Racing into the night picnic that is The Corner —deckchairs, tables and tea lights—I catch the last song of The Orbweavers set—a song that pulls the tempo right out of me. A simple yet sublime affair, their sound is drums, fender and acoustic underscoring a deep, somewhat timid vocal from a librarian-esque young lady with a church mouse speaking voice. First impressions aside, this lady’s performance is as close to faultless as I could expect and bought to mind Natural Born Killers, cow boy hats, Somersault and heroin chic all at once. Gorgeous. They make to exit and as she picks up a violin from behind the foldback I kick myself for not getting there earlier.
Cloud Control are scrambling out of a cab as that violin is escorted off stage, having come directly from the airport. They maintain the sleepy vibe on their opener and take a good song and a half to figure out where they are and what they are doing. They seem to catch the precise moment where 50s pop becomes 60s age of Aquarias: the perfect metaphor for their sound lies in the lead singer and his keyboard-playing partner-in-harmonies; he in skinny black jeans and a white tee, she the epitome of 60s chic in a knock-out frock. Bit off kilter, but lovely, the bass line in the second track is especially cool. Just For Now opens with a suggestion of Bobby McGee but evolves into ramshackle pop folk, while the group hit their stride with Vintage Books, the rhythm section (complete with Beatles mini-kit) getting into a top groove. Into The Line has the Jim Morrison of my mind stumbling over a sand dune, or at the very least, Sonny and Cher on acid. The highlight, and last song, is Death Cloud, a rollicking, refreshingly original number that boasts awesome drum rolls and vocal play. Cloud Control are like the 60s being pushed through a 90s sieve and running through fresh, with all unsightly lumps eradicated. Splendid. Especially considering that they flew in for one show and will be on the 7am flight home.
The crowd swells considerably and when Miss Holly Throsby strikes her first note the chattermonkeys—who have barely drawn breath throughout the first two sets—all of a sudden shut up. Her amazingly sweet, clear voice floats out over these full-grown adults, all sitting cross legged, engrossed, like a huge class of prep kids totally enamoured with their teacher’s gentle, bedraggled aura. A pin dropped would be like a gong sounding.
Her long time band, Bree van Reyk and Jens Birchall, joined the lady of the night on stage, bringing an extraordinary depth of musicality with them. Mandolin, glockenspiel, drums, accordion, keyboards, bass and cello all played an intricate part in the music and bought together a wonderful sound for Holly’s impeccably dulcet performance. With eccentric nodding—as though her forehead couldn’t believe the crystal sounds emanating from her lips—she barely breathed her lyrics: she most likely snores beautifully.
Throughout a set that drew largely from her new album, A Loud Call, Holly’s delightful stage banter was considered and self-depreciating, hinting at the wicked: I can’t think of any instance where someone has sounded so lovely when talking about animal’s genitals. Feeling detached from the show, I made my way to the front of the stage, like a moth to a flame, as Holly, Jens and Bree flawlessly moved between instruments and delivered tunes that were light like air, warm like sunshine, with Jens even guesting on a duet. The Music, words and lyrics delivered on the drifting feather of Holly’s voice, were like a cool hand on a warm brow. In all a splendid evening.
