LIVE REVIEW: Dirty Three

Hamer Hall, June 14, 2024

Photographs: Rick Clifford

Judging by the lack of people who look under 40, tonight’s audience will be hoping for rowdily-invoked memories of the 1990s, when the trio we are all here to see would pack bar after bar with what felt like a brand new style of music. First here in Melbourne, later other cities across the country, then across the world. That intimate sense of being seduced, transfixed then overwhelmed is difficult to replicate in the sold-out Hamer Hall, but it is also a natural response, shared by hundreds of thousands of people who have heard the music of Jim White, Mick Turner and Warren Ellis. Two and a half thousand of those people are here tonight, plastic cups of booze in hand, layered up against the cold, filling the seats. As the houselights dim and the cheers subside, Boz Scaggs' seventies rock classic Lido Shuffle bursts from the speakers. With the arrival of its anthemic chorus, familiar to anyone who has ever seen a film at Hawthorn's Lido Cinemas, the three men arrive on stage, the ever stolid White and Turner looking as if they've come to conduct a tax assessment, Ellis as if he has just won the lottery. "Fucken Melbourne!" he shouts at us. "Fucken MELBOURNE! Well, this is a bit better than The Great Britain," he says referring to their first ever show. "No, hang on, what the fuck was that venue on Commercial Road?" "Bakers Arms!" shouts a guy from the stalls. "That's it," replies Warren. "Were you there?" Nathan from the crowd replies in the affirmative. Nathan is promised a t-shirt from the merch desk for helping Warren measure just how far his band have come, a journey that often seems to confound him. This interaction sets the dynamic for the rest of the night. Maybe around a quarter of tonight's two and a half hour, ten song set, consists of Warren chatting to the crowd and the gig is no poorer for it.

 

The band open with Love Changes Everything I, the first song from their new album and one that sounds like the Dirty Three clearing their collective throats – all squalling feedback, loops of violin noise, scattering drums, gestural piano and warm fragments of distorted guitar chords. Ellis paces the stage, kicking the air and shouting to the rafters, horsehair flying off his bow, white hair and beard flung outward. Like a mustang loosed from a stable, Ellis embodies the spirit of the song and the band with every fibre of his being. Long before the song devolves into squelching feedback, I can't be the only one thinking, "where can he go from here?" The answer is more, and harder. The band ease into another, longer and more melodic track from their new album, Love Changes Everything II, which promises that the orchestral qualities that made their late 1990s recordings favourites among so many of their fans is still very much part of the trio's DNA.

 

"The new album’s out today, the vinyl," says Ellis. "That was a couple of tracks off it. Please buy a copy and send Dirty Three to the top of the charts. When we started out, we were trying to write hit singles," he waits for the laughter to die down. "That never happened." Turner and White wait while Ellis takes a seat at the front of the stage to continue the conversation. “My people! My people! What’s been going on?” He's up for a chat, and it sounds like everyone wants to get some Waz-time. People shout back and Ellis either wilfully or mistakenly misinterprets almost everything anyone says. "Taking heroin!" shouts one guy. "Go to Adelaide?" says Ellis. "Is Justin Kurzel here?" Undaunted by the acoustic assault that accompanies every question or observation, the long-time resident of Paris welcomes the chance to be back. “We were told we couldn’t come on at eight o'clock because our audience was still at the bar," says Ellis. "This is such a fucking nineties crowd.”

 

Eventually the getting-to-know-the-audience section of the show ends, and we are treated to a journey through what is by any measure a phenomenal batch of albums. "This is one of the first songs we wrote in St Kilda," says Ellis, getting to his feet and returning the microphone to its stand. "St Kilda is a suburb in Melbourne. It used to be a lot of fun. This is called Indian Love Song." A swaggering, chaotic, euphoric version of the opening track from their self-titled album – 30 years old this year – erupts. It finds room for audience participation and one of White's more notable drum solos of the night. We are now three songs and one hour into the show. Hope, from their album Horse Stories, follows, a gorgeous languid moment amid the chaos. Sea Above Sky Below is dedicated to the memory of its recently passed producer, Steve Albini. Throughout the night, hundreds of people call for one of the band's most renown tracks, Everything's Fucked. Finally, they oblige with a titanic version that sounds like it could have been the culmination of a long summer's Saturday night at the Tote in the mid 1990s. The cacophonous drawn-out tension, the near silent release of the melodic hook as Turner slides his hand up the neck of his guitar to pluck the bell like arpeggio, Ellis following with restraint and subtle vibrato. These dynamic qualities are also on show for the stunning songs that follow, Some Summers They Drop Like Flys, and Authentic Celestial Music.

