Back in the ‘80s, lauded director Wes Craven was forced to defend horror films against the accusation that the genre’s violent imagery encouraged real-life aggression in its audience. “Horror films don’t create fear,” he said. “They release it.”
The same could be said of The Drones. The snarky, funny-cause-it-ain’t horror buried in the band’s discography isn’t the case of musicians adding more unpleasantness to a universe oversaturated with evil: The Drones stir up shit rather than manufacture it, and in that way, their live performances are genuine acts of transcendence.
Aided by one of the largest organs in the southern hemisphere and one of the most important discographies of any band currently working in either hemisphere, The Drones laid plain all sorts of everyday shittiness until the belaboured audience eventually broke through the other side, into bliss.
The clunking growl of Taman Shud wowed, as did the paralysed grace of This Time, a song transformed by the wail of the organ and backing melodies provided by punk band Harmony’s choral trio. But picking out highlights from a set so uniformly brilliant is its own kind of folly, and in actuality, the mood never once let up.
In terms of audience response, Sharkfin Blues was the song that elicited the greatest howl of approval from the crowd, perhaps due to the fact its appearance in a Drones set is not always guaranteed. Luscombe’s eventual defeat of technical difficulties and ensuing Donald Trump impersonation was also warmly received, as the sweat-soaked musician jovially threatened to sue those responsible for the setbacks and bragged his way through a demagogue’s monologue. “We have the best notes,” Luscombe assured the audience in his Trump-y drawl. “The best notes.”
Yeah, and about Trump, actually. He played a part in the whole process: not only via his onstage mentions, but thanks to the general apocalyptic funk he’s thrown the world into – that acute feeling of hopelessness which a Drones set is all about rising to the eyeline of. He was there, and the death of Leonard Cohen was there, acknowledged by a set-closing cover of Diamonds In The Mine, and a lot of heartbreak and hurt was there as well.
Initially, anyway. By the time it was all done, all that ugliness was, if not entirely dismissed, then encountered – acknowledged and embraced. After all, you can’t always fuck your demons off, but you can certainly look ’em straight in the eye.
Words by Joseph Earp
Image by Zo Damage
Highlight: Too hard to pick just one.
Lowlight: Trump’s arrival – kinda.
Crowd Favourite: Sharkfin Blues.
