There was a time when I blamed missing support acts on public transport and parental duties; these days it’s a mad dog with a propensity for indoor incontinence. Still, we managed to arrive in time to see a whopping one and a half songs from Boomgates, another in a seemingly infinite line of Melbourne indie/garage supergroups.
There was a time when I blamed missing support acts on public transport and parental duties; these days it’s a mad dog with a propensity for indoor incontinence. Still, we managed to arrive in time to see a whopping one and a half songs from Boomgates, another in a seemingly infinite line of Melbourne indie/garage supergroups. A bit of powerpop, a dash of Modern Lovers and a melodic edge that suggests great and glorious things around the corner of the future.
About two years ago, UV Race transmogrified from just another local garage punk band into a fully fledged, bricks and mortar, solid-as-all-fuck Gonerfest-quality garage outfit. Lead singer Marcus, currently sporting a pencil thin moustache that’d bring an approving raised eyebrow from Errol Flynn and adorned in blue overalls, is a square peg in any round hole you can find. And that’s why he commands attention. Pacing the stage, fixing his gaze on a distant point as he recites his idiosyncratic and self-deprecating analysis of the personal, social and cultural world in which he exists. The band are tight, and Dan Stewart on drums beats the living bejeezus out of his kit, oblivious to the energy sapping humid atmosphere.
And then there’s Thee Oh Sees. Tattooed, thick-set and with an archetypal American square jaw, John Dwyer looks every inch the serious garage punk motherfucker; Dwyer’s 12 string guitar is strung across his upper torso like a rifle cocked, and awaiting action. The starting shot fired, Dwyer writhes and contorts in concert with his band’s hot-wired psychedelic punk explorations. There’s an element of danger, and a bucketload of raw power, and it’s manna from heaven to a crowd welting in The Tote sauna.
Pete Dammit is enigmatic in comparison, standing marginally closer to the back of the stage than drummer Mike Shoun. Compared to her brawny band mates, Brigid Dawson looks positively innocuous in comparison, her conservative appearance counter-intuitively ideal for the visual aesthetic moment. In the moments when Thee Oh Sees slide off the edge of the pier into the festering, lo-fidelity waters beyond – exhibit A, Warm Slime – it’s Dawson’s keyboard melodies and deft harmonies that provide the foil for Dwyer’s aggressive journey through the psychedelic slime.
The last rambling psychedelic journey completed, Dwyer offers a thankful wave to the crowd and accompanies the band off stage. The house music – gratuitously, it must be remarked – comes on, but no-one is going anywhere. The band return, and Dwyer fumbles for a song to play. It’s ugly, in a very beautiful way, and then it’s all over. Shit hot, again.
