NiteShok's Last.fm Journal

Roger Waters 'The Wall Live' @ Brisbane Entertainment Centre

Wed, 8 Feb 2012 00:12:49 +0000

Wed 1 Feb – The Wall Live

Roger Waters – ‘The Wall’ Live
Brisbane Entertainment Centre
Wednesday 1 February 2012

If rock music is, at its heart, a mad combination of theatre, escapism and expression, then The Wall Live must be the warped apex of what rock music was designed for. It has to be said that this is an absurd concept: a band playing the entirety of an album released 32 years ago, while a 12-metre-high white wall is constructed between musicians and audience. It is the product of a brilliant imagination and a breathtaking commitment to realising an absurd concept, night after night, in a series of far-flung countries over the last 18 months. To think that one man envisioned all of this, notebook in hand, is incredible. The logistics of this tour and stage coordination alone is enough to make my head spin.

Tonight marks the 125th time that this show has been performed since its debut in September 2010. It is a spectacle; an event. Something to get dressed up for; in your best Pink Floyd t-shirt, if the majority of the crowd can be used as a measure. Shortly before the show starts, when everyone’s settled in their seats, a disembodied voice instructs us to turn off the flash on our cameras, as “all you’ll see is white bricks” in the captured image. And that it’ll mess with their projections. A lonely horn plays over the PA in a darkened room. It feels like misdirection. We’re looking around, into the abyss, wondering what’s going to happen.

Then: the band hit the first chord of ‘In The Flesh?’, pink fireworks launch from the stage into the ceiling, and Roger Waters emerges with his arms held aloft like a prize fighter, soaking in the applause while his band casually work through the track. A stagehand places a thick black trenchcoat upon his shoulders, he dons black sunglasses, and says into the microphone: “So you thought you might like to go to the show? / To feel the warm thrill of confusion, that space cadet glow?” By the end of the song, rows of sparks are cutting across the top and bottom sections of the stage, seemingly showering the band in a hail of white-hot fury; flag-hoisting Nazi look-alikes are being hoisted skywards on a mechanical lift; and a fucking airplane descends from the ceiling, somewhere above the sound desk, and knocks over part of the wall while flames lick its exterior. It is the most jaw-droppingly elaborate concert introduction I've seen – and I saw Kanye West last week. Someone behind me jokes, “We might as well go home now.”

Waters cuts a distinctive figure on stage. Clad in all-black, wearing white sneakers and luminiscent silver hair; but for the bass regularly held in his hands, he’s pure cat burglar. He is the archetypal bassist/frontman combo, perhaps the best we'll ever see [Waters vs McCartney? - Ed]. And all of this belongs to him. It’s difficult to avoid discussing economics when it comes to this show. We’ve all paid stupid amounts of money to be here -- albeit happily. Though he’s doing three shows at this particular venue, The Wall Live is a once-off proposition.

So here we are: in Waters’ world for two hours and change, including an intermission. All eyes upon a 68 year-old showman who is, clearly, in his element. This entire exercise is a business venture, yes; a very profitable one, as it were. But: this man doesn’t have to do this any more -- he probably hasn’t for a very long time. Yet he endures, touring this absurd concept throughout the world, because he loves it. There can be no other explanation. And we love him for it, because… among many other reasons, at which other rock show in the world do you get to witness a plane crashing through a wall?

It is a wholly absorbing spectacle; at times, so much so that one wishes it to never end. There is a consistent narrative built into proceedings; they’re playing The Wall, of course, but much of the imagery and projections are taken from the film version. The wall gradually fills the stage over the first hour. By the halfway point, the animations and graphics being displayed are so mesmerising that it becomes a source of annoyance that the wall is incomplete, as we can't see the whole thing. Build the damn thing quicker! Sixteen children emerge for the ‘Another Brick In The Wall’ medley, lending credence to the song’s timeless refrain. An enormous blow-up marionette ‘headmaster’ dances wickedly on the left of stage, wielding a cane, red eyes glowing eerily. Waters breaks the fourth wall (geddit?) a few songs in with the traditional “Hello Brisbane!" greeting. I kinda wish he didn't, and kept in strict performance mode, at least until the intermission.

