Swarm Festival @ The EsplanadeHotel, Melbourne (17/10/09)

Thu 22nd Oct, 2009 in Gig Reviews

Walking out of the blinding Melbourne sun into the sombre darkness of The Swarm Festival’s Hornet’s Nest (a.k.a The Espy’s Gershwin Room) feels pretty wrong but getting there in time to see the end of the first act makes me happy.

The Day Late – a five-piece group that the oldies would call – œmetal’ – are pretty fucking good. Melodic, frantic and – God bless – in time. I am especially enarmoured with their keys-and-sounds-man. He didn’t get the black t-shirt memo and looks happily un-metal (in a nice white shirt) but dang it, he’s having such a cracker of a time and that sort of joy is infectious.

Shade overlaps, kicking off the Hive Stage (a.k.a the front bar) while The Day Late are still playing. Two blokes – one of whom is wearing his heart on his shirtfront (- œHarden The Fuck Up’), two chicks and, well, sing it to me sister, these ladies are wicked. A vocalist that pulls massive notes and could probably hold one for five minutes and the bassist: I defy anyone of a certain age to glimpse this woman on stage and not conjure images of Tia Carerre in Wayne’s World.

Back to the Hornet’s Nest for Sleepa and at this juncture, the floor is still pretty vacant, the chill is starting to creep in from the ocean. After a tortuous soundcheck that sees their set start twenty minutes later than anticipated Sleepa launch with even more sound problems. They start to shake the wobbles off halfway through their first song and their second – the maturely titled Dick Face – is much better, if undercooked. Nothing much else happens here and if they funneled half the excitement of playing The Espy into figuring out how to professionally perform – ie, a fifteen-minute band changeover is not long enough to tune all the guitars, boys – things might be different.

On the Hive Stage Gabba Flasted are kind enough to introduce themselves to the crowd (I am constantly amazed at bands who don’t bother) and as soon as they start – funky and heavy with a lead riff on acoustic guitar – I think they’re great. If roots/jazz/theatre/funk/rock/metal is your bag, get along to a show. Special props for the call and response of “you wanna be a rockstar, but you can’t – œcause you suck.” It could well be the “no way get fucked fuck off” for a new generation. Maybe.

After a dash for earplugs (listening to metal bands play to half empty rooms with wooden floor boards is shit) it’s back to the Nest for Get To The Chopper, who kinda remind me – in a good way – of Infectious Grooves (if Infectious Grooves were from the suburbs). The vocalist swings between his deep gameshow-host-singing and the spoken word that bands quite like lately. A tight, funky band they make a good impression. They are, mind you, just one of the bands in earlier timeslots who championed the notion of getting shitfaced as soon as possible: bit painful for me, as I was gearing up for 10 hours of sober writing amongst drunk, hardcore fans.

The Final Eclipse are a fine looking band whose variety of heavy rock may befriend stadiums and alternatives alike. Easily my pick of the day so far in terms of quality, their merging of guitar shredding and radio friendliness bought to mind Foo Fighters and that ilk and then fuck me, they close with a perfect cover of The Fooeys song My Hero. There you go.

Meawhile, Phill Para is cornering classic rock in the basement. Punters lined the curved wall and I feel like I’ve intruded somehow. The cow that Phill Para’s leather jacket is made of was the great-great-great-great-grandcow of a few leather jackets dotting the rest of the venue. Phill will probably outlive all you punks.

Up the back stairs and back to the Hornet’s Nest to see Husk’s leadsinger whip his shirt off in preparation for their set: they go into some dark places on the first movement, lightening up on the second. Bassist has terrible dreadlock envy and vocalist wants more volume – I want more depth. Still, they’re good players, grooves are solid and changes crisp as fuck. They do pretty good stuff, plus clear enthusiasm makes up for weaknesses. Not very original; good crowd though.

Dora Mar are on the Hive Stage by now. Really good vocal wrapped in a SHOUT IT OUT LOUD neon t-shirt (alarm bells, Gen Y alert) then he speaks and is a bit too nice. Mildy interesting, mildly same-same but the chick drummer is a killer. Perhaps not literally.

To the basement for Shake Down, who’ve changed their name to Tempting Fate since the posters got printed and provide respite to the heaviness with non-offensive pop-rock. A reasonable job but they don’t get anywhere lyrically.

