Category: ff2012

[2012042] Rough Trade

The Violent Romantics @ Holden Street Theatres – The Studio

4:00pm, Sat 25 Feb 2012

I’d seen The Violent Romantics talk about their show at the Festival Fishbowl, and was left with conflicted expectations: the content of the show sounded really interesting, but the cast… they were so young. But the promise of staged ultra-violence – as well as a ticket already in hand – lured me into The Studio, to sit with a crowd of about twenty in front of a stage framed with cardboard boxes.

“Cool,” I thought to myself, “they must be there to cushion falls. This is going to be awesome.”

Four contestants – Stud, Tarry, Viktor, and new girl Dee – introduce themselves by holding up their “score cards”: names, level, and body count are all detailed in a perfunctory statistical layout. They’re all competing in an underground round-robin tournament that owes more than a little to Fight Club, goaded into battle by the manipulative Madam X, who films their bouts for an online audience… Tubs the cleaner adds levity to the experience.

As Madam X prods the emotional weak-spots of the contestants, accentuating conflict with fabrications – twisting Stud and Viktor’s relationship, for example, or allowing Tubs a chance to be “promoted” from cleaner to fighter (though why he would want to do so is beyond me). The fights themselves tend to appear almost as tightly choreographed dance pieces, with lifts and throws testing the performers; the rest of the performance is very shouty dialogue. The denouement – a noisy rabble of miscarriage and blood and hatred – is representative of the rest of the show…

…and I say that because it’s confused. Rough Trade can’t seem to decide whether it’s social commentary or fantasy narrative, theatrical fighting or dance; there’s all sorts of crippled characters on display, but the attempts to fill in their backstory – to create some sort of justification for why they’re at this Fight Club – feel flimsy and ill-considered. And there’s too many times when I found myself asking “why?”: the pregnant contestant. Tubs’ promotion. Madam X’s motivation. Stud’s… well, anything.

To be fair, the dancing is actually really quite dynamic and exciting – sure, it doesn’t create a realistic rendition of the violence that it represents, but nor is it supposed to. The problem is that these dances are simply too few and far between, and separated by periods of “why?” The idea of having characters softly chattering in the background needs re-visiting, too – it adds distraction, not ambience.

In all, Rough Trade reeks of an immature approach with both eyes on spectacle, with little regard for anything else… and I’m not sure that the spectacle itself is sufficient to warrant it.

[2012041] Wee Andy [FringeTIX]

Tumult in the Clouds @ Holden Street Theatres – The Studio

2:30pm, Sat 25 Feb 2012

It’s to be expected that any discussion of Wee Andy is going to occur in conjunction with Fleeto – the two are inexorably linked by the attack on (the eponymous, in this case) Wee Andy at the top of both shows. But I found the two pieces to be markedly different, despite the numerous links and crossovers between them, both in content and – most importantly – in tone.

Wee Andy, as the title would suggest, follows Wee Andy after his Glasgow Smile attack, with the action taking place in his hospital. Narrated by the Surgeon (listed in the programme as “Police Officer”) who has tended to the results of too many of these attacks, much of the performance focusses on Andy’s Mother’s shock at the attack, followed by the realisation of what her son’s life has subsequently become: visibly branded by that act of violence, his options in later life become extremely limited.

Andy’s friend Mackie – Fleeto‘s protagonist – makes a brief appearance, but Kenzie has a much more significant role in the play after he is admitted to the hospital – he’s still the same evil fuck that he was before, but the frustrated – almost animalistic crippled howls – struggle as he loses more and more of his influence is incredibly scary… and compelling.

Pauline Knowles’ performance as Andy’s Mother is magnificent – easily one of the best performances I’ve seen this year. Andy Clark again imparts a restrained weariness in his Surgeon, despite an explosive scene with Neil Leiper’s Kenzie that really turns the performance on its head. But because Mother and Surgeon form a lot of the focus of Wee Andy, the language is a lot more adult – restrained, circumspect – especially compared to Fleeto. And that, in turn, removes a lot of dynamism from the show.

It’s also a less overtly violent piece – certainly the language, being restricted to that of the Surgeon and Andy’s Mother, is nowhere near as profane or violent. The actual acts of violence are similarly handled through separated characters enacting the physical movements – an effective ploy. But the real violence in the piece is communicated by the Surgeon – detailed descriptions of the natures of the attacks upon Andy and Kenzie made me squirm in my seat. And the string used to “scar” Andy is particularly effective.

But, despite all the quality inherent in Wee Andy, it really didn’t grab me as tightly as Fleeto did. At times it seems overtly preachy, almost lecturing on society’s need to pay more attention to the underclasses… a message that was more subtly presented in Fleeto. And, after the performance, I spent the best part of twenty minutes with Holden Street staff discussing the preferred order of seeing the shows. I reckon I stumbled into them in the correct order, Fleeto then Wee Andy; I think it helps to see Mackie’s story in full before the minor role he plays in Wee Andy. And I really enjoyed seeing Kenzie suffer in this show, especially after discovering the truth behind Andy’s attack… a truly bitter twist in the tail.

But then I start wondering: how would I have felt in Fleeto if I knew all there was to learn in Wee Andy? Unfortunately, that’s something that I just cannot experience now… but it does make for deliciously deep and ponderous contemplation.

[2012040] The Snowdroppers

The Snowdroppers @ The Vagabond

11:30pm, Fri 24 Feb 2012

After leaving Tim McMillan earlier than I would’ve liked, I pushed through the seething sozzled mass in The Garden to The Vagabond. The line was, as I suspected, not yet moving; after all, it was only 11:49pm. I was expecting movement by 11:50.

