Twenty-three concerts
Everyone had Covid lockdown resolutions. One of mine, which I shared with my partner in crime otherwise known as Kirsten, was to see more concerts.
Last night, driving home from our latest musical excursion, I started doing some mental arithmetic and realised that we’d gone to at least twenty-three concerts in the past few years. But that’s probably a dramatic underestimate.
The list of acts I can remember seeing, in no particular order, are Sacred Cowboys, Alison Moyet, James Reyne, Stella Donnelly, Models, Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, Crowded House, Tim Finn, Chris Isaak, Paul Weller, Dacios, Atomic Heart, tjfdeane, Boom Crash Opera, Sting, Flaming Lips, Lloyd Cole, Violent Femmes, Marshall Family, Sore Eyes, Mark Seymour, and Cowboy Junkies. The list is not exhaustive. There are also gigs I bought tickets for — such as Son Little — but couldn’t make. And, needless to say, not all artists on the list are equal in my affection. For instance, I was never an ABBA fan but my daughter Sophie loves the Swedish pop factory, which is why I ended up seeing BABBA cover their greatest hits at the RACV City Club one night. And, yes, I had a ball.
One of the things I learned along the way is that the venue matters. A great performance deserves a great stage. For instance, I saw Alison Moyet last night at the Plenary in the Melbourne Exhibition and Convention Centre. Moyet was incredible. She trawled through forty years of her recorded work and pulled together an astonishing show of electronic music that, at times, reminded me of David Bowie for its beautiful strangeness. And, my god, her voice is magnificent. For me, no one has ever matched Etta James — the late, great American singer — for power and range on stage (I saw James in San Francisco in the 1990s). Moyet is almost in James’ league. But the night was disappointing. Why? The Plenary is a soulless venue designed for corporate presentations of people selling widgets. It should never be used to stage music, but that’s what the promoter did to Moyet. As a result, what should’ve been one of the greatest gigs I’ve ever seen was merely good.
With that out of the way, here are some awards from my time in the balcony.
Best gigs
Paul Weller at the Sydney Opera House: Kirsten has always been the big Paul Weller fan, not me. She was the one who’d followed the King of Mod since his days in the Jam. I’d listened to Weller, of course, and been won over by his solo work, but he wasn’t on my bucket list to see live. It was Kirsten who suggested we spend a weekend in Sydney and catch the Weller gig — and I am forever grateful for her insistence. Watching Weller live was like spending a few hours in heaven. It was one of the greatest live performances I’ve ever seen in one of the most beautiful spaces I’ve ever stood. Paul Weller is god.
Gillian Welch and David Rawlings at Hamer Hall: Hamer Hall is my favourite venue to hear live music. My love affair with the space began in the early 1990s when I saw the Robert Cray Band play there, supported by John Hiatt. Cray was exceptional, reminiscent of BB King (who I’d seen at Festival Hall in the 1980s) but he should never have come on after Hiatt. The trouble for Cray was that Hiatt was at his creative peak — after the release of Bring the Family and Slow Turning — and at least half the crowd were there to here the rocker rather than the bluesman. Hiatt obliged by delivering a blistering set — and Cray couldn't compete. Another favourite Hamer Hall memory is seeing the Flaming Lips there with my son, Noah, just before Covid. I’d been listening to the Lips for years but went into the show not knowing anything about their live act. If you haven’t seen the Lips live I won’t ruin the surprise but it was by far the most joyful experience I’ve ever had at a concert. It should come as no surprise, then, that I jumped at the chance to take my youngest music lover, Zoe, to see the Flaming Lips at Festival Hall earlier this year. Mission accomplished, Zoe loved them.
All of which is a long-winded way of coming to the only gig to compare to Weller at the Opera House — Gillian Welch and David Rawlings at Hamer Hall. I’d listened o Welch and Rawlings for ages. I knew all of their albums by heart. But seeing them live in that venue, sitting close to the stage while they reeled off song after song, using only acoustic instruments. Rawlings is a human jukebox who, at times, comes close to over playing his virtuously, but that was fine. Everything was fine so long as Welch sang. The sound was perfect and her voice ran right through me. Still does.
Favourite gigs
Atomic Heart, Sore Eyes, tfjdeane, Sacred Cowboys: My brother Tim is a musician. He’s played in countless Melbourne-based bands. Given we grew up like twins, listening to the same music, reading the same books, watching the same movies, it’s a no-brainer that I’m going to love my big brother’s music. It’s always a treat to see him strut his stuff live. Watching him launch his debut album, Bedtime Stories, at George Lane was special though (you can check out the album here). What was even more special was watching one of Tim’s bands, the Sacred Cowboys, share the billing with Atomic Heart — the band that my son Noah plays guitar in — at the Tote. Again, I’m biased, but Atomic Heart truly made some beautiful (very, very loud) noise. And I loved the drum solos. Reminded me of Monkey Puzzle-era Saints.
Best venue
Sydney Opera House: As I said, I love Hamer Hall. I do. But the Opera House is heaven. Hands down winner.
Worst venue
The Plenary: I’ve already moaned about the venue for the Alison Moyet concert, so I’ll keep this brief. Never go to a gig there. Ever.
Daggiest venue
The Shoppingtown Hotel: I live in Doncaster. I’ve spent years, therefore, driving past the Shoppingtown Hotel, which sits across the road from the air-conditioned pleasure-dome that is Westfield Doncaster. I’ve noted the menagerie of performers at the Shoppo Hotel, including the Chippendales. But I’d never seen a gig at the Hotel until Mark Seymour came to town earlier this year. The gig was great. The crowd was daggy. The venue reminded me of the inside of an outer eastern venue from the 1980s called Rembrandts (‘You can dine, you can dance, you can find romance, at Rembrandts’). And I loved it. The lighting and sound system were great. We were close to the band. And they were sharp. At one point during the night, probably just before he did ‘Holy Grail’, Seymour stopped and said, almost in disbelief, ‘I’ve played at a lot of places, but I’ve never played at the Shoppingtown Hotel.’ Then he confessed he grew up in Donny and the crowd cheered. At the end of the gig, I bumped into Jeff Jenkins — a music journo and old friend from my days in newspapers. Jeff told me a hilarious story about being stuck in Doncaster after seeing the Angles at Shoppo, then sharing a taxi back to Richmond with a bloke who brought his own beer to share and a CD of Metallica to play. Bottom line: Kirsten and I enjoyed seeing Mark Seymour at Shoppo so much we went back a few months later to see the Models and Boom Crash Opera. They weren’t as good as Seymour (confession: neither band are my faves) but it was a great night. Long live suburban music venues.
Smallest venue
Merri Creek Tavern: I love Stella Donnelly. Beware of the Dog is one of those albums I’ve worn out from repeat listening. The follow-up album, Flood, is just as good. She is musically bright and lyrically savage — delivering killer girl-power pop. I don’t understand why everything she performs isn’t in the top 40. This woman should be a super star. Seeing Stella live in the backroom of the Tavern — a venue barely able to hold sixty people — was a rare treat, then; and her band was kick arse. They finished with a cover of Adrianne Lender’s ‘No Machine'‘ that was better than the original. If you ever get a chance to see Stella Donnelly live, do yourself a favour.