Ding Dong on a Saturday night and the crowd slowly builds for the freak show of Martin Martini and his Bone Palace Orchestra, but before the madness (and most of the punters arrive) there’s an undercard of ill chosen supports.
Fronted by the gyrating Peta Sergeant The Bellows would probably kill at Tamworth or a beer barn supporting Shannon Noll with their country booted rock. The band are solid in support, but the show’s all about Sergeant as she high kicks and rolls about the stage like an understudy to Juliette Lewis. The show climaxed all too literally with Sergeant on her knees moaning and heavy breathing into the microphone while jerking off a shaker. It’s the stuff of an amphetamine induced trucker fantasy, but at a sparsely populated Ding Dong it raises a few smirks but little heat.
Jun Joshua make a point to stress the pronunciation of their name – basically they want it read with an Aussie accent and none of that Spanish lisping – œYun’. Though why anyone would care to learn how to pronounce the name of a band producing such a soulless blend of competent corporate rock is never quite explained. Perhaps the world needs bands to play politely in the background while accountants down a few Friday drinks, but Maroon 5 CDs are probably a cheaper option.
Recently returned from a tour that took in the Edinburgh Festival, London and Berlin Martin Martini and his Bone Palace Orchestra are back playing pub gigs though the surrounds of Ding Dong seem ill equipped for the band who seem better suited to a circus tent or zoo cage, but the freaks have been let loose tonight. In his red baseball cap and torn t-shirt Martini is naturally the centre of attention leading his crack orchestra like a bunch of VCA folk playing kook after the bottles have been drained and the party really starts.
The uninspired conformity of the support acts becomes even more jarring in contrast to Martini’s unconventional approach. With the inclusion of trombone and clarinet in their ranks the Bone Palace risk straying into overly theatrical indulgences and the dangerous territory of cabaret rock. It’s a perilous line to tread with the ever present danger of falling into the undergrad fringe festival oddity of the – œlook at us we’re zany!’ variety. But Martini’s loving tributes to North Korea, and murderous clowns sound like a more like a maniacal take on the Randy Newman songbook than forced eccentricity.
Announcing that his clarinettist and guitar player are sleeping together against his better judgement, Martini then launched into Monkey and Sardine offering a disturbing glimpse at the cross species romantic liaisons meeting with his approval – - œIt doesn’t matter where you find your love, just as long as you find your love. With her own fanclub dancing and worshiping at the front of the stage Natasha Rose plays a mean guitar despite her mild mannered librarian looks and Sam Dunscombe attempts to remove his shirt while playing his clarinet without much luck.
While the pub isn’t the natural environment for the Bone Palace gang, their theatrical absurdities seem finely tailored to the same festival circuit that was so kind to the Cat Empire. And though Martini may lack the pop element that let the Empire crew cross from Arts student favourites to pop winners, their songs and engaging live show deserve the attention. In a world where Randy Newman and Tom Waits can write the soundtracks for kiddie films and Tim Burton’s visions can become mainstream movies, why shouldn’t monkeys and sardines fall in love and the Bone Palace become stars.
Perhaps their show needs a full theatre performance to truly blossom and realise the visions of Martini’s demented lyrics – the musical path strutted by Eddie Perfect, lurking in the Ding Dong crowd with his bleached quiff in preparation for the launch of his Shane Warne musical, seems to offer a likely path to success for Martini’s strange talents.
To the theatre, Martini!
Leave the dull support acts back at the pub and venture forth.
