LAST night of your biggest tour to date, full production, a couple more hits in the bag... you're going to pull out all the stops, right. So that means flashy props, an inflatable maybe - ah, but not just any inflatable. When your band is named - and seemingly obsessed with - an indigenous Aussie beast it has to be a giant blow-up wombat (called Douglas) that stares down from the balcony.
Said creature's appearance, complete with dramatic moon landing music, book-end a show that begins with an a cappella homage to the marsupial (not least band mascot and backline dweller Cherub) which lends them the band its name before a chord has be
en struck.
From then on it is business as usual, more substance over style, the unruly mop of the smart, witty and unassuming Matt Murphy dampened by the enthusiasm of a man at the top of his game, even if here it seems to be more about the rush of those spiky missives than the meaning; then again, the mouthing actions of fans suggests they've long absorbed these perky and observant little nuggets.
In spite of increasingly impressive chart credentials - Backfire At The Disco the latest hit / gig closer and chaser to the bounce-inciting Moving To New York and danceflooor hand-grenade Let's Dance To Joy Division - there's still an ever present sense of potential disaster accompanying this Liverpool trio. It's one that never materialises, though, as Murph, Tord and Dan are very well drilled these days, even when the former has to dodge an incoming trainer.
It all adds up to a tangible gale of euphoria and celebration shared by band and crowd. With Murph's hard-to-touch lyrical prowess and his band's contagious hooks, The Wombats are leaders of 2008's bright new pack and they can only get bigger.
David Dunn
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