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Review: The Smith Street Band @ Solbar 29/3/24

March 31, 20245 min read

Photo by Ben Russoniello: A female fan watches The Smith Street Band.

It’s quiet on the Ocean Street strip with the majority of Maroochydore’s bars closed for the Good Friday midnight curfew.

But it’s packed to the rafters at a sold-out Solbar, with fans eagerly lining up to see The Smith Street Band.

The Aussie rockstars are in town celebrating their 15th anniversary. And by the energy of the people in this room, it’s unsurprising their show sold out.

Chamber Lane give performance of their life

In a faded pink Cruiser hat that he paid $40 for, Connor Hanson is a true entertainer. He makes endless witty quips between sets, while his bandmates prove they are excellent at seducing the crowd.

The boys are well-loved on the Coast, and their fanatical groupies sing each song word-for-word.

Chamber Lane rip through their set, with new single “Say Something” catching a few extra feels. While crowd-pleaser “4pm” brings the high-energy momentum.

But not before an epic guitar battle ensues between Connor and bass player Josiah. They go back-to-back on their knees, and it’s evident these guys are having an absolute gas on stage.

They finish off with crowd-favourite, “Liana”, and by this stage the drummer’s shirt is long gone. And the guitarist wingmen are basically making love to the crowd.

Feedback from punters after the show proved Chamber Lane is about to take flight into major-league, punk-lord airspace. And they should be stoked with that performance.

A beautiful toxic masculine mess

They are the quintessential beer-loving, footy-worshiping, punk-rock Aussie bogans.

And they just so happen to make really fucking good music.

Decked out in a pair of black Dunlop Volleys, frontman Wil Wagner appears with his famous, fluffy man-bun.

Planted carelessly atop his head, it has a performance of its own the entire night. And when Wil’s mane takes centre stage he receives a massive roar.

The stage is flanked in symbologies of woke-ism, and just like that Melbourne has officially entered the chat.

The Smith Street Band make songs for the lads and the ladies who resonate.

They’ve made a living from gigging and touring the globe for 15 years, through regional music halls and across international stages.

There’s been controversy, a public break up, legal threats, and a very real suicide attempt.

Wil openly sings about his wounds and we’re here for it.

There’s no mucking around as they pelt out hit after hit, singing about love, break-ups, and surviving it all with Lexapro.

It’s all there: raw, vulnerable, and loaded with tear-soaked notes atop anthemic, beer-fuelled riffs.

Life after football

Wil gives a shoutout to his mother-in-law Rhonda who lives locally and is babysitting the new Wagner cub.

This moment serves as a seasonal reminder that behind every dark cloud, a silver lining awaits. It proves there really is a “Life After Football”.

But for now, I’m in the thick of a fist-pumping, male-dominated crowd, which reeks of sweat, BO and vape juice.

It’s patriotic, visceral, and bordering on agressive.

In these moments I take two steps back. Yet a part of me wishes I was still an alcoholic so I could just get amongst it and noogie all those bastards.

Not a feminist in sight

Ah the irony when “Death to the Lads” plays and a drunken mosh-meets-footy-field-scrum explodes.

Shirts off. Aggressive, albeit happy, punks.

There’s not a feminist in sight. And it’s wonderful.

I stand back and smile at this beautiful toxic masculine mess.

Before we know it the lights are on – no encore required – and a satiated crowd is revealed making a mass exit.

As I wait for my friend outside, I see Wil leaving the venue among a sea of his own fans, who are walking out a bit wonkier than when they walked in.

He’s hiding under a white towel Rocky Balboa-style, stopping only for a few photos for those who recognise him.

Before I can get too close to the ringside champion, Wil politely says he has to run, disappearing into a deserted street.

Probably his turn for the night feed.

Oh, how times have changed.

All photos by Ben Russoniello of Green Room Media.

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