 

As we move chronologically through the band's repertoire, tempos slow and songs stretch out. Looped violins become more frequent and White, always a figure of calm as he flings his arms outward and upward, increasingly acts as a magnet for the other two. Ellis plays most of his parts facing the drummer, Turner never looks away and White rarely looks up. The dynamic, baked in from day one, seems to make the venue smaller, as if we could in fact be watching a show in a pub in the 1990s. "Do we have a curfew?" Ellis asks someone offstage. The audience, naturally, bay for the show not to end. After an effort to reopen Hamer Hall's bar fails, and the house lights come on, then off again, the band reluctantly ease to a close with another track from their new album, the delicate and surging Love Changes Everything VI before returning for an encore of Sue's Last Ride. A stunning end to a show that was a lot more than, as Ellis facetiously referred to it earlier in the night, "the best show we've played in Melbourne for 12 years". It’s maybe the best show they’ll play anywhere for the next 12 too.

REVIEW: The 77th Cannes Film Festival

FRENCH CONNECTION

 

The 77^th Cannes Film Festival was marked by the arrival of the MeToo movement in France and defined by stories that focused on the experiences of women.

"Carn. Cans. Can." Meryl Streep takes a moment at the podium and gazes out at the formally dressed audience. It is the opening night of the Cannes Film Festival and all 2300 pairs of eyes rest on her. "We Americans think it's fancy to say Carrrn," she deepens her voice, softens her Rs and arches her brow until it frames a knowing look. "But it's wrong. Cannes," she says, now softening the A and crisply exorcising the final three letters. Streep, recipient of over 200 awards for acting and maybe the last woman on Earth who needs to receive another, is in the process of doing just that. Holding her honorary Palme d'Or, presented moments earlier by fellow acting legend Juliette Binoche, she beams. "This prize is unique in the world of cinema, and I am very, very honoured to receive it."

 

For 77 years, Cannes has endured wars, financial and political crises, labour revolts and a totemic shift in film production and distribution (and that’s just in the last 12 months) to remain unique in the world of cinema. The place best known to some film fans as the destination of Mr Bean’s Holiday remains the global capital of theatrical filmmaking and solemnly reverential toward those who create it. The pride with which the festival takes in tradition is routinely mocked and quietly remarkable. 

However, systemic change is afoot. Days before Streep’s speech, the French government launched an inquiry into sexual and gender-based violence in cinema which comes in the wake of charges of rape and sexual assault levelled against acting icon Gérard Depardieu. Over the last year, the introduction of chaperones for minors on film sets and intimacy coordinators – once inconceivable for an industry in thrall to the vision of the “auteur” – have become commonplace. If there is a face of this change it is actress and director Judith Godrèche. Best known for starring in Ridicule and alongside Leonardo DiCaprio in The Man in the Iron Mask, Godrèche was one of the first to bring charges of attempted rape against Harvey Weinstein, a crime she alleges took place during the 1996 Cannes Film Festival. In February this year, she filed charges of rape against directors Benoît Jacquot and Jacques Doillon. All three men have denied her allegations.

Last year, the festival opened with the Johnny Depp-starring French period drama Jeanne Du Barry. This year, the Un Certain Regard sidebar opened with Godrèche's Moi aussi, a short documentary that features personal testimony from hundreds of women in the industry who have experienced sexual abuse. “I am a whistle,” Godrèche said at the premiere. “What we need is a fanfare.”

