Sue/Ara, could you fill in the name of TMOC’s bass player, I can’t recall who he is! Ta.
With the stretch marks and face imprints still fresh on the walls from Saturday night’s Tumbleweed, The Mark Of Cain, The Fauves and Motorspirit doorbuster, Sunday instead saw both crowd and band members brush shoulders in a mutual appreciation of each other.
Like an end of tour chill-out jam, it was a gig for punters who wanted to see the bands, have a shandy and not have their nose buried in someone’s scalp. A perfect weekend closer, really.
In terms of low-end, sub-woofer grunt, The Fauves certainly don’t compare to their heavier touring counterparts. What they did have however was a generous ear for tricky timing and contemporary Australian pop, their latest material from the Future Spa CD diluting slightly their earlier trademark stop/start theatrics (see Thin Body, Thin Body for instance).
Self Abuser and Sentimental Hotel Journey made early appearances, driving home the newer pop angle of The Fauves. Vocalist Andrew Cox added to the laid-back Sabbath sensation with small talk between songs, somewhat offset by the fretless bass-wielding and bald Andrew Dyer, his sliding basswork in the frenzies of Dogs Are The Best People and the older The Driver Is You adding the requisite grunt.
So like a Stormtrooper crushing the skull of an Ewok, The Mark Of Cain’s entrance was brutal on the previous pop puppy, both sonically and topically. With drummer Campbell Robinson encased in a heavy steel welded drum frame and not nearly a fringe between any of them, TMOC laid down the law with drilled precision and few comforting words.
Through the sheer might of every synchronised beat, You Let Me Down, Battlesick and LMA thundered bludgeoningly out of the Planet soundstack, sometimes causing temporary arrhythmia from the combined force of four powerful sounds striking the body. With the spread-legged stance and roving stare of bass player XXXXX fitting the measured words and sounds of TMOC, their point was surely taken.
In comparison, Tumbleweed were hippy dippy star gazers. The words ‘sun’, ‘moon’, ‘stars’, ‘galaxy’ and ‘universe’ were all there, Tumbleweed’s mid ’70s kind of rock and roll harking back to anthems, topless Valiants and their very own Galactaphonic(s).
Richie Lewis, forever the fine voiced and head shaking frontman, was again impressive as he skipped from the simple rock of Sundial and Hang Around, the slow beauty of Acid Rain and the whacking pace of Lava Bread and Dr Collosus. By gig’s end the crowd had screamed themselves hoarse for the appearance of Daddy Long Legs, a song sadly absent and even more so considering Tumbleweed decided to end their set with a flurry of covers.
With the crowd dissipating as Beat On The Brat (Ramones) and Brown Sugar (Rolling Stones) again found mindless existence upon the stage, I have to sound a huge raspberry to Tumbleweed. The continuing calls for Tumbleweed songs fell silent as the punters filed out, a bemusing mess to end a night of quality original music.
Adam Connors
