To cut straight to the point, Cuntz show at The Old Bar was really bloody great. Drug Sweat kicked things off with an addictive lattice of noise, a sort of garage synth punk concoction that teetered on the edge of excess, but never became too much because it all just seemed so natural. It was hard to discern what genre they fit into until it dawned on you that it didn’t actually matter. The addictive sound erupted into your stomach, drummed into your ears and gradually thumped and whined into your brain.
They were followed by Tommy T & The Classical Mishaps, who had an abundance of dark electronic punk sass, but unfortunately a bunch of mystifying stuff happened and they were cut short.
Then came Cuntz, who were playing their last show before heading off on a tour of the USA. The performance was mantra-like; their sound and stance balancing precariously between who-gives-a-fuck and mind-sucking intensity. The most forceful element was the frontman’s furrowed gaze that bore through the crowd. He skulked about the stage in a lizard-like way, always talking at you, never with you, over chant-like beats and delicious cries of synth. The mosh brewed and spread and there were lots of flashings of beer belly. They were raw, but nothing was clichéd about the post-punk sweat-fest. Cuntz maintained easy composure, seeming like old masters of the sport rather than a bunch of youngish guys under the red light and pale disco ball of The Old Bar stage.
BY ERIN MCCONCHIE
Loved: The beautiful smatterings of mullets.
Hated: Nil.
Drank: Soda water. Has anyone else ever been to Old Bar during an alcohol and ciggie-free month? It’s as disturbing as it sounds.