The festival’s version of a fanfare is the standing ovation. A fixture of every premiere, applause is not an effective measure of quality, but it can be a mark of the film’s first tentative steps into the world, as is booing. The only film at which I heard both was the festival's most expensive and ambitious, Francis Ford Coppola’s Megalopolis. Coppola nodded, bowed and occasionally wept for eight minutes as the Grand Cinema Lumiere expressed its appreciation (though for those keeping score, there was another full minute of applause mid-film in response to a moment of metatextual interactivity that I won’t spoil). The director of The Godfather and Apocalypse Now describes his absolutely unhinged $120 million self-funded science fiction opus as “A Roman epic in an imaginary decadent modern America.” In it, Adam Driver plays Cesar, a visionary architect with soaring plans for New Rome, a dystopian analogue of New York City. Cesar has fallen in love with Nathalie Emmanuel’s Julia, daughter of the city’s corrupt mayor, Franklyn Cicero, played by Giancarlo Esposito. Cicero doesn’t want to lose the world over which he rules, and plots Cesar’s downfall. While one dreams and the other schemes, Aubrey Plaza’s ambitious journalist Wow Platinum begins a relationship with Cesar’s billionaire uncle Hamilton Crassus III, played by Jon Voight, and Shia LeBeouf’s cross-dressing spy Clodio stalks marbled halls, hissing lines like, “Revenge tastes best while wearing a dress.” Even Coppola, who admitted to rewriting the script 300 times over 40 years, professed not to fully comprehend his creation. As I heard one critic say, while queuing for Andrea Arnold’s Bird the following morning, “Anyone who claims to understand it after a single viewing is lying, and no-one will ever watch it twice.” 

Bird is a much easier film to love. Arnold’s gritty, vibrant ode to girlhood follows 12-year-old Bailey, who lives in a liberally graffitied London housing estate with her equally liberally tattooed father, Bug, played by Saltburn’s Barry Keoghan. Bug is breeding a toad that sweats a hallucinogenic slime he is hoping to sell to fund his imminent wedding. Outside, London is all housing estates, green fields, and free roaming children and animals. While on one of her frequent ventures, Bailey meets the elfin Bird, played by Franz Ragowski, who is trying to find his parents. Arnold's film is warm, frequently hilarious, often wincingly violent and tinged with a magical realism that proved divisive among critics. 

Coming of age films, such as those in which Godrèche was cast when she was a child, have been a fixture at Cannes since its inception. The difference today is that they tend to be written and directed by women. Alongside Bird, this year’s selection features Agathe Riedinger’s Wild Diamond, a French film about an influencer and hustler whose life is upended when she successfully auditions to be on a reality television show and India Donaldson’s Sundance triumph Good One, a minimalist, slow-burn story about a hiking trip taken by a father and daughter and a reminder that the 90-minute movie is not dead.

Emilia Perez is Jacques Audiard’s musical about the head of a Mexican drug cartel who hires a lawyer to help fake his death and arrange gender-affirming surgery for his transition. Bought by Netflix, Winner of both the Jury Prize and the Best Actress award for its female leads Selena Gomez, Zoe Soldana, Adriana Paz and trans Argentinean actor Karla Sofía Gascón, Audiard’s audacious film is a compulsively engaging character study overflowing with brio. If the synth-heavy songs like La Vaginoplastia don’t linger in the memory, their context and performance certainly does.

Also not leaving the memory any time soon is The Substance. Coralie Fargeat’s Best Screenplay-winning feminist body horror charts the psychological and physical disintegration of Demi Moore's fitness celebrity, Elizabeth Sparkle, who engages the services of a mysterious company that allows her to create “the best version of herself”. This version is played by the younger Margot Qualley, who emerges through a gaping wound in Moore’s back, the first of many exercises in grotesque excess, all in service of Fargeat's commentary about beauty, youth, women’s bodies and the pressures of the entertainment industry, inspired by Moore’s memoir, Inside Out.

 

Only one film at Cannes this year features a dehydrated and screaming Nicholas Cage in the foam of a West Australian beach, forcing a dead rat into the mouth of a surfer called Pitbull, and it wasn’t Yorgos Lanthimos's follow up to Poor Things, the darkly funny Kinds of Kindness. Lorcan Finnegan’s equally entertaining The Surfer, the sole Australian contribution to this year's program, sees Cage returning from thirty years in California to the town he grew up in with dreams of buying his father’s house and taking his son for a surf. Instead, he encounters violent localism from a surf posse headed by Julian McMahon’s Scally: “Don’t live here? Don’t surf here.” Inspired by Australian new wave cinema, The Surfer is buoyed by Finnegan’s potent visual style and Cage’s brand of sympathetic intensity which was on powerful form at the film’s premiere as his cries of “mangez le rat!” ("eat the rat!") from the stage of the Grand Theatre Lumière echoed throughout its standing ovation.