Sadhana prove to be one of the more polished acts of the day and worthy of a main-stage slot. They have some innovative pre-recorded sounds woven in and are roadtesting a couple of new songs that lack the OCD tightness of the rest of the set but are uplifting nonetheless. The near-capacity room clearly love them and the “yooful” front man has punters eating out of his hand (maybe – œcause he keeps throwing merch at them). Energetic, intense and engaging.

I whip down to the basement again, bemused to see a couple of tipsy fillies in racewear proclaiming to the bouncers that they’d love to see live music. (They didn’t stay long.) Kids In Cults – in their Latter Day Saints garb – show their own propaganda film, declaring that they bring quality music, committed performance and style back (a la Timberlake and his – œsexy’). They promise to make us dance and bless them they bloody do. They remind me of jumping around, drunk on Passion Pop, in small town halls with local grunge punks when I was 17. That’s gotta be a good thing, right?

Bellusira tackle the darkness of the Hornet’s Nest with, er, more darkness. Crazy-arsed projections, lasers, smoke machines and the theatrically evil temptress out front, igniting people with high notes. Compelling and totally sensory, Bellusira are a pretty epic voyage – with roared backing vocals.

Listening to From The Ashes was like wading through concrete. Progressive promise translates as MOR for me and though they arc up in the end, I don’t care. I’m nearly asleep. Sorry boys, maybe it’s me.

Die Smiling have the basement packed when next I visit. Their stage makeup ranged from white-face to full zombie skeleton and given the current ‘Hey Hey We’re Racists’ climate I find it quite useful that they are all Caucasian. An unpainted lead singer pops up from somewhere and joins the mad mariachi party. It’s pretty cool: groovy, dance-able but more conducive for throwing oneself around. Which I usually would. But it’s like being in a sardine tin in here. The rock, however.

Maybe I have a thing for dudes in shirt, tie and leather jacket but Engine 3-7 impress me. Loads of double-kick, theatre (prevalent across the board today), fat bass grooves, diverse changes and arrangements. A standout.

If I didn’t see people dirty dancing to Jerrico, I’d scarcely believe it. But I do. And I’m not really surprised. These guys could make me do just about anything too. Maybe it’s because their commitment seems more real, maybe Jerrico are just better than the few today who wished they emulated the same quality. I dunno. It’s just, like, electrifying and that.

Mushroom Giant have stormy skies, inspirational quotes and all manner of darkly regal-looking shit projected behind them as they begin playing. Guitar soundscapes over double time hi-hats and thumping bass. They do a song called Doin’ Heroin. Interesting that music about heroin always sounds the same. I really like it, but I’m not about to try heroin just to find out why. I start to wonder if anyone’s gonna sing and realize I don’t even care. This is the most I’ve enjoyed music today. It’s like a soundtrack for when you leave your body. I nearly go into a trance. A few people wander off to see Mammal but the Hornet’s Nest seems even more womb-y and evocative than normal; I’m not ready to go back to the cold front bar.

Not ready for the stamina and fervour of Mammal. Not least because I’m still recovering from the last time I reviewed them and Zeke leapt onto the stage I was hiding on, scaring the shit out of me in the process. Meanwhile, Mushroom Giant are shaking me out of my coma – interspersing metal shredding and catatonic blackness – fast and loud – effectively, scaring the shit out of me in the process. At least it was a slow burn up til this point. Conniption-inducing projections flash like strobe lights and I decide to hazard a look at Mammal.

They’re as mental as usual but the crowd – from my vantage – seem reasonably subdued. The first time I saw them I thought it was the second coming of Jesus. This time I’m underwhelmed. I nip out for a fag and return to find the crowd has switched themselves on, Zeke is hanging from the banister and everyone is losing their minds, dancing, going tribal and throwing their arms around. I remain unmoved and uninspired. Shame, really.

MM9, while highly recommended, struggle to pull much of the Mammal crowd with their white light columns and tricked-up drum kit. Realising that pills are kicking in all around me, I think about joining the vast majority at the taxi rank. MM9’s produced sound is an odd follower for Mammal – I suppose the idea is that people would wanna party on. The band do: fresh as daisies, they are absolutely pumping – and who knows, probably one of the better acts of the day but after nine hours of band-spying, I have to leave them to it.

CHECK OUT THE AMAZING PHOTOS OF THE FESTIVAL HERE