On this late-August afternoon, in a sprawling park nearly 200 miles north of London, Hawkins spends the next 35 minutes darting across the stage, blond mane flying, striking rock-god poses and attempting Diamond Dave splits off the drum riser. He's doing all he can to win any nonbelievers over to his band's peculiar and thrilling brand of hyperbolic pop metal. A feathered boa and guitar drape over his bare, sinewy torso; his shiny white flares, previously hidden under a striped unitard, are laced up the sides, revealing some skin and the fact that he's going commando. It's only near the end of his band's triumphant set that he notices a rip in the seat and races backstage for a piece of black gaffer's tape. At the moment, the Darkness are undoubtedly the U.K.'s biggest and cheekiest rock band. Just not that cheeky.
A few hours earlier, in their dressing room, the four band members are talking about a different application for tape: Staind's crew has fashioned arrows on the temporary buildings so that Aaron Lewis and Co. can find their trailer. "And people say we're like Spinal Tap," says mantis-like guitarist Dan Hawkins, 26. His brother, Justin, 28, sits shirtless on an adjoining couch, smoking a Marlboro and picking at the label on a Smirnoff Ice. "That's universally, patently, losing touch with reality," Justin says. "It's something that we all strive for. One day, we'll wake up and be the biggest assholes you've ever met."
He's kidding, of course. After all, this is a guy who has his first name tattooed on his left arm, with a lightning bolt in place of the S. On his right arm, over the lasered remnants of a Celtic armband, are pinkish flowers (orchids, he thinks) that snake around to his chest, encroaching on the nipple that isn't pierced. Inky flames shoot out from the top of his jeans, threatening to ignite his happy trail.
Then there are the scrapped album titles: Short Fat Cock and Thank You, This Will Suffice for Me. Now If You Please, Have Sex With My Friend. Which means the Darkness have got to be a joke, right? Not necessarily. "Our music is really smart," says Dan, "but really stupid."
"It's smart but retains its puerility," Justin elaborates. "Because smart is often lumped in with cynical, people start to worry about it being an ironic gesture. But it isn't."
"We're not taking the piss," Dan insists. "And why would anyone bother wanting to find out if we were? If you like it, you like it."
Apparently, many people love it. The Darkness' self-financed debut, Permission to Land (which Atlantic released here in September), had by summer's end sold more than 600,000 copies in the U.K., after debuting at No. 2 in July. The week following Leeds, it hit No. 1, the first British debut to do so since Coldplay's Parachutes in 2000. It's a feat the band managed pretty much on their own, by releasing a few indie singles and gigging constantly. Word of mouth spread about their unapologetically retro cock rock and flamboyant theatrics, with all eyes on Justin's skintight catsuits and all ears on his falsetto -- a glorious, ludicrous instrument around which no chandelier is safe.
As several generations of smartasses -- from Sparks, the Tubes, ?and Cheap Trick to Redd Kross, Urge Overkill, and Electric Six -- have proved, it's possible to rock hard, and with style, while surrounded by quotation marks. The tradition began in the early '70s, when rock's stadium showmen, classically minded proggers, and sensitive singer/songwriters were all striving way too hard for authenticity. Suddenly, insincerity and sarcasm became viable alternatives, and new bands dared listeners to take their frivolity seriously. Trashing accepted notions of rock stardom, they camped things up onstage, with such fashion statements as the Hitler mustache of Sparks' Ron Mael and the accountant chic of Cheap Trick's Bun E. Carlos. "In the '70s," says Cheap Trick guitarist Rick Nielsen, "I would see guitar players making these facial contortions and posing -- and they're only tuning. So if we're gonna be ridiculous, let's go for it."
While New York City mock-metallurgists Satanicide are also currently revisiting the era of Spandex and bullet belts (with more of a whoopee cushion, less of a wink), post-Darkness bands like Kid Symphony have begun sprouting in the U.K. The Darkness themselves may protest the "ironic" tag -- perhaps a bit too much -- but they do profess an affinity for like-minded contemporaries Turbonegro and Ten Benson. "[Ten Benson is] the spirit of British music," says Darkness bassist and "elder statesman" Frankie Poullain, 32, sporting an oversize headband and leatherman mustache. "Eccentricity, a bit of humor -- that's what made a lot of '70s bands really interesting."
With its explicit nods to '70s and '80s favorites Boston, Rick Springfield, and 10cc, among many others, Permission to Land is the freshest-sounding, most fundamentally derivative rock record in years -- a euphoric antidote to baggy-panted tantrums and overly earnest emo. Album opener "Black Shuck" hooks a monster AC/DC riff onto hobbit-rock lyrics about a mythological hellhound ravaging the Suffolk countryside. The infectious "Growing on Me" is quite probably about genital warts ("And you're all over me / But I don't want anyone to know / That you're attached to me / That's how you've grown"), while the soaring power ballad "Holding My Own" is most definitely about having a wank. On the jaunty mid-tempo "Friday Night," Justin tries to woo an old classroom crush by reciting a litany of extracurricular activities -- badminton, bridge club, needlework -- they once enjoyed. And, yes, he sings the phrase "extracurricular activities."
