Review Summary: How could I go home and not get blown away?
There is one prerequisite to fully appreciating
Circus Animals: the knowledge that Cold Chisel were the greatest touring rock band the Australian continent ever produced. It doesn’t matter what metric you want to use — live intensity, songwriting chops, band chemistry, alcohol consumption, or sheer dedication to the road dog lifestyle — Chisel were true masters of their craft, and
Circus Animals finds them perched at the top of their game.
Unlike countrymen AC/DC, who made a career out of having one song and rewriting it over and over, Chisel had at least three, and all of them come as close as they ever would to realising their Platonic ideal on
Circus Animals. Whether you’re looking for the definitive take on the progressive blues rock rager (“Bow River”), tenderhearted balladeering (“When the War is Over”), or the beat-skipping, barnstorming throat shredder (“You Got Nothing I Want”),
Circus Animals has enough spectacle, danger and incredulity to keep even the most jaded audience transfixed.
This isn’t to imply the other tracks that fill out
Circus Animals are any less worthwhile though. Elsewhere, the likes of the sinister snake-charmer’s slither of “Taipan”, the embittered wistfulness of “No Good For You” and the Janus-faced spiral into madness of “Letter to Alan” acrobatically turn these forms over and inside out, funambulating between the novel and the familiar with deftness and panache. There is not a bad song on
Circus Animals; each track ends up an essential counterweight on either side of Chisel’s death-defying balancing act.
At first blush, the most arresting part of Chisel’s show is vocalist Jimmy Barnes. Able to put his voice through hoops switching tout de suite between a tender Celtic lilt and a savage yet antithetically canorous howl, Barnes paces the ring like a fantastical combination of both the ringmaster and the exotic beast he purports to command. If Barnes is the standout performance of the night though, it’s only because of the rest of the band’s discipline in pulling back on individual displays of virtuosity to deliver a tightly synchronised, hair-raising routine; constantly raising the stakes and misdirecting the attention of the audience to set Barnes up for the inevitable payoff. When the spotlight does shine their way though, glimpses of guitarist Ian Moss’ thin, biting fretboard contortion and acrobatic vocal contributions, Phil Small’s bucking bull basslines, and the late Steve Prestwich’s veritable human cannonball routine on the drums are all enough to confirm that Chisel are indeed world class performers. Keyboardist Don Walker not only assumes principal songwriting duties, choreographing the show to bring out the best in each performer (seriously, just listen to how his chord voicings in “Bow River” seamlessly facilitate transitions between the perception of major and minor tonality), but also plays the role of resident fabulist, shading chiaroscuro tales of blue collar life in the tradition of the finest proletarian literature via his lyrical contributions.
Every Australian has a story about Cold Chisel, so relentless still is their hold on the national psyche. Mine is less than dignified: years ago, while on a break from working the merch desk for Australia’s most distinguished touring band, I stumbled into the restroom of a 15,000 person venue to find two middle aged men lying sideways against a urinal trough, relieving themselves while tunelessly belting the lyrics to the bluesy slow-burn Chisel were systematically dismantling the main stage with. Freezing for a second upon seeing me enter the room, they finally motioned for me to come over and join them in song.
Looking back, I’m struck by how well this memory serves as a microcosm for Chisel’s appeal. Often considered uncouth and philistine, the band’s unrefined image belied a warm humanism that ultimately tripped up every ventriloquist’s attempt to attribute to them jingoistic or xenophobic sympathies. Their commitment to depicting the sometimes harsh realities of life did not end at verisimilitude for the sake of art — Chisel, conscious of their place in the blues tradition, sought to provide an outlet for both celebration and commiseration for anyone game enough to leave their airs and graces at the ticket booth.
The title
Circus Animals might imply a sense of toothlessness and docility, but on this album, Cold Chisel sound anything but. Born of the frustration of failed attempts to crack an elusive overseas market and the dancing monkey monotony of playing the same radio hits night after night on the pub circuit,
Circus Animals was the moment Cold Chisel finally let themselves out of the cage, delivering one of Pub Rock’s crowning achievements in the process.
It’s not often these days that the rock ‘n’ roll circus comes to town, but if it does, make sure you get a ringside seat — you might just find
Circus Animals to be the greatest spectacle of pop-rock songwriting you could ever hope for.