‘Comfortably Numb’, after the mid-set break – played before a completed wall – is something else. During the chorus, a spotlight is shone upon a singer atop the wall who reprises David Gilmour’s vocals; then, to his left, another spotlight is struck upon a guitarist reprising the same man’s solos. When Waters isn’t singing, he’s pantomiming so goddamn hard that even the nosebleed seats can’t misinterpret his gesticulations: hand-to-brow for “A distant ship’s smoke on the horizon”, hand to mouth for “Your lips move, but I can’t hear what you’re saying”, and – funniest of all – an index finger pointed downwards for “I cannot put my finger on it now”. Yet more evidence of a man in his element, loving every second of the attention. And then, the song’s closing guitar solo: the wall dissolves into an animated rainbow of falling bricks, while the guitarist wails away, faithfully recreating Gilmour’s finest moment. This could well be the most ridiculous moment of the show; one man shredding atop a 12-metre wall, with 13,000 pairs of eyes on him.

The band, for all their talent, are total wallflowers. They're great, but faceless throughout the show – though he does introduce them one-by-one at the end, after the wall’s been knocked down. (An incredible sight in itself.) Their comparative anonymity is probably exactly how Roger wanted it. And clearly, what Roger wants, Roger gets. And we love him for it.

The Vine

Big Day Out 2012 @ Gold Coast Parklands

Mon, 23 Jan 2012 23:12:41 +0000

Sun 22 Jan – Big Day Out 2012

I wrote a long review for The Vine, which includes excellent photographs by Justin Edwards. Here.

Crystal Castles @ The Tivoli

Fri, 6 Jan 2012 02:14:48 +0000

Wed 4 Jan – Crystal Castles, DZ Deathrays

Crystal Castles
The Tivoli, Brisbane
Wednesday 4 January 2012

For all the attention that Crystal Castles pay to their image, in the flesh it seems, somehow, effortless. Clearly some thought goes into their stage plot: there's an enormous banner featuring the dead-eyed graveyard child from the cover of their second album. There's eight strobe lights flanked by a dozen vertical LED strips. There's Ethan Kath, mastermind of electronica, hunched over his equipment and wearing a hoodie throughout their hour-long set, despite the sticky heat that soon envelopes the entire room. There's the drummer, Christopher Chartrand, atop a riser and essentially sitting in the dark, strobes aside. And there's vocalist Alice Glass, forever the focal point; at once coming across as something between heroin chic and porcelain doll. Theirs is an arresting, distinctive identity which, thanks to two quality albums and a reputation for chaotic live shows, has long since shot them beyond the annals of anonymous electronic music, and into something more like rock-stardom.

During past Australian tours, the band's only constraining factor has been their inability to sustain momentum. Three years ago at The Met, they barely made it to 40 minutes. It’s a vastly different act we witness tonight; a tour-hardened power trio who open with ‘Intimate’ and don’t really let up until the encore (‘Not In Love’) almost an hour later. The opener is a cut buried deep on Crystal Castles, their 2010 self-titled album -- it seems a strange choice on paper, yet all traces of doubt are erased once their enormous sound and banks of flashing blue lights stream out into the full theatre. It’s been six weeks since I’ve seen live music, so this is the aural equivalent of being blasted with a leaf blower. It’s a bit of a cliché, but in the moment, it feels like sensory overload. My analytical mind is several beats behind what my eyes and ears are interpreting. It’s an extraordinary feeling that I’ve rarely encountered before and it sets the bar extremely high for what’s to come. And the strangest thing about the entire scene - Alice’s creepy, strobe-affected dancing; the crowd on the floor heaving as one; the inexplicable sensation that this feels like an end-of-days rave in a foreign land - is how utterly effortless these three make it seem.