The festival’s most consistently funny and original title was Matthew Rankin’s Universal Language. In Rankin's world, a wintry Canada has adopted Farsi as its official language. Two schoolgirls find a 500 Rial banknote frozen in a block of ice with which they hope to buy a pair of glasses for their friend after they were taken by an errant turkey. Rankin harnesses the dry wit of Garrison Keillor, the precise framing of Wes Anderson and the colour palette of an Soviet industrial estate to create a film full of sweetly weird situations and sight gags.

 

Another out of competition highlight was the 67-minute documentary La Belle de Gaza. Director Yolande Zauberman hears of a trans woman who walked from Gaza to join Tel Aviv's queer community. In the backstreets of the Israeli capital, Zauberman earns the trust of a tightknit group who share their stories and talk about their bodies, religion, sex work and families (some of whom will kill them if they return to their home countries) as Zauberman’s camera watches them pray, sing, dance and hustle. In 2024, La Belle de Gaza feels like a minor miracle.

 

Sean Baker's Anora was another story of sex work. One of the few American films in competition, Baker's film was purchased by Neon, the distributor responsible for the last four Palme d’Or winners. Anora moves with the riotous energy of a 1930s screwball comedy as it trails the romance between Mikey Madison’s Anora and Mark Eydelshteyn’s Ivan, the son of a Russian oligarch. With dreams of escaping his family and becoming American, Ivan pays Anora $15,000 to be his “very horny girlfriend” for a week, during which they party in Las Vegas, and marry. With echoes of Martin Scorsese's After Hours and the Safdie brothers' unrelenting Uncut Gems, Anora proved irrepressible to the festival's judges – a group led by Barbie director Greta Gerwig that included Lily Gladstone, Hirokazu Kore-eda and Eva Green – who awarded it the festivals' top prize, the Palme d'Or.

About as far from the heightened energy of Anora as it is possible to be is the film that took the runner up prize, the Grand Prix. All We Imagine as Light is Payal Kapardia’s intimate account of the lives and struggles of two Indian nurses working in a hospital and sharing a small apartment in Mumbai. The first Indian film in competition for 30 years, and the first ever directed by an Indian woman, Kapadia’s film glows warmly, framing its protagonists with deep empathy as they move through the metropolis, beginning and ending relationships in a story that lingered long after its twilit beachside ending.

Another film likely to recur in conversations throughout 2024 is The Apprentice. Among all the possible subjects for that most leaden of genres, the biopic, Donald Trump is likely to be among the least desired. Yet, Iranian director Ali Abbasi has crafted a sharp crime saga that focuses on the notorious lawyer Roy Cohn, played by Succession’s Jeremy Strong, and his mentorship of Sebastian Stan’s aspiring real estate mogul from the early 1970s until the mid 1980s. Already the subject of a lawsuit from both Trump and a financier who thought The Apprentice would be more flattering to the former president, Abbasi's character-driven approach allows the many criminal and unethical acts portrayed to speak for themselves, though whether people want to spend time with these characters is another matter.

Last month, another Iranian director, Mohammad Rasoulof, was sentenced to public flogging and eight years imprisonment for making films that Iran's revolutionary court deemed “examples of collusion with the intention of committing a crime against the country’s security.” Mid-way into the festival, word spread that Rasoulof had defied authorities to flee Iran and attend Cannes. As Rasoulof walked the red carpet, up the stairs and into the film's premiere, to applause that felt celebratory, he held photos of two of his film’s lead actors, currently detained for their involvement in the film. Filmed in secret, The Seed of the Sacred Fig is a domestic thriller in which Misagh Zare plays Iman, a newly appointed investigator to the revolutionary court. The promise of a new house and status is undone when loses his gun, a crime that could see him jailed. Iman accuses his law-abiding wife and two teenage daughters, participants in "Women. Life. Freedom" protest movement, of stealing it. As pressure grows both inside and outside the family's cramped apartment, Rasoulof intercuts real social media footage of police brutality, making for a powerful film that topped critics polls and offered a searing insight into the impossibility of being a "good" citizen.

