The Dirty Three

Warren Ellis, Nick Cave and Jim White were clearly having a private competition to see who could rack up the most stage time at the inaugural Australian ATP. Ellis and his mandocasters appeared with Grinderman (Friday’s “mystery act”), the Bad Seeds and, of course, as violin extraordinaire and D3 frontman. White – always a joy to watch with his fluid, expressive strokes – also kept glorious time for Bill Callahan and ecstatic Greek lyra player Psarandonis, while Nick Cave’s love affair with Ellis continues unabated. He took a breather from lead singer (and er, guitarist) duties to fold his lanky frame behind a diminutive piano keyboard (which he also did at the 2005 Don’t Look Back performance at the Barbican in London) to accompany The Dirty Three’s performance of Ocean Songs, their hugely emotional and intoxicating 1998 album.

Under a starry sky, atop a mountain at dusk … it’s hard to imagine a better Dirty Three venue. It certainly felt swooningly special, and was also a bittersweet reminder that it is rare these days to actually see D3 together at all. I guess that made it even more potent. And while the extravagant personality of Ellis and his still droll song introductions provide the spectacle, it’s to White that the band looks to for their anchor and direction. The intense connection between drummer and violinist in particular was just beautiful to watch, while Turner always seems to be musing in a reverie of his own. Cave just seemed delighted to be there, taking his cues from White, and roundly enjoying Ellis’ performance. Time has certainly not dimmed the sweeping melancholy and plaintive soul-sighing of Ocean Songs. As a thematic body of work, it has few equals – the heavenly heights and watery depths of emotion are engulfing. Although slightly curtailed due to time restrictions, highlights for me were the gentle sorrow of ‘Distant Shore’; being able to hear Cave’s piano in the paean to being none-more-fucked, ‘Sea Above, Sky Below’; and the epic, lovelorn finale of ‘Deep Waters’.

Although technically it was Cave’s ATP – I reckon Ellis and White stole the show. ‘Authentic Celestial Music’ indeed.

by Lauren Zoric

The Stabs

It’s the early afternoon of the second day of All Tomorrow’s Parties at Mt Buller, which means that the majority of people gathered at the Amphitheatre stage are nursing raging hangovers from last night’s shenanigans. The only way to deal with this sorry situation is to crack open another can of beer and take our punishment. And who better to deal out this punishment than Melbourne’s sons of darkness, The Stabs?

Resplendent in dark shades, they take to the stage and unleash their trademark whirlwind of ridiculously over-driven bass, pile driver drums and feedback-saturated, treble-kicking guitar. The sound is huge and the songs precise, no doubt honed during their surprise appearance at Mt Buller’s Abom Bar on Thursday night.

A few songs into the set somebody heckles: “Is this your tight festival set?” It’s hard to believe that this is the same band that built its early reputation on onstage chaos and instrument destruction. As guitarist Brendan Black explained recently, this change in attitude comes from a desire to execute the music the way it was always meant to be, thereby eliminating the frustration at their own sloppiness that used to lead to public tantrums and fights.

Well, it’s definitely working. Today The Stabs certainly do justice to their misanthropic tales of society’s losers and outcasts, like the show-stopping ‘No Hoper’ and old favourites like ‘Six Foot Rodent’. If anything, the tunes from their forthcoming second album are the stand-outs, with lyrics featuring more prominently and song writing being concise and considered. Both Black and bassist Mark Nelson have emerged as uniquely talented writers as much as distinctively ferocious instrumentalists.

If anybody in Australia has taken over the mantle of revered older players like Rowland S Howard, Kim Salmon and Stu Spasm and added something entirely their own to the mix, it’s them. There have been a number of bands inspired by these artists in recent times, but what The Stabs demonstrate is how important it is to outgrow these influences and develop a style entirely their own.

As such, Bad Seed Mick Harvey’s choice to invite The Stabs to play ATP was an inspired one that cements their place as one of our most extraordinary and potent bands.

by René Schaefer

Passenger Of Shit

The Saints had just finished their Friday night headline set, but no one was ready to go to bed yet. Instead, a huge crowd was eagerly trying to squeeze into the nearby Abom Bar (it’s short for abominable, apparently) to see Sydney digital speedcore maestro Passenger Of Shit.

There had been considerable curiosity among festival goers, mostly based on Sir Nicholas Cave’s gushing endorsement in interviews leading up to All Tomorrow’s Parties. It is doubtful though whether the majority of people had heard of the artist previously, or were particularly familiar with this genre of music. I wasn’t entirely surprised then to see as many people trying to leave the venue as there were attempting to enter.

Oddly, some of those departing were expressing disappointment at the lack of a GG Allin style spectacle. Instead, once people managed to get close to the stage, they were confronted by musician Swift Treweeke, dressed in a fetching penis mask, operating his laptop and really not doing much else. I have no idea what punters had been expecting, but this obviously wasn’t it.