Full marks, too, to their sound and lighting technicians, as well as the stagehand who watches Glass like a hawk and acts as her safety net during her frequent ventures into - and onto - the crowd. There’s a classic moment late in the set when the singer’s cigarette is extinguished; she mimes for a cigarette lighter, sees a flame several rows back, and leaps toward it, held aloft, face down, fag in mouth. It doesn’t quite work - she has to return to the stage, lighter in hand, to complete the transaction - but nobody in the crowd will forget the moment anytime soon. (Afterwards, she drops back into the photo pit to blow smoke into the mouths of fans in the front row; earlier, she was spitting whiskey at them.) All the while, Kath and Chartrand rave on, utterly absorbed in the sound. The band don’t make eye contact with one another once during the set, nor do they communicate with the audience. It’s one of the most fascinating, immersive shows I’ve seen. For an hour, we’re in their world, and it feels right.

Strangely for such a strong live act, Glass’ voice is all but indistinguishable, owing to her use of digitised effects (which are seemingly triggered at the sound desk, or perhaps by Kath, as Glass switches between clean vocals and effects without doing anything herself). Midway through a set packed wall-to-wall with almost every track from their two albums, I realise that Alice could be singing her shopping list (“Eyeliner. Stockings. Cigarettes. Whiskey.”) underneath pretty much any of these songs. It does not matter one fucking bit. Their sound, their identity, their narrative is so enticing — their performance tonight is so convincing — that I can barely reconcile the Crystal Castles I saw in February 2009 with the same band in January 2012. Now that they’ve sealed up the one chink in their armour — their once-patchy live shows — there’ll be no stopping them. I can’t tell you how much this excites me.

The Vine

Harvest Festival 2011 @ Brisbane Riverstage

Fri, 9 Dec 2011 00:18:17 +0000

Harvest Festival
Riverstage and Botanical Gardens, Brisbane
Saturday 19 November 2011

Harvest Festival is not above flattery. “Congratulations on your good taste and adventurous spirit,” reads the first line of the 36 page colour program I’m handed upon entry. This psychological ploy makes me smile. Which music fan, anywhere in the world, does not believe that they have the finest music taste? To argue otherwise suggests a lack of self-belief, or false modesty. And the rest of us? Our taste is fantastic. The best. Thanks for asking, Harvest. For AJ Maddah to align his festival with that sort of stroked-ego sycophancy exemplifies tact, and more than a little self-belief of his own. After all, he booked the bands.

“You are about to witness an amazing collection of great artists and memorable performances.” No minced words there. He then bangs on for a few short paragraphs about a vaudeville tent named Le Boudoir, a Secret Garden full of “world renowned DJs” and “specially designed seating”, and the festival’s Australian art installations and “troupe performances popping up from nowhere”. (Maddah’s emphasis on the nationality of the art is interesting, given that of the five Australian acts on the main stages, just one (Gung Ho) is not from Sydney and all are confined to the smallest one – The Big Red Tractor Stage. His other festival, Soundwave, traditionally has but a couple of Australian artists each year.) AJ’s program spiel ends with the line, “We know that you have come for the bands but hope you will return year after year for the experience!”

In the lead-up to the event, an emphasis was placed on how Harvest is “a feeling, not just a festival”. That’s a fairly airy-fairy thing to say while attempting to make a mark in an already crowded festival market; let alone in the notoriously cutthroat live music industry. What could this statement mean, exactly? Clearly, Harvest is pitched slightly left-of-centre. It is, apparently, for the more discerning punter. More mature, perhaps; not just in age, but probably in terms of “good taste”, too. I think about this statement all day. Though it’s probably marketing-speak not worth the scrap of paper it was scrawled on, perhaps there is some truth to AJ’s spin.

Those words flit across my mind while I watch Portishead. What feeling might they embody, then? I think ‘isolation’, then ‘boredom’. Cruel, perhaps. After an hour drinking in their enormous sound, though, I settle upon ‘empathy’. You’d have to be a hard bastard to not believe that Beth Gibbons was in a dark place, hurting, when she wrote these songs all those years ago. Even if she’s putting on a mask, 17 years later – who could sustain real sadness and hurt for so long, and still function as a performer at this level? – it’s a very convincing act. I fall for it, time and again. Right up until she thanks the crowd, and then lets out a nervous little laugh, just before the encore break. The spell is broken then and there, but I like her – and her band – a lot more after that tiny reveal of real human emotion. Earlier, I was put in mind of Interpol’s headline performance on this same stage in January. That, like this, was technically brilliant but delivered from a position of icy disaffection. The overwhelming enormity of a song like ‘Glory Box’ reduces these kinds of complaints to cinders, though, thanks particularly to its cutting, perfect guitar solo. During the encore break, two of the band members return to stage to thank AJ by name. “It’s tough doing festivals at the moment,” one says, “but I think this has got a really good vibe.”