"It is so much quieter this year," an Uber driver told me, toward the end of the festival. "It's no good." Due to last year's screenwriters and actors' strikes, this year's festival featured fewer American films. Instead, more focus has been put on female-fronted events and the festival's unofficial awards. The competition for the Queer Palm – awarded to the film that best deals with LGBT+, feminist characters and topics or challenging gender norms – was fierce, with the award going to Three Kilometers to the End of the World, Emanuel Parvu’s claustrophobic account of virulent homophobia in a small Romanian town. Last year the Palm Dog, the award given to the best canine performance in a film, went to Messi, the border collie from Anatomy of a Fall. This year a griffon mix called Kodi, star of the lightweight legal comedy Dog on Trial, a film about the judging of a mordacious dog, took home the prize.

 

“It was an embarrassment of riches this year in terms of cinema,” said Gerwig during the closing ceremony. “We really led with our hearts for everything we watched.” As the films make their way into Australian cinemas and onto streaming platforms over the next 12 months, cinephiles can be sure of finding films to love.

Kings of Convenience, Magic Steven and Banjo Lucia

The Forum

"I am wearing a boob tube and... fuck. I mean, I have never worn one before and it is freezing up here." Fremantle singer-songwriter and pianist Banjo Lucia laughs and takes a sip from a sippy cup that, like her clothing, also becomes the subject for extremely personable chit-chat. Lucia has been steadily building a career as a sassy and insightful performer who, much like an ocker Joanna Newsom or Fiona Apple, has a penchant for songs that have few chords, a lot of lyrics and fluid vocal melodies. What really stands out from her brief set is her personality. “I had to walk in the rain before and I have bangs so you can imagine how traumatising that was,” she deadpans before breaking into a smile. "Anyway, this next song is a cover of a song by Cher. It's a very obscure, low-key track you've probably never heard before, uhh...it's called Believe." While the interpretation offers nothing new, and her own songs like Big Big Fish and the closing That's Not Loving, showcase a reality television show's worth of melisma and a tendency to use four notes when one will do, there is a talent and a personality here that could fuel a record label for years. It’s an odd thing to write about a singer-songwriter who writes such deeply personal songs, but Lucia is so funny and engaging and such brilliant company that you wish she would put more of herself into the songs, or at the very least announce a stand-up show. 

Unusually, tonight's second support act, Magic Steven, is not a musician. Steven, a middle-aged man in a cap pulled down over his handsome face, reads to us from a notebook. Over the course of the next 25 minutes, we are told detailed and compelling descriptions of a personal search for meaning in day-to-day life. Beginning with a forensic linguistic analysis of bookmarks, Steven progresses to reading a book about creativity that provides him with the inspiration to "look for clues". Tricking his body into changing his mind's relationship with caffeine, his darkly comic journey gradually becomes more focused and curiously profound. However, a reading this drily humorous and well-constructed is one that rewards attention, and few in the room have the patience for Steven's odd mix of philosophy and humour. He loses the crowd, yet this only gives his performance more meaning. That he is reading a story about paying closer attention to the world around him as the world goes on without him adds a layer of pathos. By the time he is describing the surprisingly profound impact of the abysmally reviewed Christmas film Holly and the Hot Chocolate, and he shares its message, "When something out of the ordinary happens, you should pay attention,” something out of the ordinary is happening. That almost no one seems to be paying attention is oddly perfect. Magic Steven is an inspired choice for an opening act. Seek him out.

By the time Kings of Convenience arrive, the Forum is full of chattering couples and groups of friends who are rapidly turned into excited versions of their younger selves as the duo of Erlend Øye and Eirik Glambek Bøe wait for the cheering to die down before speaking. 

"Hello, we are Kings of Convenience," says Bøe with his appealingly strong Norwegian accent. Opening with a stunning version of Comb My Hair the duo's delicately plucked guitars – one nylon string the other steel string – blend together so mellifluously that it makes you wonder whether the contribution of electricity to popular music might have been overrated. The voices of the two men and their close harmony style of singing is breathtakingly simple and effective. The following songs, their 2021 single Rocky Trail and an immaculately succinct version of one of their best known songs, Cayman Islands, 

While their music is so gentle and intimate it is essentially a cashmere cardigan rendered as a series of three-minute acoustic ballads, Kings of Convenience are eager to let us know their shows are not a place for maudlin introspection. "Can you snap your fingers?" asks Erlend Øye. We snap our fingers. “Yes, you can,” he nods. As we follow the rhythm of his nod, our clicking becoming an introduction to their song Angel.

