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Live Review: Giuda

Italians’ rock gets lost in translation.

If you didn’t know better, you might assume you’ve stumbled upon a bunch of mechanics pretending to be 70s rock heroes during their lunch break. A grinning, bouncing singer in a boiler suit punches the air to almighty greaser riffs, while a plaid-clad backing band churn out chant-rock tunes indebted to Quo, ZZ Top and AC/DC, in which girls in tight blue jeans still stand beside something called a ‘record machine’.

This is Rome’s retro rockers Giuda, proud holders of the horny blue-collar rock torch, upholding time-honoured garage-rock traditions from the gaslight anthem of Working Class Man to the air-punching trucker taunts of Teenage Rebel and Bad Days Are Gone.

Their accents provide plenty of misheard lyrical laffs too: ‘What are you woman?’ guitarist Lorenzo appears to sing, instead of Wild Tiger Woman; Roll On seems to insist that we ‘do the Interpol’ during a gig that doesn’t best lend itself to wailing miserable two-note impressions of a goat being strangled. But over 90 minutes their classic rock variety pack is gradually infiltrated by a filthy, mid-paced glam stomp that ultimately consumes the entire set, lodging Giuda in a formulaic furrow.

Despite the odd punk moment, a Costello slant to It Ain’t Easy and a vibrant cover of Elton’s Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting, Giuda run short of ideas and chug to a cheery but ignoble end.

Ah well, back to the panel beating.