Alice in Wonderland is one of my favourite books. If I ever met the Mad Hatter I’d ask him if he knew Tug Dumbly. Dumbly is a madcap freak caricature come to life, unique in his slapdash style of comedy performance poetry and in musical diversity. Though he leaves the poetry behind tonight, it doesn’t mean he’s left the hilarity with it. All up, with Dumbly on guitar, the Hellsong Gospel Choir consist of keys, drummer, saxophonists, and double bass player who whips out crazed jollified melodies on a kazoo. They set out on a journey enthralling us with a cacophony of chaotic honky tonk comic rock, their skill as performers getting everyone up and going from early on in the proceedings.

Playing everything from ludicrous originals, wistful seashanty laments and a weird ass ballad to Eddie McGuire – picture this – they also squeeze in an eclectic range of covers from an inspirational bunch like Bob, Cat and Elvis to Split Enz, Eminem and Nancy Sinatra. And while you’re at it, soundtrack it with Dumbly’s vocal which stretches from satirical whining, Bob Dylanesque drone and Memphis-Elvis drawl. Add it all up and you’ve got a genuine mish-mash oddbod variety show. Who said vaudeville was dead? In between songs, he raises the bar for theatrical shindig bonhomie with kaleidoscopic discussions about inbred farming hicks, whiskey and lost love, Benny Hill, endearing Australianisms and old world sailors “looking for sluts under street lamps”. He briefly questions new feminism and the ugly politics of raunch culture though I’m not sure where this is heading as he fails to elaborate any further. Maybe he should read Naomi Wolf. But adjusting the gears, he leaves the guitar and it’s time to cover a rap number from “fantailed brother” Eminem. Doing what he does best, he verbally speed balls through each verse better than any race horse commentator.

You might have your serious rock star poses and skewed haircuts in indie land but Dumbly is the antithesis and a breath of fresh frenzy. Executing his trademark collection of cocksure self-deprecation and parody, the only thing he took seriously was his comic timing and musicality. And yeah maybe his hormonal Elvis hip swivelling. Towards the end my face was aching far too much from smiling and laughing. People had discarded their winter blues by throwing cardigans and coats onto chairs kickin up a foot storm to ‘Viva Las Vegas’ and Tug’s spontaneous adlib through ‘Suspicious Minds’. The relentless pace of comic pleasure never let up. Becoming righteously gospel, he invoked maniacal preacher with hands in the air vowing to save your soul on this night of the Sabbath. Tonight, he’s also celebrating forty one years and, aaah, with an audience singalong of ‘Happy Birthday’ you think it ends there right?

It only precedes ‘The Stripper’ song which sees Tug licking his lips, lifting his shirt and delicately caressing his nipples with spasmodic hip thrusts in gratitude for an appreciative audience. Momentarily, the Botany View transforms itself into a dancing saloon where social control could easily have flown out the foggy windows. To say it was just a fab night would be an understatement. It injected summer heat into your aching winter bones. It was an insight into a curious onstage persona. It was better viewing than the Big Brother live eviction. It was one of the best live gigs I’d been to all year. Hell! It could have been Tug’s version of a Mad Hatter’s Tea Party and you’d be wise to look out some night and catch him down the rabbit hole.