Once the belletristic chime of his melodic refrain dies down and our cheering fades, Bøe gives us some history to their next song. “We come from the city of Bergen, Norway," he says, "When you grow up there you feel like there is not very much going on. Or you feel there is something going on but it’s elsewhere." The song inspired by the first book to take place in Bergen, Agnar Mykle's The Song of the Red Ruby, is the stunning Love is a Lonely Thing. Catholic Country and Homesick follow, all impeccably written paeans to quiet living and huge emotions that grow exponentially with entwining guitar parts and Simon and Garfunkel harmonies that are so beautifully arranged that sound so simple you know they must have been hewn with great care. For their song Know-how, the women of the audience take the part recorded by Feist, with the men joining later to create a surprisingly impactful choir. 

Throughout the concert Øye and Bøe have shared the stage with a bass amplifier and drum kit. Finally, they are employed by what the duo refers to as their "Mexican backing band". The members were introduced by Øye but his accent was so strong and their names so Mexican that I hesitate to transcribe them. Regardless, once their skills are employed, we are dancing. Again, the simplicity and care of the arrangements of these songs feels almost miraculous. Who knew you needed so few sounds to make a song this full? Fever, Boat Behind, Rule My World and I'd Rather Dance with You seem to invent a new genre. "Acoustic disco" sounds awful, but Kings of Convenience manage to make two acoustic guitars, bass and drums sound as epic as anything Giorgio Moroder cooked up. As soon as they leave, we decide we would like much more of this so cheer them back. Øye and Bøe return for a hushed encore of 24-25 and the full band join them for a finale of Scars on Land, the closing song from their 2012 album Declaration of Dependence. For a band who manage to somehow sound better with age, it's a safe bet no one filing out of the Forum tonight wants to wait another 11 years for a show like this. 

 

Live Review: Cavetown, Aleksiah

The Forum 

"Oversold," is how tonight's show is described by a box office staffer. And it certainly seems so. A long queue of curly haired kids in anime-hued clothes, some caped in trans and pride flags with headphones curled around their dyed hair, snakes from the doors of the Forum throughout the city. Occasional squeals emerge from mouths covered by hands, some leap in the air to release the nervous tension coursing through the line. 

The reason that this all-ages show sold out in 48 hours is down to one person, Robin Skinner, the artist better known as Cavetown. Since the release of their debut album in 2015, Cavetown has drawn a deep and abiding passion among a certain section of music fandom, one that grew exponentially during Covid lockdowns when intimate vocals best listened to on headphones, gently strummed acoustic guitars and ASMR-adjacent electronica became especially popular. These textural qualities that can often be a challenge to translate to the stage, especially when performing to an audience as vocally passionate as tonight’s. However, while this crowd is in a very forgiving mood, it quickly becomes clear nothing needs forgiving.

Opening four-piece Aleksiah is a vehicle for singer-songwriter Alexia Damokas whose tight backing band peel indie pop riffs off angular Fenders while she lingers over vocal melodies on a series of mellow tunes like her first single, Fern. "I wanna put you on a pedestal / Eat you like a cannibal / Maybe it's chemical / But I wanna keep you like a fucking collectible," she sings to bursts of emphatic appreciation and a forest of heart hand gestures. “We're going to play a couple of love songs, so give the person you’re with a big hug and a kiss," Damaokas tells the crowd. "Consensually, of course”. The band's closing song and latest single, 24, is perhaps their strongest. Here, the balance between the sweetness of the music, the subversion of the lyrics, the athleticism of the rhythm and the originality of the melodies reach an apex.

While Aleksiah successfully harnessed the optimism in the room and delivered at least one song that should feature in next year's Triple J Hottest 100, louder cheers of excitement came with the arrival of Cavetown's roadies who gesture for calm as they try to prepare the stage for the main event. The need to let off nervous energy is extreme. The pre-show music, a selection of classic indie pop plays quietly. The crowd is full of polite excitement and enthusiastic respect until the moment the lights dim, and all sense of decorum and quietude vanish. Screaming to rival the appreciation shown in the MCG over the weekend dies down as Skinner and the band arrive on stage and play the opening bars of Worm Food. "Why does this matter so much to me?” sings Skinner over keenly strummed chords. “Sometimes, I wish I didn't matter to anybody / And sometimes, I forget I do”.

