The Datsuns Crowbar Sydney review – there’s sweat on the walls at Crowbar, the kind that doesn’t belong to anyone in particular, just the room itself, breathing, pulsing, overheating like an engine pushed past redline. This is how it’s supposed to be. Rock music in a pub in Australia, no velvet ropes, no polite distance, just bodies and noise grinding together until something sparks.
First up, Avalanche don’t so much open as detonate. Four-piece, Western Sydney, no apologies and no brakes. They hit like a stolen car doing 120 through a suburban street, all corners taken too fast, amps screaming like sirens. Veronica ‘V’ Campbell is the ignition point, stepping into the crowd mid-set, peeling off a solo that feels less performed than unleashed, strings bending like metal under pressure. It’s fast, it’s loud, and it leaves the room looking like it’s been sideswiped.
By the time The Datsuns take the stage, the place is already running hot, but they don’t cool it down, they stomp the accelerator through the floor. These guys don’t age, they idle in some permanent state of combustion. From the first riff, it’s all pistons firing, a garage rock engine tuned somewhere between Detroit grit and Kiwi menace.
Christian Livingstone grips the mic like it owes him money, Phil Somervell hammers out rhythm like a mechanic fixing something by breaking it harder, while Dolf de Borst and Adam Lindmark lock in like a drivetrain built for destruction. It’s tight, but not polite, everything rattling just enough to remind you this thing could fall apart at any second, but never does.
They tear through the catalogue like they’re flipping gears without a clutch, early scorchers still burning, newer cuts snarling with fresh teeth. It’s all Stooge-soaked grime and powerpop crunch, hooks sharp enough to draw blood, riffs that don’t just land, they collide.
And somewhere in the middle of it, you realise this isn’t nostalgia. This isn’t a band revisiting a past life. This is a machine that never stopped running, just disappeared down a different road for a while before roaring back into view, louder, dirtier, still hell for leather.
No frills, no safety checks, no slowing down. Just rock music doing exactly what it’s supposed to do: shaking the bolts loose, in a pub.
Images Deb Pelser
