King Khan fucked up my holidays. I’d already had two weeks down in Mollymook booked well before that Canadian-born Berlin-based ex-Spaceshit of Indian descent announced his intention to haul his mega-band of soulful Germans (yes, believe it or not, there is such a thing, and The Shrines prove it) and their cheerleader down to Australia for the first time. But he’s the King, so I gotta do things his way, which meant the highway for me, lots of highway.

I spent a couple of days down the South Coast swimming and getting drunk on the beach then drove the three hours back to Sydney on the day of the show. Bringing a bad case of Swimmer’s Ear up with me, both ears were clogged full of thick yellow goo, I was to spend the evening trying to shake the feeling I was underwater. The Oxford Art Factory decor didn’t help…

I walk down the stairs of OAF and there’s a Brian Jonestown Massacre tribute band playing in the front bar (well, it’s not really a “front bar” in the real sense. More like the smaller of two aquariums). It strikes me that I’ve never seen a band with so many electric guitarists sound so quiet before. Yellow goo is even better than expensive earplugs.

I meet up with some friends and we head into the main room. At first there’s hardly anybody there, but without me really noticing, it fills up quick and there’s a sizable crowd on-hand to greet local boyz ‘n’ the hood Royal Headache.

I love Royal Headache and I’ll shout from the top of every mobile phone tower in town. What separates them from a squallion other garagey punky poppy bands is they actually write songs, killer songs, played with a megaton of energy and no trace of irony. What’s more, they’ve got a singer with a voice. And he ain’t afraid to spin its wheels.

Sitting cool behind his Coke bottle specs, drummer Shorty doesn’t give much away, keeping to himself as he keeps a constant beat. In contrast, guitar player Lawrence and bassist Joe make love eyes at one another from across the stage. Either they’re having the time of their young lives up there, or they will be when they hop in the sack together later on. Frontman Shogun is far from your quintessential rock star. Wearing a blue bomber jacket with the sleeves pushed up and pulling his usual array of jerky stage moves, he looks (as my mate Joe so eloquently points out) like a King’s Cross speed freak at karaoke.

While the impact of loud music is lost on me slightly due to the yellow goo, I can hear human voices especially clearly, even over the bands. This is a good way to hear just how fine a singer Shogun is. He doesn’t just reach for the glory, he gets there.

They run through a bunch of their tunes, including two of the stand-outs from their forthcoming R.I.P Society 7”, “Surprise” and “Girls”, and close with the mid-paced anthem “Honey Joy”. Shame the crowd is full of cool young fucks who don’t really ever get into anything, ever. The band deserves better.

The DJ is spinning “Taxman” as The Shrines stroll onto the stage, one after the other. After a clichéd James Brown-style intro from the guitarist, King walks out looking very regal and kinda pimp-ish, dressed in a white leopard skin coat and sporting a fancy feather headdress. Strumming the chords to “(How Can I Keep You) Outta Harms Way”, he exudes the same effortlessness evident in all his records. He could just as easily be down on Mollymook beach with a fancy cocktail in his hand as rocking the house.

The band is tight, but not so uptight that you’d pick ‘em as Germans if you didn’t know already.

Not as manic as say Rocket From The Crypt, or James Brown, they take a more laidback approach. It’s more like chilled-out psych soul rock, as opposed to dudes trying to blow the whole house down.

The cheergirl looks like a half-witted Eskimo who ate too much pudding. For all the jumping up and down and smiling like a simpleton, I’m not convinced she adds much to the show beyond the freak factor. Talk about excess baggage. Or let’s not.

The set includes plenty of crowd favourites like “Land of the Freak”, “Took My Lady to Dinner”, “I Wanna Be a Girl” and “Shivers Down My Spine”. At one point King makes a wisecrack about Australia loving Indians, obviously a reference to the spate of recent racist attacks on people of Indian descent in Melbourne, which makes everyone feel nice and uncomfortable for a few seconds.

Closing out the set, they take “Take a Trip” to the outer limits before offering up their own soul infused take on The Saints’ “Know Your Product”. Shamefully, a lot of the audience don’t seem to recognise it, so the place doesn’t go as mental as it should. Learn your history people, this is basic shit!

For an encore, King emerges in a pair of purple undies (still with headdress and cape) as the band serve up some weird variation on Suicide’s “Ghost Rider”, followed by the rockin’ “No Regrets” and a brand newie called “Yes I Can’t”.

The final tune, “Live Fast Die Strong”, degenerates into a Sun Ra-inspired schmozzle, the whole band pulling their best free jazz moves. King repeats the “Space Is The Place” mantra as chaos unfolds all around him. Somehow he ends up in the crowd, as does French organist Fredovitch, as does his organ. When King finally fights his way back onto the stage, he anoints the first couple of rows by spitting water at them.

Three girls who’ve been dancing up onstage during the final few numbers end up with the band’s guitars around their necks feeding back wildly as the hairy Ded-head on drums pounds away.

I was so dumfounded by the spectacle I can’t even remember if the show ended or not. I staggered away thinking this was the best holiday away from holidays I could have imagined.

Down with yellow goo!

Royal Headache MySpace: www.myspace.com/royalheadache