"We take our songwriting and performance seriously," says Poullain. "You could say it's a reaction against how, ever since grunge, rock has been so downbeat, so freakin' up its own arse." Not surprisingly, the Darkness have little interest in mainstream rock these days. "Justin and I have never been into punk," Dan offers. "And that nu-metal thing is like 50 percent punk. I've never been angry enough, I suppose."
"And those emo bands really try and force you to feel something," says Justin. "They're so one-dimensional: 'This is how we feel. You have to feel like this as well.'"
"And," Dan adds, "you can't tell the crew from the band."
Drawing inspiration from the upbeat likes of Thin Lizzy, Van Halen, Aerosmith, and Def Leppard, the Darkness could never be mistaken for roadies (well, maybe the drummer could). Justin, who has dubbed the band "the straight Queen," even thanks Whitesnake's David Coverdale in the liner notes. "He is one of my heroes," Justin says between smoke rings. "He came up to me [at a gig] and said, 'You must be the singer, you flash bastard.' I thought, 'Pot. Kettle. Black.'"
Soon, there's a knock on the door. It's soundman Pedro Ferreira -- who also produced, engineered, and mixed Permission to Land -- informing the band that it's time for a TV interview. "Fucking hell," cracks Justin, as he gets up to find a T-shirt. "What a bunch of leeches."
Outside, before he commandeers a buggy that will transport the guys to a nearby grassy guest area, Justin looks down at his Puma boxing boots disapprovingly and says, "A band at our level shouldn't have to walk around with laces loose."
He's kidding, of course.
The Darkness formed in early 2000 from the ruins of Empire, a prog-rock outfit that featured Scotsman Poullain, former advertising-jingle writer Justin, and ex-teen soccer star Dan. Ed Graham, a recovering goth and schoolmate of the Hawkins brothers from Lowestoft, Britain's most easterly port city, joined in on drums. "It was obvious from the start that we had something special," says 26-year-old Graham, whose quiet reserve is belied by the embroidered couple having sex on his shirt. "Probably in Justin's showmanship."
Justin honed that skill in clubs before audiences of five and on sold-out arena bills with the Rolling Stones. But it was a gig supporting Disturbed in London that proved to be the toughest test. "Our booking agent is a slightly mischievous chap," says Poullain. "He threw Disturbed in there to see how we'd react. [The crowd] were after our blood. Justin got hit with a can in his face, but we carried on. That taught us the importance of defiance." And how did the headliners react? "Disturbed were the least friendly people we ever met. Disturbed is a very appropriate name for them."
As much as the Darkness savor the attention they're getting at home (including a nomination for the prestigious Mercury Music Prize), making it in the U.S. is "the most important thing," says Poullain, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together in a universal gesture. "But seriously, it's because rock'n'roll is American, despite what the English think. Pop is English. Beatles melody -- it's all about mothers and grannies and young screaming girls liking it. Rock is blues-based, innit? Rednecks punching the air, fat greasy rock chicks."
But how do you sell this kind of cleverness in the States, where intentionally funny rock rarely succeeds past "Weird Al" novelty or Tenacious D cult? "That's really the question," says Madelyn Scarpulla, Atlantic's senior director of marketing. "I initially thought that this was something so niche and so British. It was fun in a rock'n'roll way that wouldn't necessarily take the path that some other very serious rock bands do. But pretty much anyone who enjoys a rock star will enjoy this band."
Back in the dressing room after their set, the guys are relaxed ?and eager to begin the night's drinking. All agree that today's performance was stronger than the previous afternoon's at the higher-profile Reading Festival, and they were especially touched by the crowd's chants of "We love you, Darkness."
Despite their satisfaction, they still covet the resources, including pyrotechnics, afforded the superstars for whom they've opened. "A lot of bands put on a stage show just to impress people," says Dan. "You have a huge amount of people, and you have to have something for them to look at. We can [do that and] still remain humanly interesting. I think we can be the biggest touring band in the world and still give everyone in the place a good time. That's our rightful place: playing the biggest shows that have ever been seen."
Metallica's recent Summer Sanitarium tour reportedly required 250 people and nearly 90 vehicles. Will the Darkness ever get that big? "I think it will happen," Dan says, matter-of-factly. "It will happen very quickly, as well."
"I think we'll have a batch of stand-ins to do interviews like this because we'll be too busy," adds Justin, grinning. "Put it this way: In a year's time, when we've got 85 trucks, there'll be six dummy trucks. It's all about perception. If we can't beat Metallica, we'll certainly pretend to." This time, you get the feeling he's not kidding.?
