With a pocket full of change and a little taste for the bizarre, the Harbourside’s last gig for 1995 promised eleven hours of music from eleven bands and no pass-outs, so you were indeed trapped for the long haul. After making the venue my home for the evening there was certainly nothing to do but sip shandies and oscillate wildly. Oh, and lock lips, but that’s another story.
Fresh faced Beanbag started the tour with a Tumbleweedish heaviness, their vocalist at times – many times – struggling to get in the right register. With a Chevelles guitarist moonlighting as a bass player amongst the surf-shirted grunge kids, their simple revved tunes were a bit frontal for four in the afternoon and I think a melody shot was also in order. But it is early for these guys yet.
Meanwhile, the outside stage was getting its first testings from the funk metal outfit Dirtbag. With every note being measured for noise pollution, the cry went up from the crowd to not clap because we might send the levels over. Dirtbag knew the score and had a bit of a chuckle about the whispering crowd, introducing staccato-tight numbers like Smoo and Pelican as “really loud songs”.
Drummer Smith’s backing vocals were especially worthy of note, the tight chops of the whole band getting a quiet double thumbs up from the steadily building masses.
With two bands on at the same time there was a constant stream of human movement between the stages. Inside, Humbug celebrated their name change for the evening to Humbag by blowing everyone away with some great sonic pop songs and a great deal of on-stage tomfoolery. These folk genuinely have fun up there – guitarists chew the strings during solos, drummer Tim Jewel looks like he’s constantly out of his seat and screaming the lyrics (he does not have a mic) and singer Ryan Johnston has now mastered his bass, vocals and dance steps so he does not stare blankly ahead anymore.
Humbug are truely a find and must now be considered as one of this city’s real performers. No less than five different groups of people asked me who they were with much nodding and grinning.
Squidfinger suffered at the hand of a dodgy sound mix, their usual heartbeat-arresting bass lines swallowed up in the mash of loud guitar noise. The disco thing is pretty dull without that full-on bass propulsion, but Squidfinger’s adoring fans, especially femme fans, threw their bodies about anyway as the sun set and turned Chris Carpenter’s mirror boots into blazing orange beacons. It was like New Year’s Eve, 1976.
Beaverloop also grabbed the crowd by the neck and gave it a good shake, the outdoor option being a fantastic change from the hot, indoor crush in front of Mother Star. Actually, it was the neat jazz groove of Scratch N Sniff that eventually pulled me back inside, their excellent, subtle muzak getting a little wiggle from the crowd while the Beaverloopians sent the outdoor moshpit silly.
Beaverloop’s Loon X-Wing – bass guitarist, spokesperson for a generation and silly hat wearer – was in fine form as usual, leading his pogoing minions from the front and blasting forth the musical agitpop of an age: the perfect soundtrack for the police helicopter with a big spotlight in the distant sky. Wow, it all sounds very Judge Dredd, doesn’t it?
With Book Of Funk bringing everyone back to the organic actuality of Fremantle, the outdoor crowd transformed into the earthy, tree-hugging folk that live there. Leopard skin waistcoats and harmonicas, ragga dance and enviro-speak, Book Of Funk are an acquired taste and a hell of a lot of locals have had a nibble. It’s that ability to dance in sandles which I still haven’t mastered …
The inside stage saw Perth power popsters The Chevelles and Header trade licks without skipping a beat, a match of the most melodious and complimentary kind. The Chevelles sound was harder and heavier, the guitars tuned to squeal, the harmonies lovely. Header, likewise, were like the antipodean Charlatans with frontboy Ian Freeman crooning and preening and shaking his bowl-cut hair. Header have some fine tricks and easily kept the crowd rabid for the Circus Murders loon-fest to follow.
Faces painted with silly masks, Fremantle’s nuttiest professors had everyone bouncing off the walls in another dexterous display of their own cabaret o’ thrash. With the room absolutely full to bursting and the shandies kicking in for a majority of the patronage, the big bubble burst around 2am. Much to my relief actually, I had forgotten the wonderment of space and quiet.
Adam Connors