Buoyed by the reaction from the crowd, Cavetown play like a band who know they can't fail. Their songs are simple, even as the music varies between manic hyperpop and the aural equivalent of a fidget spinner. Skinner’s lyrics are heartfelt and clearly deeply personal. A pale English waif who resembles a young Weird Al Yankovic, their voice manages to sound intimate, even over the hurricane of love coming from the crowd. While they sing softly, their body courses with joy. Skinner runs across the stage, arms outstretched, gesturing for the crowd to be even more vocal in their appreciation. 

"What the heck is up with you guys?" they ask during a rare quiet moment between songs. "Thank you for being so welcoming and so happy to see me. I have a question for you. Do you like frogs?" The crowd screams in affirmation, knowing that this must mean their song Frog is next. "Is that a no?" deadpans Skinner. "You might like this next song, is what I’m saying." This kind of playfulness recurs throughout the night. While many of Skinner's lyrics explore complex subjects – mental health, loneliness, gender identity, the pressures of growing up in an oppressive society – with an intensely humanistic approach, there is never any sense of wallowing or angst. Songs like Heart Attack and new single Let Them Know They're on Your Mind are glorious affirmations of self, and ones that clearly and deeply resonate with the audience tonight, who find a place to put that nervous energy. "Sometimes I act like I know / But I'm really just a kid / With two corks in his eyes / And a bully in his head", Skinner sings in Juliet.

“I don’t know about you guys," they say in their clipped English tones, "but I feel like a little soft song. This is a song for little Juno." Skinner accompanies themselves on guitar for a song about their cat, a sweet ballad that inspires a thousand phones to be waved aloft, lights shining in the soft blue air of the room.

"Thanks for having such an awesome country I wish that everyone I loved lived here so I didn't have to leave," Skinner tells us, as a prelude to a story about finding "a squishy thing on a beach" that really emphasises their Englishness.

1994, Hug All Ur Friends, Fall in Love with a Girl and Laundry Day follow, each finding Skinner pacing the stage with a pride flag emblazoned with the band's name across it. He spins it in the air, drapes it over his shoulders and ties it to the microphone stand, by which time we find ourselves racing toward the end of the concert. It is here that Cavetown plays their best known songs and those few unmoved members of the crowd find their voices. Lemon Boy turns the crowd into a choir and This is Home inspires an even more colossal response with its refrain: "Get a load of this train-wreck / His hair's a mess and he doesn't know who he is yet /  But little do we know, the stars / Welcome him with open arms".

After Cavetown leaves the stage and the lights fall to black, the crowd responds with one of the loudest chants of "one more song" that this writer has ever heard. The band return for the gently daft Boys Will Be Bugs and the heaviest song of the night, one that even flirts with atonality, Devil Town. The song’s very controlled and metal-inspired bombast sees Skinner depart the stage, cardboard crown on their head and arms aloft, signifiers, as if they were needed, that this night was a triumph.

 

Live Review: Taylor Swift's Eras Tour

Photography: Barry C. Douglas

Melbourne Cricket Ground, February 16, 2024

"My songs are autobiographical," Taylor Swift tells the audience at the first of her seven sold-out Australian shows. As with anything Swift says while at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, 96,000 people scream their appreciation back at her. "Dear Diary" songs, as she also calls them, are typically the domain of a writer lacking in imagination or curiosity, but in the case of Swift, self-reflection is a superpower. Attention is lavished on feelings and incidents with an intoxicating sense of validation. As anyone who has visited Melbourne or Sydney recently can attest, swarms of bedazzled fans in sequins, glitter, cowboy boots, hats, capes, flowing dresses and pastel bodysuits have responded to this validation with collectivist glee.

The Eras tour showcases music Swift has made over the last 18 years: from her time as an aspiring teenage country pop singer to world-conquering cultural juggernaut. Each of her ten albums is an "era", defined by its own colour scheme, costuming, choreography and staging. Hours before showtime, thousands of people thronged the grounds around the MCG, trading homemade wristbands. This tradition dates back to late 2022 when Swift sang “So, make the friendship bracelets, take the moment and taste it,” and has resulted in a national shortage of beads.

You have likely read similar trivia and statistics that have excitedly contextualised the arrival of Eras, the most lucrative tour of all time. Tonight’s crowd is the biggest of her career. Evidence of her impact on local and national economies is well documented. Outside the stadium, merchandise stalls are replete with price tags that have scant regard for the cost of living crisis, yet she could (by one metric) have sold out the MCG 40 times over.

