Stanier Black 5 took to the stage. Deep menacing sound was unleashed upon us, an intense stream - an endless bellowing grind - a blockade. This is heavy environmental sound taken from shipyards and aiports and god knows where else..Punctuated by mallets slamming against huge hulls, the underlying drone blazed on like a hellish engine. A hypnotic boom/doom. The grey-black catacombs of a space-bound starship. Invokes the work of Jean Marc Vivenza. A real event.
Clap. yay. Beer. Cough Splutter.
Dunedin's lack of enthusiasm for the event was palpable at this point. The cold, the competing events, the malaise, the parochial prurience of it all. 'Twas a shame to send our SB5 back home after such a poor showing. Even the 5 foot non-spectacle that is Crude couldn't get the punters in. It's always strange though - experimental music is a niche music. Its a specialist music, only appreciated by a micro-community. So, it makes sense - but still, the bulk of the Lines of Flight crowd didn't show. Neither that nor the art crowd, nor Judas, nor the 12, nor the priests, nor the scribes, nor doomed Jerusalem itself.
The Hyenas, whos very name was coined by Sammys venue manager, were the 3rd act of the evening. A nasty rocking-and-a-rolling did ensue. Krystal-krunch bass sound, guitar-splay-spray, deep heat, deep beat. Eyes on stalks. Brain community. Aluminium smelter. Song slurry. Industrial light and magic. The dear punk bloke. Lee Renaldo's poetry. Thrace. Deny and defeat the iron law of Oligarchy! Harappan civilization. Clap. yay. Beer. Cough Splutter.
Then I got on stage. Artificially comfortable in the womb-like zone that is the stage, I spat out a low-energy performance, drab'n'droll, looping the priest, audience participation and a vegemite sandwich. Something of my set appeared like a djs and so a couple of clubber-chaps stroll up on stage and ask me to let them wish someone happy birthday. Sci-fi-ulu spat a few long-gone rhymes and danced for a bit , 'if yr happy and you're know it', and unlike usual I went on too long instead of the reverse. Nagarjuna! Many lifetimes! Time travel!
TFF were on next, all cocky and looking forward to a well-earned tour of the SI with die die fukn die . A certain nihilism could be felt oozing off the band this night,
resulting in a furious performance. Clap. yay. Beer. Cough Splutter.
Next up - Bastardwisher. These chaps are perfecting their craft. Better and better.
Jason Barretts sax sly and unsettling over the electronic schnitzle, Glasgow and Holmes pumping and headbanging - bilious shreiks and screams erupt from their depths. The best Ive seen them. It wouldn't have been vintage BW if not for at least some aggression towards solid objects and we were in for a treat, the sound guy deftly prying Holmes off a fold-back speaker he was writhing around with, then guiding his seemingly performance-possessed frame away from a drum kit, and in the end...it was Holmes own lap-top that felt the fury. A brilliant set.
Yah. Yah. Yah.
If you wanna be my brother, what you wanna be.
If you wanna be my sister , what you wanna be
Yah Yah Yah
Yah Yah Yah
Yah Yah Yah
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yah yah yah
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Stone the flamin' crows.
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