The Datsuns, The D4 at Crow Bar

By GRAHAM REID

Two nights before the Big Day Out and it doesn't come much better than this: small-town hero bands who are cracking it in parts famous and foreign decide to play a small club together because, "We've got a night off and you've got a night off".

And this was a night that went off and ended in a maelstrom of bodies, a crashing drum kit, a celebrity collision on the tiny "stage" and the line blurred between bands and fans.

Not that there was much room for the bands at Crow Bar downstairs off Wyndham St. The venue had cleared a space not much larger than your bathroom for these two white-heat bands to deliver their brand of garageband rock grounded equally in metal and punk.

This was short-hair rock'n'roll (played by long hairs in the case of the Datsuns) where the chords sometimes threatened to slip into Thin Lizzy or AC/DC and at other times slewed into visceral Sex Pistols thrash. It was brilliant, whatever it was, and in the cramped atmosphere where the ceiling is life-threateningly low for a guitarist who jumps on drumkit this had all the elements of a classic gig.

Someone in my hearing said it must have felt like this when the Stones played those small clubs in '63 and you were there as history was being made. At the end of the night, to acknowledge the rare occasion, punters were given their laminated invitations back as a memento. Mine's on the fridge for all to see and envy.The Datsuns kicked off in typical fashion, lifting from Cheap Trick ("Good evening ladies and gentlemen, would you like to do a number with me?") then drilled their well-oiled machine through MF from Hell and onwards. Their rock'n'roll appeal to jaded Northern Hemisphere audiences is obvious: here's a band which has played this stuff hundreds of times (you don't get quite that good otherwise) and yet manages to make their disciplined, raucous rock sound like a joyous discovery. It was as if whatever it was they were aiming for had suddenly clicked and they couldn't believe their luck so just went for it. Lost in music indeed.

Those at the front received a fair old flaying from flying hair.

Up next, the D4 delivered with the same throat-abusing passionate intensity, tossed in something new, improvised a bit when drummer Beaver lost his way due to overuse of a bar tab (but recovered form brilliantly after an on-the-job massage), and at the end invited on the Datsuns to destroy Savage with them. By then the digital cameras and flash bulbs were working overtime, the D4's Dion was playing guitar behind his head in the faces of the glowing front row, bodies were bouncing off walls and the floor, and the small audience was living out that part of the rock'n'roll dream which ends up as more than just a memento on the fridge.

Nope, this was nothing like seeing the Stones play a small club at the start of their career. This was better. It was two fully formed bands peaking, making a terrific rock'n'roll racket, and thoroughly enjoying themselves in the company of friends and fans and people who wish them well at today's Big Day Out and into the great hereafter.

And these bands deserve a great hereafter - because when they do it, they deliver such a thrilling present.