Gareth Liddiard, Dan Kelly @the Factory, Sydney (24/03/11)

Sat 26th Mar, 2011 in Gig Reviews

It’s well-known amongst Nana’s and the tweed jacket set that swearing is a sign of a poor vocabulary, but Dan Kelly and Gareth Liddiard are two shining examples of young men with an unswerving ability to punctuate a polysyllabic barrage with a deftly dropped F-bomb.

Strangely, there’s not been a lot of popular demand for surrealist, smart-arse pop or eight-minute bare-knuckle folk tales about rural mailmen. There is, however, a loyal crowd of people waiting for just such songs in the Factory Theatre tonight. Well, more so the latter: the excellent (and often underrated) Dan Kelly didn’t get much of a reaction from the crowd with his brainy silliness, though not for lack of effort on his part.

Flying solo with only a guitar and an array of pedals to help him, Kelly proved himself a clever and self-deprecating performer. As with Liddiard later in the evening, the introductions were as entertaining and hilarious as the songs themselves, filled with talk of Bindi Irwin as the next Mad Max and other such stream-of-consciousness chat.

Dedicated to Tony Abbott, Drunk On Election Night was a cheeky bit of political ennui that seems just as apt for the NSW State Election. In the “cocksucker, motherfucker” section of the chorus, Kelly flicked easily between singing and self-mockery as he tried to cajole the crowd into singing along. Given that most crowds seem to pounce on any chance to swear publicly, it was disappointing to hear the audience’s dim response, though the applause that followed suggested they were merely timid rather than disengaged.

By the time Gareth Liddiard took the stage, the crowd was rapt and ready to savour his every word. In such a crowded room, the silence was almost terrifying. It’s heartening to know that an artist of such unsettling and confrontational character can still pull a large and dedicated crowd, and Gareth rewarded the commitment with a captivating performance verging on two hours long.

Though the songs sound much the same in either case, Gareth Liddiard is a performer best witnessed live, for a number of reasons. Strange Tourist is a beautiful record, but it’s a harrowing listen, and its brutal sparseness can become draining. Live, there’s as much banter as there is music. Between songs, he slips into a broad Australian drawl, his slow manner of speaking hiding a powerful mind and a sharp wit. His rough-hewn look and unpretentious air keep the mood light – starting off the set with album opener Blondin Makes An Omelette, Liddiard turned a muffed line and a false start into self-deprecating comedy, before diving back into a song that uses a 19th century French tightrope walker as a metaphor for colonial attitudes.

That dichotomy relieves so much of the pressure on the audience that it’s then easier to absorb every detail of Liddiard’s intricately written lyrics. Sung in a voice that moves from strained howl to grizzled mumble, Liddiard’s songs feel like films in miniature, with detailed imagery and mysterious characters.

It’s that kind of narrative heft that sustains the intense Radicalisation of D, a near-twenty minute epic that tracks the life of an Australian boy who grows up to be a terrorist. Liddiard’s lyrics place the camera unnervingly close, watching as poverty and a distant father build slowly to a chilling end. He sings The Radicalisation of D with a restraint beyond most of his other material, and it’s all the more unsettling for it. When he finally uttered the closing lines, “There’s a building in Manhattan/and it’s burning”, the room sat in dumbstruck silence for a moment.

Then Gareth cracked another joke, and the tension evaporated.

Gareth Liddiard is in his element on stage. As a songwriter, as a musician, and as a performer, he is unparalleled.