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.   

It could have started better. For me, I mean, rather than Frankie. While waiting for my tickets at the box office I became quite excited recounting a story to my friend, with much laughing and fist-waving to animate my point. What I didn’t realise was that mid fist-wave Frankie was standing next to me waiting to go upstairs. What followed, after what must have looked to Frankie like an overenthusiastic show of support or a wanking gesture, was him waving his fist at me in return and a bemused look from both of us.

   Not the most conventional start to a gig.

   Apparently going for the front row was a severe misjudgement. In a theatre of 54 seats I had predicted a stampede for the front row that resembled the onslaught of the Orcs of Mordor. As it was, me and my friend were two of the grand total of four brave souls in the front row. Even when there were sure to be no more seats in the back rows, people created more seats. By the time I had realised the consequences of my mistake it was too late and I had become a waiting victim of peoples’ fear.

   ‘Oh, it’s my stalkers,’ Frankie said upon coming out, by which point I was sat so far off the edge of my seat I was performing a semi-sexual assault on my friend. It was no more than my naïve enthusiasm deserved.

   Recounting gags serves no purpose when this gig was only a warm-up for what is reported to be his last ever stand-up tour, though I suspect he might have made a snap judgement of the audience and toned it down by 20%. His remark of, “You must be the (insert suitably condescending word here) audience I’ve ever seen, but don’t worry, I’ll work past your mental and social barriers” confirmed my theory.

   Whereas I could have had an entire hour of Baby P and Holocaust material, there were also a fair amount of laughs that had no edge of shock. Frankie himself was typically unceremonious in his delivery, dressed in a zipped hoodie and carrying a clipboard with fascinating bullet points on them such as:

• ET’s balls
• Kramer vs. Kramer, a touching account of a father fighting for custody of his son

And so on…

   There was also much recounting of gags that hadn’t made it past the producers of Mock The Week, which made it easier to see why he views TV as so restrictive. One of the examples of Bad Things To Say At A Dinner Party that unsurprisingly didn’t make it on air was, “Well, as we’re all here…who’s looking after Madeleine?”

   I laughed. I laughed until I almost cried. Compared to the overly-discussed (and uncannily accurate) Rebecca Adlington comment that the UK media was calling for him to apologise for, these were not only more offensive, but genuinely funnier.

   The atmosphere is undeniably tense though, and I got the impression that was exactly how he wanted it. He has a disturbing knack for choosing someone in the front rows (which was me on more than a few occasions) to maintain eye-contact with during the build-up to a grim punch-line. It was yet another reason why running for front row is something I won’t be doing again in a hurry.

   It did however, convince me that this tour, whether it is his last or not, is going to be well worth the money. He remains the master of innovative, intelligent and fearless comedy. Roll on June and the feature-length gig, where I’ll probably confirm his first impression of me as a stalker.