Laughing Clowns

"By the way, do you know the album we're playing?" Ed Kuepper cheekily asks the audience a few songs into a performance of A History Of Rock 'N' Roll Vol. 1. Kuepper's comment is a sly nod at the perpetual cult status of the album, which was released in 1984 as a compilation of previous singles and EP tracks. Later this evening, Warren Ellis of headliners The Dirty Three will regale us of the first time he heard Laughing Clowns on the radio, and how he was filled with a sense "that rock and roll had a future". And while the band themselves may not - as hinted at by Kuepper when stating that this could be their last hometown performance - at least we're afforded an hour in which to postpone the thought of that possibility.

The first thing you should know about Laughing Clowns is that they defy categorisation. That no band has come close to emulating their sound 25-plus years after its origin is perhaps the highest compliment that the group could be paid. They’re peerless in the true sense of the word. Though he operates as guitarist, singer and band mouthpiece, Kuepper is convincingly impassive about the whole charade. His four bandmates are studious while the music is being played. Bassist Les Millar mouths his parts to himself while keeping time; keyboardist Alistair Spence appears outright lost on several occasions; diminutive saxophonist Louise Elliott draws incredible sounds from deep within her instrument; while drummer Jeffrey Wegener stares intently at Kuepper throughout, regardless of whether the gaze is shared or not.

What's most impressive is that these five remain ahead of their time. Take the final 30 seconds of album opener, ‘Theme From Mad Flies, Mad Flies’. Apropos of nothing, it degenerates into a freeform section led by Millar's walking bassline, while Elliott's sax stabs are mimicked by Kuepper's guitar. It's senseless in the song's broader context; even acknowledging its ill-fitting existence feels like I'm playing into their hands, like being left out of a joke. In effect, their music raises more questions than answers. Kuepper is outright taking the piss when he offers to answer our queries between songs, before completely ignoring a handful of shouted responses ("Where'd you get your gloves?!").

'Sometimes (I Just Can't Live With Anyone)' is noted by Kuepper in the liner notes of their best-of compilation as his best attempt to write a four-minute pop single. Tonight it bears sparse resemblance to the recorded product – Spence's keyboard is either buried in the mix or he's playing something else entirely. Still, there's a timeless irony to Kuepper writing spiteful lyrics - "Your death was so graceless it didn't rate a mention", or, "Hopeless is all you'll ever hope to be" - to one of Elliott's sunniest melodies.

'Laughing Clowns' is their theme song to a show that was never aired. 'Ghost Beat' contains one of Wegener's fucking coolest grooves, all delicate cymbal-work and drum-rim percussion. Kuepper can't help but shimmy in acknowledgement while deadpanning lyrics.

'Everything That Flies' is the album's deceptively optimistic penultimate track, while its sinister successor, 'Collapse Board', has been deemed elsewhere by Kuepper as the most depressing song in rock and roll. Fitting that it concludes the album, and thus a set that's running over time. (The stagehand's gesture for five more minutes is met with mock high-fives from the ever-sardonic Kuepper). The band quietens during the coda, wherein Elliott is afforded total silence in which to improvise. As they repeat this final phrase, like a stuck record, we're drawn further and further into their darkest creation. The song ends and the spell is broken. While not their strongest overall performance since reforming a year ago for All Tomorrow's Parties, it's conceptually faithful and executed admirably.

by Andrew McMillen