Maddah seems to have won the hearts and minds of more than one band on the festival. Even Mogwai, the Scottish post-rock act whose pummelling output suggests inner gloom and discontent, make a point of dedicating their final song, ‘Batcat’, to their fellow acts on the bill. I stand behind the sound desk for the duration of their set, and watch the decibel meter spring from 70 to 95 – which, coincidentally, is the maximum sound level allowed on this stage, according to a note posted above the meter – during their 11 minute version of ‘Mogwai Fear Satan’. Weirdly, it doesn’t feel anywhere near loud enough, though the sudden explosion from near-silence to extreme noise provokes a surprised “Wow!” or two from those near me. On the same stage immediately afterwards, seeing The Flaming Lips for the first time is something best experienced, rather than described. The first 30 minutes engage all of the senses in the most impressive way possible. Then my attention dives off a cliff, until ‘Do You Realise??’ – though Wayne Coyne’s giant laser hands were awesome. The Lips look like they’re having more fun than every other band in the world put together, and they’re incredibly effective at translating that feeling from artist to listener. Now, finally, I understand and accept why so many people love this band. I think I do, too.

You’d have to drastically self-sabotage to have a bad time at Harvest, Brisbane. The weather’s perfect; neither food nor liquid supplies run out; I don’t queue for more than five minutes for anything; there’s a cash bar; there’s very little sound bleed; there’s enough toilets, and there are no bottlenecks between stages. It is a joy to attend a festival operating in perfect sync. While its southern cousins each drew a short straw, it seems, Harvest Brisbane is as near to a 10/10 as I’ve ever witnessed. The only act that comes close to disappointing me is The Walkmen, and they make up for their charmless meanderings by nailing their classic single ‘The Rat’. TV On The Radio own the main stage; their hour-long set continues to build momentum until the cathartic rush of ‘Wolf Like Me’. The Family Stone are wonderful, even if they do bang on about their Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame credentials a little too much. Bright Eyes, too, feel at home on the main stage: Conor Oberst’s transformation from introspective geek to stadium-sized everyman is remarkable.

Mercury Rev don’t impress me too much, though I wonder whether I’d feel the same way if they played at 8pm rather than three. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah provoke an excellent nostalgic trip by playing plenty from their still-great 2005 debut, while Hypnotic Brass Ensemble are uniformly enthralling across their hour-long set; local trio Gung Ho do a serviceable impression of their favourite post-punk bands, and Kevin Devine and his guitar provide a pleasant sight and sound to enter the festival just after 11.30am.

Between then and Portishead’s truly muscular headlining set, there’s a huge amount of good music and, yes, good feelings. Maddah’s gambit seems to be on the money, after all: though it was the bands that got us interested this time around, the festival in its entirety proves such a pleasant way to spend a Saturday that he’s likely to have won over a healthy proportion of repeat customers. Although, a tweet made by AJ immediately after the festival (then swiftly deleted) – “Wow! What a kick in the teeth. Just been informed by Parks Dept that this is the 1st & last Brisbane#HarvestAus” – hints that next year might be a challenge. Worth fighting for, I reckon, AJ.

