Tenniscoats, Gudrun Gut, TheDeadnotes @ The Powerhouse,Brisbane (20/02/09)

Sun 1st Mar, 2009 in Gig Reviews

Post-storm shenanigans at Queensland Rail delay all the trains. This means I miss the angular instrumental haikus of Brisbane experimental outfit The Deadnotes.

Thankfully there’s still sufficient room to squeeze past scores of bright young things into the claustrophobic confines of the Powerhouse’s Rooftop Terrace. Terrace is a misnomer – a low, gently curved ceiling, coupled with the bleakness of the un-rendered concrete walls, generates a distinctly bunker-like atmosphere.

It’s an ambience emphasised by the near-zero lighting for German electronica auteur Gudrun Gut. And, with nearly everyone seated (some even reclining against cushions on the floor), the whole affair quickly assumes the lazy air of a listening party as Gut unleashes approximately half-a-dozen tunes from her laptop, including an impish cover of Smog’s Rock Bottom Riser.

She skilfully blends a slew of textures, rhythms and influences, but this largely pre-packaged laptop music – apart from the occasional bursts of husky Dietrich-like vocals and touches of harmonica – reinforces our detachment. Between these brief bouts of activity she dances – her sculpted face lit by grainy black-and-white video screening against the graffiti-tagged wall behind. The contrast of performer activity against audience stillness accentuates our voyeurism. The applause, however, is loud and genuine.

A short intermission later and a grand piano looms near the centre of the room. To one side sits a small drumkit all snares and cymbals. On the other is a keyboard that, oddly, won’t be used tonight. A quiet, expectant hum rises as people rapidly cluster around this centrepiece, creating an intimate in-the-round effect.

This headlining appearance by Japanese avant-pop legends Tenniscoats heralds the close of Room 40’s Fabrique series. Perhaps this accounts for a crowd whose diversity exceeds than the hipster demographic generally drawn to an oddball niche act like this. Free entry can’t hurt, though.

Any audience disinterest disappears immediately. Saya and Takashi Ueno instantly seduce all doubters with a piece of tonal brilliance – Saya fusing hesitant melodica with a continuous swirling ambience that Takashi strokes from a half-filled wineglass. The diminutive Saya circles the piano, the movement adding a folksy earnestness to the endeavour as she begins to pipe in aching, little-girl-lost glossolalia.

It seems a whimsy of sound, a naive folk that some would dismiss as a twee indulgence. But as the set progresses, Saya taking to the piano while Takashi picks up a six-string, Saya’s childlike clumsiness – blending an instinctual sense for melodic poignancy with fractured half-heard notes and sing-song vocal quavers – vies with Takashi’s now-shimmering, now-dissonant fretwork in a compelling hither-and-yon fashion. It’s this bold edge-of-chaos approach that sets their sound apart and keeps the listener hooked for the next note. And the next.

And perhaps because the English-speaking listener doesn’t understand the smattering of vocal content, there’s never a risk of it becoming cloying or overwrought.

Two tunes characterise the performance. The deliberate intonation and inflections of Saya’s Japanese balances the haunting klezmer bounce of the piano to generate a spectacular awkwardness on Donna Donna. Even sans the horns of the original, it’s dreamily compelling. Still, it pales to the organic beauty of Baibaba Bimba, Takashi’s uplifting guitar refrain providing a gentle bedrock for Saya’s nursery rhyme vocals. And as she coaxes us all into the sing-song lilting chorus, it’s suddenly like we’re all hanging in one exquisite moment in time. Just as it ought to be with the best music.