It seems fitting that manicured rock sirens The Minutes are on hand to launch the Red Bull Bedroom Jam, an online battle of the bands with the aim of unearthing Ireland’s most exciting undiscovered talent – after five years of defying trends, the unshakable trio are the finished product.
Preened, prepped and not at all poised, they are exactly the type of act Red Bull will be hoping to find with the competition, which is currently inviting aspiring artists to submit a live performance video to redbullbedroomjam.ie.
In theory, The Minutes could have been conceived in any era of rock ‘n’ roll; their raucous, rasping sound and timeless swagger fit in equally well with the grease monkeys of the ‘50s and the chart-courting rockers we all went mad for at the turn of the last century.
Actually, if there’s any age The Minutes don’t really belong to, it’s this one – a time when attention spans are at their shortest and songs without synths or programming are about as common as twenty-somethings without Facebook accounts. Not that this should bother Mark Austin, Tom Cosgrave and Shane Kinsella in the slightest, who together remain one of the best-loved bands in the country in spite of, or perhaps thanks to, their devotion to creating timeless, classic-sounding rock.
Tonight, they take great pleasure in blaspheming all around them (Jesus pops up more than once, and not in a ‘What A Friend We Have In…’ way), proudly showing off their plundering melodies and skintight rhythms. To quote the band themselves, “This is not rock ‘n’ roll as a device to sell Rimmel lipstick.” This is bone-rattling, showboating, no-frills rock, complete with freak-out moments and uncensored banter.
Forty minutes is just enough time to demonstrate the full range of The Minutes’ sound, from the singable to the grungey; radio hit ‘Fleetwood’ is steady and infectious while the breakneck ‘IMTOD’ is dynamic and raw.
I mustn’t forget to mention that today is Mark Austin’s 30th birthday. We know this because he ends the set by serenading himself with a crazed version of ‘Happy Birthday’, flipping us the bird on his final howl of “Happy birthday to me” as he stumbles off the stage. There’s no fooling us, Austin. We know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.
Of course, for a band with so much bare-faced bravado, it’s not enough to look like live shows are your favourite thing on the menu. With every cocked jaw and menacing gaze, The Minutes further the impression that making this glorious racket nourishes them, even fulfills their destiny. I mean, what else are boys who play like tyrants and swear like sailors supposed to do? Shine shoes?
The band who gets plucked from a bedroom and hoisted onto the Irish stage on Red Bull’s watch will do well to follow that lead.