The Vine

The Panics @ The Hi-Fi

Mon, 10 Oct 2011 22:23:06 +0000

Fri 7 Oct – The Panics, Georgia Fair, Atlantic City

The Panics
The Hi-Fi, Brisbane
Friday October 7 2011

I adore The Panics. For mine, they're one of the most consistent Australian bands in existence. I've seen them a bunch of times in the last five years, and it's been a joy every time. Tonight is no different. They perform their songs faithfully and passionately. There's not much more to it than that - there probably never has been, for these five guys - yet it works so damn well. These are finely-crafted rock tunes that each set an immediate mood and flow smoothly into the next. Tracks from 2011 release Rain On The Humming Wire comprise the majority of their 16-song set, as well as six from Cruel Guards and a pair from 2005's Sleeps Like A Curse, in the title track and 'My Best Mistake'. The encore break sees singer/guitarist Jae Laffer and keyboardist Jules Douglas run through a beautiful version of 'In Your Head', from the 2004 EP Crack In The Wall.

What doesn't come across much on their records is how goddamn hard Myles Wootton hits the drums, most notably on the insistent newie 'Endless Road'. Paul Otway's bass notes and Laffer's piano chords coincide with Wootton's tom hits, and the effect is hypnotic. The drummer tosses several pairs of broken sticks throughout the set. I search my memory for any recollections of his seemingly obvious contributing factor toward the band's potency on stage, but come up short. Either they're still evolving as a band, or I'm still finding new things to love about The Panics despite being intimately familiar with their catalogue. Perhaps both.

Just three songs in, during 'Live Without', it becomes apparent just how much they're enjoying themselves. Five musicians in perfect sync, at the peak of their powers, enjoying a well-attended headline tour after releasing their fourth - and arguably, best - album. Brisbane is no different: it's practically a full room at the Hi-Fi tonight. Laffer thanks the crowd for their support over the years, and suggests that this city has been among their biggest supporters throughout the band's nine-year career. It doesn't scan as a platitude from a jaded rock singer; it feels real and heartfelt. Like everything that The Panics do.

A treat for Brisbane fans arrives toward the end of the set, when Laffer introduces Robert Forster to the stage (see video below). They cover 'Finding You', a track from the final Go-Betweens album, 2005's Oceans Apart. Laffer sings the first verse while strumming his acoustic guitar, then leaves the rest to Forster, who seems chuffed to be sharing the stage with these five gents from Perth. Spidery lead guitarist Drew Wootton rocks back on his heels while eking out the song's evocative solo, casting the occasional smile toward their 54 year-old guest. It's a classic Go-Betweens track - an optimistic, three minute-long pop narrative on love lost - which has the sad side-effect of reminding us that Australia lost one of its best bands when Go-Bs co-founder Grant McLennan died suddenly in May 2006. There's only joy in the room tonight, though: it's written all over Forster's face, and reflected back by the audience. At song's end, Forster says "Ladies and gentlemen - The Panics!" and embraces Laffer before departing. A few moments later, the singer remarks, "Ain't life grand?".

The Vine

Footage of The Panics and Robert Forster covering 'Finding You':

Elixir feat. Katie Noonan @ Brisbane Powerhouse

Mon, 12 Sep 2011 00:27:09 +0000

Fri 9 Sep – Elixir

The true mettle of any musical outfit can be measured against how they perform in adverse situations.

Six hours before this show, inner-city Brisbane is subject to a torrential downpour. When Elixir begin their first set of a two-night stand, a chill wind runs through the makeshift outdoor theatre.

It stays this way throughout their 90-minute performance. Yet besides the occasional raised eyebrow and witty quip between songs, the three-piece jazz trio and their string quartet stay focused, airborne sheet music be damned.

Eight years have passed between Elixir's self-titled 2003 release and last month's First Seed Ripening. Late in the set, singer Katie Noonan remarks that she was "much younger, single, and not a mum" when she first wrote Tip of Memory, the first track from their debut. Soprano saxophonist Zac Hurren -- Noonan's husband -- beams approvingly.

The trio is completed by guitarist and rhythmic linchpin Stephen Magnusson, who sits straight-backed centrestage and remains stoically poised, even while deftly navigating the fretboard.

Unexpectedly, the insistent gusts add dramatic heft to Elixir's elegant compositions. It's quite something to behold Noonan's purple dress aflutter while she emotes through remarkable voice and outsized gestures.

At times, the purr of a side-of-stage generator is louder than the musicians; wind can be heard through the singer's microphone.

