Baseball, Grey Daturas, FaitAccompli @ Roxanne (23/05/08)

Mon 26th May, 2008 in Gig Reviews

TO CHECK OUT THE PHOTOS FROM THE NIGHT CLICK HERE

On the Friday night that saccharine pop frosted the airwaves; those who chose not to risk toothache via television, forsook Eurovision and hit the streets despite the fact that it was the coldest night of the year in Melbourne. Brave punters that ventured into the seedy laneway named Coverlid Place and took the dingy elevator up to the 3rd floor of the Charltons building were greeted with a bright neon sign that screamed – œRoxanne’.

If the sounds emanating from the crack-den like bowels of the Roxanne parlour were deafening from just outside, once inside it was ear-splitting. Fait Accompli were putting the finishing touches to their set and if one managed to get over the aneurism inducing volume they would’ve noticed a few inconsistencies in their timing. The lively punk peddled by a guitarist, bass-player and drummer-cum-vocalist could’ve been tighter – a little less fuzz on the bass also may have helped their cause.

After a long and excruciating sound-check The Grey Daturas flooded the spaces with swirls of windswept distortion, a long percussion-less introduction saw them literally willing the feedback from their amplifiers. Drone bands are often a fascinating live prospect and the Grey Daturas were no exception. Like a vocally reticent Unearthly Trance or a less acerbic, tribal tom-tethered Sunno))) they were appropriately hypnotic but somewhat directionless, leaving the uninitiated swamped in roiling seas. Once again the volume was far too loud given the relatively small size of the venue – each hit of the snare drum felt like a rock-hammer to the skull.

Another agonising sound check with nails-on-chalk-board feedback and teeth-rattling beating of drums preceded the headliners. It was a relief to all that the ragtag bunch of oddities named Baseball finally traipsed onto the stage in the wee hours of Saturday morning.

Baseball is a band of contradictions, an aural paradox as much as a visual one. Wild-eyed front man Thick Passage (yes, that’s what he calls himself) in a normal world would’ve played drums, but here he warmed up by settling his chin on a violin and spreading his legs like he was stretching a hammy. It was the petite nymphette Evelyn Morris who sat behind the kit that created muscular drum patterns completely belying her slight frame. Evelyn and Monika Fikerle (bass) combine to form a solid proto-punk rhythm section that propels the band. Ben Butcher’s meandering, shoegazey guitar which comes across a little generic on songs like Soft Boy Factory otherwise succeeds in being a vital counterpoint to Passage’s disillusioned-pilgrim holler on Land of Darkness, Land of Dogs and the affecting Mozart and the Whale.

Thick was a natural focal point, prancing around in tennis shoes, short-shorts and controversy baiting t-shirt blazoned with pictures of guns and Arabic script, the only recognisable English words reading – œOsama Bin Laden’ and – œJihad is our Mission.’ He channelled Jello Biafra and Frank Black to deliver his tremulous epithets before returning to his patented hamstring-stretch pose.

While there was much to be enjoyed in the sonics and antics of Baseball, the performance was once again marred by the inordinately high volume (Did I mention that before? That the sound was bloody loud? Well, it was). The only thing that maybe achieved by having stadium level sound in a pill-box sized venue is a frickin’ brain haemorrhage, and after more than three hours of cranium shattering noise the cold weather and ridiculousness of Eurovision seemed strangely appealing.