The Toff in Town is just the venue for Dave Graney. A baroque excursion of sumptuous red, padded walls and dark clusters of tables and chairs, it has the warm feeling of a lounge, supper, cabaret club. The man of the hour, as always neat and stylish in slacks, fitted jacket and cheesecutter hat, moves comfortably through the room before the gig, greeting friends, welcoming long time fans, while lady-wife Clare Moore opts for a quiet corner, a glass of something, and the company of old friends.
Dave takes the stage to thank his guests for arriving on time and introduce their support for the evening: Barrage. By name and by definition as it happens. As Dave retreats to the mixing desk, the man who would be Mark Gomes to his mother has a delicate, dare I say, geeky, look about him; his whole set leans toward a science student working on a sonic, er, barrage, of noise, music, manipulated recordings and his own earnest, sometimes fractures, sometimes strong, voice.
The whole affair seems terribly unplanned, as he pushes buttons, fiddling with his magic box of samples, switching from normal mic to effects mic, but giving the impression that the whole thing is totally planned as he releases a cacophony of sounds – many of which did not originate from your standard musical instrument – that despite seeming mismatched, really come together to make sense.
Some tracks are underscored with infectious jungle beats and delicious grooves, others borrow heavily from 80s synth/keyboard influences and even though Barrage’s vocal style could also be branded an 80s baby (think somewhere between Bernard Sumner and Gordon Gano) he is completely original. The line between music and performance art blurs as squeaks and squeals eminent from his sample palette – sounds that edge dangerously close to the end of listen-ability without falling off the precipice. A hardly surprising choice of support by Mr & Mrs Graney-Moore, the lady on the next table sums it up neatly, remarking to her partner, ‘He’s out there, he’s out there.’
After an interlude filled with red wine and chatter, the sophisticates settle down for the main attraction, chuckling kindly as Dave appears on stage in tight leather pants and jacket, a jaunty, black, peaked cap on his head. Looking less like a man with golf on his mind, and more like a man who’s auditioning for the next gay icon role, Dave is a total showman. I wonder, for the first of many times during the night, how Clare puts up with him, even though it’s clear that his charm and wit would be no match for the toughest of ladies.
Explaining, logically and in typical longwinded fashion, that you never see the name ‘Dave Graney’ furnishing cardboard signs nailed to trees outside blues and roots festivals, Dave almost sounds put out, before explaining that there was a simple reason for this: he doesn’t do roots music. Somehow, I’m From The Clouds is supposed to be his take on this oversight. The first offering from their new album We Wuz Curious , it’s a sprawling, dirty drummed, jazz/lounge fusion with a twist of rock. Perhaps not ‘roots’ but it’s definitely Graney, with epic, lyrical imaginings.
Stuart Perera, a long time Graney/Moore collaborator and lead guitarist for The Lurid Yellow Mist, constructed the music for a song about being a country boy, ‘called,’ says Dave, to much laughter I Was A Country Boy, a tune about a greenhorned hick who infiltrates the Melbourne music industry to find himself up against rich, musical, junkie types. Stuart unleashes his first solo of the night (that’s what you can do when you write the song yourself) before You Had To Be Drunk . A funky, seventies bent delivered with conversational hand gestures and punctuating chuckles, Graney offers this explanation as to how he survived the last few decades.
Shedding his jacket to reveal a black leather vest with a black see through shirt underneath, Dave opts to play one of the oldies and pulls out Feeling Kinda Sporty, the rockiest thing to come out of tonight’s set list thus far: sans guitar he’s free to take on a new dimension, prancing and punching. Whatever the next song is, it’s a more slow burn, maybe slow borne? Sleepy, floating backing vocals from Clare and bassist Stu Thomas are a lush velvet background to Dave’s Americana spoken word.
The back half of the room chatters on happily. It’s vaguely annoying as Dave is putting on a fair show, but at the same time ignoring him seems forgivable as the music takes on a mood that could easily glide into the shadows. Such effortless lyricism flow through Stu’s composition – an edgier tribute to chord change with a stream of piano bumbling and tumbling behind it all. The other Stu (Perera) gets caught up in an epic guitar solo that no one else stops for.
Let’s Kill God Again is a ‘call to arms’ funky as shit with addictive riffs and bass lines; falsetto happy – a total cracker. Great radio track that would have any god botherer tapping their foot, it might not make it to Nova though with these ideas. Junk Time is Clare’s contribution, a reference to the dying minutes of a football game where no one cares since the deficit of defeat is too great to try bother trying any harder, or specifically, applying that ethos to the entire universe. A lovely 80s vibe with Clare’s beautifully off key backing vocals swimming together with her husband’s dark, broody, oft raunchy performance. He’s an icon, as we know – a total poser, performer, comic.
Now it is keyboardist Mark Fitzgibbon’s turn for his showcase: tricky chords in a stage show number that is a few good taste pegs off ending with jazz hands It all gets very involved, as Stuart Perera does in another (borderline trademark) blistering guitar solo. As his template the rest of his band mates play something boring (not to be confused with average), singing the same bar ten times more than was really necessary.
I Like To Be Haunted is a return to form – funky guitar, tight, lush; somehow erratic and controlled at once. Lighthearted but seriously delivered. Clare keeps the beat with fairy queen hair hanging in her face, eyes closed, the meditative muse, as the next number bleeds into sultry, atmospheric spoken word.
A gentle yet complex boudoir slice of chamber music that flirts with 70s club acid trip inspiration. Dave takes back the conch with a hilarious diatribe about his gargantuan ego and the annoyance he seethes when his vibe is infiltrated by people from lesser universes. Aptly titled My Schtick (Weighs A Tonne) he delivers with trademark cocksure swagger as the lounge guests laugh along with him and close a delightfully warm, funny, sometimes outrageous night.