A couple of covers are aired, though the trio prefer to consider them "tributes". There's a spacey version of the 2007 Radiohead b-side Last Flowers, which features Noonan twiddling with a vocal effects unit, and a loose interpretation of Joni Mitchell's My Old Man.

Highlights include new track Hemispheres, thanks largely to the intricate string parts that bookend its six-minute narrative, and Tip of Memory, with contrasting string accompaniment of violence and beauty arranged by Paul Grabowksy.

While rubbing her hands together in a final attempt to generate heat, Noonan declares the band are heading inside "to test the theory that red wine makes you feel warmer. We'll do our own market research".

Their finely crafted set ends with Snapshot and words from Noonan that are less suggestion than command: "Go home and cuddle, to keep warm."

The Australian

Big Boi @ The Tivoli

Tue, 30 Aug 2011 04:31:08 +0000

Fri 26 Aug – Big Boi, Theophilus London, Thundamentals

Déjà vu. I swear I saw Big Boi and crew perform this exact same set in Sydney last November. Granted, that was a very good set for a three man team: Boi, co-MC Blackowned C-Bone, and DJ Cutmaster Swiff. This time around, his touring unit is filled out by a four-piece band: a drummer, a guitarist, and a two-piece horn section, complete with choreographed dance moves. The latter three wear matching red jumpsuits. It's a pretty full stage for a hip-hop show, especially if you take into account the backdrop used to project music videos synced in time with the setlist.

Part of me wants to let Big Boi off the hook, because this set is so tight that, if I hadn't seen it before, I'd be blown away just like I was nine months ago. The only dull moment comes – strangely – during the encore, when the band stumble through an interminable section filled with ham-fisted solos by each of the musicians, including a scratch session courtesy of Swiff. Things are made even more awkward by the fact that 16 women from the crowd are on stage at this time, attempting to dance simply so that they're not standing still. Moments ago, they were all bumping to 'Tangerine', one of the sexier tracks from Boi's ace 2010 debut, Sir Luscious Left Foot: The Son Of Chico Dusty. Then they're left to stand around, taking photos of one another, while the band tread proverbial water until Boi's stage manager moves them to either side of the focal point, Swiff, who queues up 'You Ain't No DJ' and indulges in a teased-out intro before dropping that killer beat.

The other part of me feels short-changed by the fact that, in those nine months since the MC last visited Australia, he's made absolutely zero changes to his live show. There's a lot to be said for conducting a polished 80-minute performance that flows smoothly (except for the aforementioned lull in the encore). There's also a lot to be said for laziness. Adopting a "one size fits all" approach for an entire album cycle's worth of live shows smacks of apathy. The confusing part is that Boi isn't phoning it in. Neither are any of the other guys onstage. But: dude, would it kill you to mix it up a little? Instead of breezing through a medley of three of Sir Luscious' best tracks - 'General Patton', 'Follow Us' and 'Daddy Fat Sax' - in two minutes, how about airing them in full? A chorus from each track is a bit of a joke, especially when you play some of that album's weaker tracks ('Shine Blockas', 'Fo Yo Sorrows') in their entirety. Although 'Sorrows' is understandable, I suppose, as it fulfils the contractual obligation for every rapper in history to dedicate a song to those in the house holding pot.

The Outkast songs, too, are rushed. 'ATLiens' runs into 'Skew It On The Bar-B' meets 'Rosa Parks'. 'Ghetto Musick', 'B.O.B.' and 'The Way You Move' all segue into one another. So too do 'Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik', 'Player's Ball' and 'Elevators'. During these medleys, the projector cheesily announces each track in capital letters, which shows just how rigidly this performance is structured. There's not a second left over for improvisation, for stretching; for breathing. Tonight is probably interchangeable with any other night of Boi's last year spent touring this record, and that is a fucking shame. It's the hip-hop equivalent of clocking on, putting in the requisite work, then clocking off. Afterparty, hotel room, airport, flight, soundcheck, repeat. Maybe I'm not the only one feeling déjà vu.