Too bad, because the music was actually quite brilliant. One second Passenger Of Shit would layer screaming, distorted vocals over ultra-fast breakcore beats, the next he would cut to some of the cheesiest synth pop melodies this side of ‘Popcorn’. The effect was disjointed and almost anti-musical, which I’m sure Treweeke would consider a compliment.

Having cleared the area in front the stage of rubber-necking subculture tourists, hoping for some scat action to tell the folks back home about, Treweeke’s real fans (possibly consisting mostly of his friends and housemates) showed us how to dance to this music. Either that, or they were having epileptic fits … I’m not sure. Neither was the confused security guard who decided he had to protect the performer by positioning himself centre-stage, presumably to protect him from being torn to pieces by the feral, frenzied crowd.

Unfortunately neither Nick Cave nor Warren Ellis turned up to join in the dance. They reserved their bootie shaking for the amazing Greek folk stomp of Psarandonis the next day.

by René Schaefer

Grinderman

Grinderman have no depth. They have the sound, oh boy, yes -- that big heavy bottom end that makes your innards quiver and your eyes roll back -- but nothing decent to do with it. It's as if they have no reason for playing the songs that they do, other than to get on stage again for the sake of it or revive Nick Cave's sex life (which is what most of the songs are about). No one is surprised to see Cave's side project revealed as the mystery act -- the singer is also The Curator, and seems to pop up on stage more than expected, perhaps as a nod to the sizable portion of the crowd who forked out several hundred dollars just to spend a weekend in the presence of The Dark Prince. His constant cameos are not ignored. Later, the drummer of another band will hold a picture of Cave in front of her face and repeat, over and over, in broken English: "Can you see my moustache?"

But anyway, back to Grinderman. Warren Ellis spends most of his time shaking a pair of bright yellow shakers and trying to infuse the act with a good deal more theatre than it deserves. He shakes them up above his head while stretching back in an arc and thrusting his hips forward as if he was coming; he shakes them at the audience as if they were weapons he might throw at any moment; he pulls his arms as far apart as they will go and then bangs! the shakers against each side of a cymbal like he was parting the Red fucking Sea, and the entire time it looks like nothing more than some old dude playing bright yellow shakers and looking rather ludicrous. "We're the mystery act -- surprise, surprise," Cave says after the band play a few songs, and though he means it as a bit of a joke there's something kind of sad about it as well. Grinderman aren't a surprise, in any sense, and perhaps that's what's missing. At least they sounded good. 'No Pussy Blues' and 'Love Bomb' were the best.

by Andrew Ramadge

The Saints

Chris Bailey comes out in full rock star mode. Wearing a tan leather overcoat he stands in the middle of the stage, back to the audience, pumping his fist as the band warm up. The stance shows off a bald patch on the crown of his head, a pale spot in the centre of his long brown hair, that is the only significant reminder of his age during the night. He acts like a complete fuckface, which divides the crowd into those who know what they are about to see -- one of just three performances by Brisbane punk pioneers The Saints featuring all three founding members in as many decades, after songwriters Bailey and Ed Kuepper parted acrimoniously in 1979 -- and everybody else. Those who know the story half-expect Bailey to act like a dick, and he doesn't disappoint. He plays the role of snotty rock god and glorious band leader while Kuepper keeps to himself, hunched over his electric guitar, appearing to studiously ignore the flaymboyant singer. When Kuepper chats with someone in the crowd between songs, Bailey pounces. "You're not meant to sleep with them until after the gig, Edmund," he jeers, taking great pains to stress every syllable of the full name, and then, after the guitarist refuses to take the bait, adds with genuine contempt: "... you twat."

The tension between Bailey and Kuepper, whether real or part of the show, never seeps into the music -- which is a pity, because that's precisely what you want to happen at a punk gig. Instead The Saints, with original drummer Ivor Hay behind the kit, Archie Larrizza on bass and three-piece horn section, are polished close to perfection. At times they sound like a stadium rock band covering themselves (the set list includes '(I'm) Stranded', 'No Time', 'Know Your Product', 'This Perfect Day', 'Swing For The Crime' and more), with Bailey's voice more of a bellow than the teenage snarl captured on record thirty years ago. It's not nearly as bad as it seems on paper, though. The sound is enormous, Bailey is, shall we say, an enigmatic bastard and Kuepper's buzzsaw guitar is magnificent. The best tracks are the early ones, when the horn section walks off the stage and Kuepper curls tight around his instrument and lets rip -- encouraging news for those attending The Saints' other All Tomorrow's Parties show in Victoria this week, a performance of (I'm) Stranded as part of the Don't Look Back series. Especially good news if they play the same encore, a brilliant rendition of their version of 'River Deep, Mountain High'.

by Andrew Ramadge