Sunday 20th October 2024

Death To Art Tour
w/ MACHINE GUN FELLATIO, ESKIMO JOE, BEN LEE + THE MAVIS’S

Written by: Tom Wilson
Photographer: Mark Bodna
>> SEE PHOTOS <<

It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon as the crowd moves up through the gate and spills down into the grassy bowl of Riverstage. Picnic blankets are unfurled, drinks are bought, and as for the merch … well, let’s just say that now people won’t have to talk to me to know I’m a wanker.

THE MAVIS’S open up the afternoon, singer Becky Thomas in a hot pink outfit so bright it could signal low-flying aircraft. They reminisce about opening for GREEN DAY on this very stage in the late 90s, and weathering a storm of flying coins, socks and sausages in the process (but, as they pointed out, so did GREEN DAY). Thunder is instantly evocative of growing up listening to my older brother’s Triple J Hottest 100 CDs, and their smiles are infectious as they take us back to a simpler time.

“What a pleasure this is about to be,” BEN LEE says with a smile as he straps on a guitar. It’s a good thing not many of us smoke anymore, otherwise a track like Cigarettes Will Kill You would feel a bit awkward. He’s less critical of other vices though, pointing out that a thirty-second musical interlude is the perfect time in the afternoon to take any drugs we have on us. You could say a lot about how Ben Lee carried himself when he was younger. So could the man himself. “When I was younger I was a bit of an arsehole, so I wrote a song about it, called Arsehole.” We should all aim to have that kind of self-awareness. The familiar opening of Catch My Disease quickly goes pear-shaped, and Ben immediately takes to the microphone. “That is called a fuckup and we wear them proudly. We are mistake-ists!” The second time is the charm, and the whole crowd is singing along as he drops other bands on the lineup into the song. Well-played, former arsehole.

In a recent interview I accused Kav Temperly of making a deal with the Devil to have such amazing hair at his age, and as ESKIMO JOE strut out to the Imperial March from Star Wars, I remain confident in my theory. It’s goddamn immaculate, and he knows it too, the bastard. The sun has set, the lights are twirling over his immaculately coiffed head, and the audience is immediately singing their songs back to them. They break the 90s nostalgia trip to bust out excellent new track The First Time, before introducing Sweater as the song they wrote when they only knew four chords (and used every last one of them). Black Fingernails Red Wine is suitably epic, and their last track From the Sea turns into an extended jam before they shed their instruments one by one and lead us in a hand clap that turns into rapturous applause. Awesome.

MACHINE GUN FELLATIO hold a special place in my heart, as they were the first mainland band I ever saw live, opening the lineup at the Gone South festival in Tasmania in 2002. Watching KK Juggy do topless cartwheels in nipple tassels made an indelible impression on 16-year-old me, so as the crowd anxiously waits for them to come out onstage for their first live show in 19 years, I truly don’t know what to expect. The world has changed a lot in the last two decades, so it’s not totally surprising when a trigger warning is projected up on the stage, warning us about the presence of coarse language, nudity, and other fun things. The crowd roars, and KK Juggy emerges alone onstage with a loudspeaker in hand to kick things off with the gloriously filthy (Let Me Be Your) Dirty F#!king Whore. The crowd roars, the rest of the band takes the stage, and one of the most extraordinary sets I’ve seen all year takes flight with 100 Fresh Disciples. There are pyro jets, hula hoops, power tools and, of course, nudity – KK Juggy flashing her bits without a nipple tassel in sight, as a dancer uses an angle grinder to send showers of sparks off her steel bikini and gives keyboardist Chit Chat Von Loopin Stab a spark facial. Amidst the chaos, there are moments of beauty, as singer Pinky Beecroft sings an acoustic version of Unsent Letter so poignant you can hear a pin drop. But it's not long until we’re back on the Rollercoaster, and they leave the stage on such a high that I look to the bloke next to me and say, “Follow that, TISM.”

Of course, they will, but how? “TISM are wankers,” the crowd chants, before we hear the whirring of leaf blowers, and TISM take to the stage in matching red outfits, balaclavas on, silver capes billowing upwards from the lawn tools taped to their backs. They open with a monologue about, well, pricks, and Kyle Sandilands should be fairly worried that he is mentioned in the same context as Bruce Lehrmann and Ben Roberts-Smith. The backdrop behind them falls, revealing a three-tiered scaffolding, and we see eighteen artists in white overalls working on giant paintings as TISM kick off a set that breaks free of the nostalgic vibe that has permeated the evening.

Leaning heavily on their latest album Death to Art, their stage show is chaotic and occasionally disorienting. You’re never entirely sure who is who, and band members regularly dive into the crowd, where they are almost immediately unmasked by the ravenous crowd before security fishes them out and gives them a replacement head covering. The artworks slowly come to life throughout the set, and as the crowd bounces to tracks like I Drive a Truck and Whatareya?, I find myself keenly watching each painting develop and evolve. As the set comes to a close, I notice that the paintings and the artists have disappeared backstage while the audience is distracted by (He’ll Never Be An) Ol’ Man River. Then it’s time for the encore, and as the band plays, the artworks are carried out onstage and hurled into the baying throng, who tear them to shreds. It’s shocking and slightly upsetting to see these paintings destroyed so mercilessly before the paint has even dried, the pieces hurled up in the air like confetti, but it’s also a perfect illustration of the concept of Death to Art. We might not have got to hear Thunderbirds are Coming Out (or many of their other hits, to be honest), but we got to witness an artistic statement and a performance that no one is going to forget in a hurry.

Photographer: Mark Bodna
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