Review: Zydecats at Clancy’s Fish Pub Fremantle

Zydecats at Clancy’s Fish Pub Fremantle
Sunday, December 3, 2023

Sunday was a sad day for local fans of the rhythm and the blues, as the mighty Zydecats called time on three decades (yes, decades) of pleasing the people with their eclectic mix of blues, rockabilly, rock and roll, and sundry other boogies up to and including the washboards and accordions of zydeco itself.

They billed it as The Last Reel, and while there was no Scorsese and precious few Canadians, the Zydecats showed us one more time how they have been THE band bringing New Orleans and its environs to Western Australia. The band kicked off with a Ninth Ward lilt, and ran through the accordion, the sax, the fiddle, and the electric gee-tar at a pace that had the adults dancing (and a volume that had the kids moving through the crowd with fingers in their ears!) in no time at all. The last generation of rug-rats to get their musical education at Clancy’s? Hope not.

Lucky Oceans dialed in the pedal-steel for the first time for a rollicking yodel through the coal mine, and then requested the Chicken Song. The ghost of Louie Jordan would have approved, as Bill Rogers' efforts on the sax yielded cheeks the colour of tomato soup. Next was a tune Mr. Oceans wrote for his father, Shorty George, a call and response number that worked the audience out a bit, and then deeper into Louisiana for some Professor Longhair. More of that to come.

So Clancy’s was well in the grip of the groove. The Beast (Kent Hughes) deployed some aggressive blues guitar to punctuate a standard complaint. You gone away and left me. The punters, of course, might whinge the same as they contemplate next Sunday, and the ones after that, Zydecatless. A quick swap to a drummer from days gone by for one last hit-out, and a sea of funk ensued. How about a bass solo? Here’s a tasty one from Graeme Bell. Well, then maybe a funky drummer? Check. Spoons? Washboards? Okay, the punters are thirsty now; time to take a break.

With things going so swimmingly, you might wonder why the band is calling it quits. But thirty years is a long time, especially if you start the clock in your forties, so no complaining from the cheap seats. The sight of a band-member-to-remain-nameless swapping out their hearing aids for in-ear monitors only reinforced that sentiment. The price you pay for subjecting your ears to a lifetime of amplification…

The crowd re-filled the room well before the band took the stage; no one wanted to miss anything. For the second set, they were treated to an additional horn player, with bass player Bell’s son Dexter sporting an alto sax and an expression that started off a touch nervous (was that a quick glance at the music stand?) but relaxed as he showed he could run with the big dogs. More boogie, catfish boogie this time, and some deep zydeco from the shiny squeezebox. Rogers displayed some formidable whistling skills for the Professor’s classic Go To The Mardi Gras.

Then guitarist’s choice—I Saw Her Standing There—and you haven’t heard that much groove in a Beatles tune since watching Paul come up with Get Back in that doco by Peter Jackson. If that doesn’t ring a bell, go on, get a free trial, and watch it. Then it was some Chuck Berry taking us to the Promised Land, and it was time to wrap it up. Oh, an encore? Why not turn on your love light and SHOUT while you are at it? It was great fun, and you can’t quite imagine it not happening again. Then it was a little Auld Lang Syne on the bass, as omnes exeunt. See you all again somewhere, somehow, we hope.

MIKE JEFFREY

Photos by Alan Holbrook