The Vine

Splendour In The Grass 2011 @ Woodfordia

Thu, 4 Aug 2011 09:01:18 +0000

Fri 29 Jul – Splendour In The Grass 2011

I reviewed this for Mess+Noise in three parts. You can read all of them here.

'Meet Me In The Middle Of The Air' @ Riverstage

Mon, 25 Jul 2011 05:41:16 +0000

Sat 23 Jul – Meet Me In The Middle Of The Air

To read this review on thevine.com.au alongside photos by Justin Edwards, click here.

The headline event of the annual Queensland Music Festival (QMF) is a pairing of Pauls: Kelly, cherished songwriter, and Grabowski, acclaimed pianist and composer. I've seen it advertised on three huge billboards across Brisbane. Dubbed Meet Me In The Middle Of The Air after one of Kelly's songs, it translates as a statement of intent on behalf of QMF organisers. Yes, we deserve to be taken seriously! And evidently, when you need serious credibility and adult-contemporary appeal in this country, you turn to Paul Kelly.

This particular show premiered in Kelly's hometown of Adelaide in 2006. It was reprised in 2008 and 2010 in Sydney and Melbourne, respectively; this is the first time it has been actively toured, with six shows taking place across capital cities. On a clear July evening, the set begins at an unusually early 5.50pm, which undoubtedly trips up those who expected the event to conform to the Riverstage's regular 10pm curfew. It's about 12 degrees. Most of the capacity crowd are sat on rows of hard plastic chairs; general admission are left to find comfort up at the back of the hill. Once the band file out, there are 19 on stage including the two Pauls: the six-piece Choir With No Name, singers Vika and Linda Bull, and the Australian Art Orchestra. Immediately, their sound is clear and precise, and it remains this way throughout the following 90 minutes.

Early on, Kelly - clad in a smart grey suit - makes his first of several addresses to the crowd. He tells us that holding this show in 2011 makes sense, as it's the 400th anniversary of the King James Bible, which he deems the English language's single most important document. Accordingly, most of tonight's songs will revolve around themes raised in that text, although "the devil will drop by from time to time", he says. This gets a chuckle out of the crowd; less so, Kelly's revelation midway through when commenting on the abundance of 'God' in his lyrics, despite his being an atheist. It's an uncomfortable moment, as it appears that the largely middle-aged - and, judging from the crickets, largely Christian - audience are silently deciding whether or not to be offended.

Ultimately, tonight feels more Grabowski's show than Kelly's. Though he assumes the conductor's role only a handful of times, two things are made very clear: that he is in control of the musicians on stage, and that he's a master jazz pianist. Most of the Art Orchestra are allowed their moments in the spotlight: guitar, double bass, clarinet, saxophone, trombone, violin and cello are all allowed distinctive solos, and are dutifully applauded by the crowd. Only a couple of Kelly's album tunes make it into the set, and none of his most recognisable work; instead, we hear 'Be Careful What You Pray For', 'God Told Me To' and the show's title track, during which Grabowski leaves his stool and slowly walks across to the singer while clapping slowly and obviously. They ad lib vocals around the song title for a while, and it's clear that they're looking for the audience to engage with an impromptu clap-a-long a la any rock 'n' roll show in the world. It's not forthcoming; at least not from where I'm sitting. After introducing the entire band by their full names, Grabowski draws our attention to Kelly; to paraphrase, a man who never acknowledges his contribution, either on stage or to Australian culture.

At times Kelly leaves the stage entirely, deferring vocals to the Bull sisters. These are the show's low moments, and though vocally exquisite, they threaten to lose entire sections of the crowd. After a particularly meandering, lengthy song led by Linda Bull, a general admission punter yells, "We want Paul!". She coolly responds that he's "on his way". It's that guy's fault for anticipating a more accessible set of tunes, perhaps, but I'd wager that his complaint is being thought (or whispered into their partners' ear) by a decent chunk of the crowd. There are glimpses of fire and inspiration, and of real humour when the singer indulges in an increasingly frenzied full-body dance toward the end of a song, before walking off without so much as a cheeky backward glance.