“18 years of music, one era at a time. How does that sound to you, Melbourne?” Swift asks, to a response that sounds like 40 MCGs. “My name is Taylor; I’ll be your host for tonight.”

Beginning with the pastel tones of her 2019 Lover album and its songs Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince and Cruel Summer, Swift’s voice – a soprano that finds its depth and strength through layering rather than range or ornamentation – is always in service of the story she is telling. Her uncomplicated yet deceptively well produced music also works to support her narrative worlds. Lighting effects, props, video art and a boutique’s worth of costumes are employed to explicate the themes of the show’s 45 songs. Video screens cover the catwalk and stage, their imagery pushing our attention back toward Swift or dazzling us with world building as costume and set changes take place at a breathtaking speed. In one particularly striking moment that closes her 1989 era, Swift "dives" into the catwalk, appears to swim its length and emerges at the rear of the stage in a different outfit to climb a ladder into a cloud that floats upward. Searchlights strafe the skies above us to let the heavens know just how sure she is that We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together. Confetti blasts from white lights like a snowstorm for the cold facts of All Too Well. Flames leap skyward around the stadium to let Bad Blood. Swift's Karma comes with a pyrotechnic display that evokes Sydney on New Year's Eve. Eras is a spectacle that matches the intensity of the emotions around it.

 

There are also moments of sublime calm and near silence. For her arboreal evermore era, Swift performs in a green velvet cloak followed by dancers with orange orbs. The stadium in reverential silence, awaiting her appearance and letting mellow guitar arpeggios fade into the vacuum over our heads. folklore, an album she wrote while "a lonely millennial woman at home watching TV, drinking white wine and covered in cat hair," takes place in an imagined forest cabin, brought to life on stage. Many songs are separated by keenly told personal reflections and stories and, like the lyrics, these are also known almost word for word by the crowd. Sitting at a moss-covered piano for her ballad Champagne Problems (about the refusal of a marriage proposal) she is – at least momentarily – caught off guard by our response to the performance. "You guys!" she mouths, her eyes bright with tears. "Oh my God." While it is hard to be sure, this moment feels very genuine. Several minutes pass before she tells us, “I really do love coming to Australia.”

Authenticity is difficult to verify in a show as carefully staged as this, but analysing whether something Swift expresses is true is an impossible task, particularly when it is overwhelmed by the integrity of the response it engenders. That she recycles the same chords, rhythm and tempo from Champagne Problems for her ten-minute epic All Too Well and that they are the same chords, rhythm and tempo as U2's With or Without You is similarly beside the point. The sheer force of personality and the way it becomes part of the openness and accessibility of her songs is what makes the greatest impact. When Swift sings "fuck the patriarchy" and tens of thousands of young women and girls scream along with her, is this the passing of a torch or a sign that those words are now an empty touchstone? Either way it is, like so much of tonight, another cause for collective euphoria.

It is this response that often missing from assessments of Swift’s songs and her concerts. Joy is rarely regarded as a serious product of art, particularly when expressed by young women, and it takes a Herculean effort to remain unmoved when Swift approaches my section of the crowd. Girls, many bedecked with wristbands and glitter, scream, weep and clutch each other, overwhelmed at the reality-warping significance of her presence. Particularly during the 1989 era, when Swift celebrates her discovery of maximalist pop with songs like Shake it Off, Style and Blank Space that parents, first aid staff and security guards can’t help themselves from filming.

Three months ago, Swift was named TIME Magazine's Person of the Year. "She became the main character of the world," wrote Sam Lansky. Not only because she is one of the most successful businesswomen in history and with a cultural power that has presidents craving her favour, but she is a storyteller who has built a career validating womanhood. 

Much like her best songs are loaded with specificities (a forgotten scarf, a saltbox house, cheer captains and bleachers) their enactment is full of details that tie them to their era and to the events that inspired them. It's both a way into these very personal songs, and a narrative world carefully constructed to feel closer to her, even on this gargantuan scale.

In her book Fairy Tale Princesses Will Kill Your Children, Jane Gilmore describes Swift as a woman who "wrapped herself in the princess daydream and subverted it into the patriarchy's worst nightmare: an intelligent, ambitious woman who rejects marriage and has the power to choose the success of her own creativity as her happy ever after." Tonight, we saw autobiography rewritten as romance. As Swift sings in her final era, Midnights, “I guess sometimes we all get just what we wanted.”