That’s enough for now.  

There will be a review here soon, of Lady Gaga at the Cardiff CIA, maybe even in the next day or so if I’m on form. It puts into perspective how hard writing can be, how limiting your own language is, when you can’t find any word to describe how mindblowing, how spectacular, how iconic, and how inhuman in her performing perfection Lady Gaga really is. There are no words, just a pang of genuine sadness that I’ll probably never witness another gig like that again, worry that someone who burns so strongly and so brightly can’t persist at her momentum, nostalgia that would be more fitting for Woodstock or Live Aid, and bewilderment, wonder at how something could fall to earth with such talent.

   The Madonna comparisons are shown up to be lazy and uninformed. Her influences such as David Bowie and Freddie Mercury are far more fitting. Lady Gaga, in every sense, is the Spider From Mars. She is Lady Stardust. She is the spirit of hundreds and thousands of people clapping in time to Radio Gaga in 1985.

   There will be a review here, but consider this a pre-review, a reaction, a desperate need to expel the effects of last night onto a page without regards for cohesion or order.

   There will be words. Later. But I may have to invent new ones.