When the orchestra click during the midsection of 'God Told Me To' they're brilliant. But these sections are tempered with slower, softer songs led alternately by the Bull sisters. They are fine singers capable of holding the crowd's heads and hearts. But they aren't Paul Kelly. And it's his name on the billboards.

The Vine

Karnivool @ The Hi-Fi

Mon, 27 Jun 2011 23:15:42 +0000

Fri 24 Jun – Karnivool, Shockone, Over-Reactor

Karnivool
The Hi-Fi, Brisbane
Friday 24 June 2011

Karnivool, what went wrong?

I'm appalled by what I see and hear tonight. Maybe it's because I gave Sound Awake one listen upon release in 2009 and shelved it under "impenetrable". This, from a longtime fan, who has spun Themata—the band's 2005 debut—probably more than any other album in my life. The two releases could well have been conceived by different bands: at their inception, this Perth five-piece favoured punchy, engaging hard rock compositions which averaged four minutes in length. Four years later, their ambitions have shifted toward cavernous prog-rock epics which regularly nudge the 10-minute mark. Yawn.

Somewhere along the way Karnivool plain forgot, by and large, how to write hooks. Of the eight Sound Awake songs aired tonight, only a handful of times do they hit upon anything resembling a steady groove. The standout from that crop is first single 'Set Fire To The Hive', yet even this track is laughably unwieldy. (That bit where the guitarists share a riff that's meant to sound like wasps swarming? Hilarious! Cracks me up every time!) It doesn't help that here's a complete absence of humour on display tonight, and it's seemingly infected their songwriting to the point every song is laced with noodly, 'atmospheric' guitar lines and extraneous 'serious' percussion.

The longer I watch them tonight, the more I become convinced that the source of my disappointment hinges on this last point. On Themata, guitarist Drew Goddard wrote and recorded all of the drum parts. They're amazing; the title track in particular (which is still the best thing they've ever written), and overall Goddard's percussion was flashy and innovative, but never over the top. Then drummer Steve Judd joined the band full-time.

Every track on Sound Awake is covered in his percussive fingerprints, and all suffer for it. Rarely can the dude lock into a steady rhythm; he seemingly has to show off by switching between a shitload of unconventional time signatures ad nauseum. It's maddening. I can't be the only one who notices, because his damn constant fills remove any groove that might allow the audience to headbang/mosh/dance. Most of the time, there's just no steady rhythm whatsoever—he's all over the shop with percussive flights of fancy, leaving the guitars to become the rhythmic focal point. Judd's inability to stop himself from churning through every single song like he's auditioning for a drum solo has altered the structure of the band.

Perhaps irrevocably. They play a new song tonight (titled 'The Refusal', according to this) and again, it's a hodge-podge of rote distorted riffs coupled with a percussive dog's breakfast. It sounds like shit. (Though interestingly, bassist Jon Stockman steps up to the mic to provide back-up vocals for the first time in the band's history.) From up on the balcony, I look around the room and completely fail to understand how anybody is engaging with this music.

Karnivool are all talented players; we get it. Their ambitions lie more toward prog-rock than hard-rock; fair enough. It's healthy for bands to change. For sure; they're certainly not the same band that recorded one of the best Australian debut EPs ever released—2001's Persona (there was a dodgy, self-titled EP before that, but let's pretend it never happened, okay?). But Karnivool have chosen sonic intricacy over songwriting. (I wish I could say that it was hurting them, but that doesn't seem to be the case at all: this show sold out months ago; a second show in 10 days' time mustn't be far off.) Which is not to say that long songs are the enemy; Porcupine Tree and Tool are two acts who can shoot past the 10-minute mark with interesting results (Sidenote: boy, do Karnivool ache to be mentioned in the same breath as those two bands).

No; the enemy is bloated, unwieldy-for-the-sake-of-it songwriting. Their encore consists of just one "tune", 'Change', which seems to stretch into eternity (were eternity around 12 minutes long). It ends—mercifully—with singer Ian Kenny strumming an acoustic guitar and Goddard faffing around on the floor with what looks like a mini Korg. It's tacky and pretentious. At this moment I realise that the Karnivool I once knew and loved are dead to me. Vale.

The Vine