Not so much.

Around midnight the queue started lurching forward. I’m now immensely irritated, because (a) I retrospectively know I could’ve hung around Tim McMillan for an extra 20 minutes, and (b) I’ve been standing behind a group of drunken fucktards, unable to escape the banal inanity they’ve been slurring to each other whilst they commandeered plastic chairs and created their own little seated area in the middle of the line. Still, they all head into the middle of The Vagabond, and I head to the back: the seating and elevated view is very welcome. I’m feeling dead-set resigned on having an awful time, and I take a moment to quieten myself down: remember, I told myself, this could be the show that changes your life. Open up a bit.

The Snowdroppers take to the stage. The crowd in the pit of The Vagabond cheer. “How the fuck ya going?” yells their pretty front-man. And they launch into a rumbling, snare-dominated, more rock than rockabilly opener. And the next song sounds pretty much the same, just with a little tempo variation. By the time they’re halfway through the first chorus of their new song, Devil’s In The Details, I’m becoming bored by its monotony.

The drums are way too hot, and that snare is so sharp that it’s starting to poke me in the eye. Guitar is well restrained lower in the mix, and alternates between some great chugalug and piercing leads. The bass is magnificent – fat and dirty and delicious. The rhythm section are pretty frugal with their movements, mostly rooted to the spot; the front-man roves the front of the stage like a wild animal, hip-thrusting through his songs and occasionally playing banjo to increase the rockabilly feel. He exercises great crowd control – not that it’d take much to herd that crowd of drunk lemmings.

But when he issues a call to arms – “let’s try and get everyone laid this evening!” – well, I feel completely out-of-place. About 25 years out, actually.

There’s a few familiar musical motifs that permeate the songs, and – truth be told – if you could drop the drums a bit, there’s some great grooves to be had from The Snowdroppers. But, as the exodus from the twenty minute mark showed, they’re not for everyone… and the blatantly sexual intent in their performance was quite off-putting for me. Still, when I read the Guide précis back now, I really should have expected that.

[2012039] The Tim McMillan Band – Axework for Space Goblins

The Tim McMillan Band @ Gluttony – Funny Pork

11:00pm, Fri 24 Feb 2012

It is absolute bedlam as I walk across town from the west-end to the east; the streets are as trashed as half the people walking them, and I see numerous people collapse into the care of their companions on the sidewalk, either from dehydration or drinking too much. My beloved city feels like a battle zone, and there’s a war of attrition taking place. I arrive at Gluttony and there’s people everywhere; luckily the Funny Pork tent is right near the entrance to the super-venue.

I’m apprehensive; Axework for Space Goblins is listed as a 45-minute show, and I’ve got tickets for an 11:30 show in The Garden. I know that one will start late – there’s been consistent complaints that Cantina and Soap, with their extensive bump times, completely stuff up the shows that follow… I’m expecting that an 11:50 arrival will be right-on-time. But as staff rush in and out of Funny Pork, the minutes tick by… and I grow more and more worried. I start mentally rearranging stuff in my head, and decide that I can see Tim McMillan tomorrow if tonight’s show doesn’t pan out.

Finally, at around 11:25, the doors – well, tent flaps – are flung open. Seats are quickly filled, and I’m clock-watching – I might just be able to pull this off. But then four men with guitars – took to the stage and sat down… Introducing themselves as Auxilla, they played through a quick four- or five-song acoustic set, constantly battling with the ambient noise coming from the Fringe Club next door. They were bloody good – wonderful polyrhythmic songs with unpredictable harmonies – but as they said their thankyous and ambled off stage, Matt Vecchio popped up to thank everyone for their patience… and that they’d just have to do a soundcheck.

My watch said 11:44. I bit my lip and scurried out, determined to return.

The next night, however, ambient noise was much lower. I scurried in about ten minutes late, catching Matt Vecchio & Emily Bettison in their Modern Looking Saucepan guise. Their songs are catchy and childishly fun and, whilst not performed precisely, are certainly not bereft of enthusiasm or application.

There’s no need for a soundcheck tonight, and McMillan and bassist Brad Lewis hop onstage without much fanfare and plunge headlong into a show that was similar to last year’s effort. Most of the songs were familiar, and the musicianship is still amazing – and the little stories that nonsensically surround songs (like the bizarre tales of growing up in Frankston, and of early experiments in metal with Reverend Pedophile) are wonderfully off-the-wall.

Tim and Brad really do deliver on all fronts – if you’re not being blown away by incredibly intricate original pieces, there’s insane mashups like “Master of Puppets / Can’t Get You Out Of My Head” (featuring a whole heap of other song lyrics). Tim’s fingers still dance on his guitar, and it’s great fun watching Brad – he keeps very much his own counsel during songs, quietly nodding to himself before coming in at exactly the right time for a couple of supporting notes, then sitting back and staring serenely into the distance. There’s still the playing-each-others-guitars-while-not-missing-a-note bit, an oddball shout-out to their guitar manufacturer, and…

Look, they’re just brilliant, alright? The Tim McMillan band put on a show I will come back to again and again and again, because it is just insanely wonderful. And, when I went to buy a CD at the end of that second gig, Tim remembered me from last year, and we had a nice little chat.

Seriously: brilliant.

[2012038] The Disappearances Project

version 1.0 inc. @ Adelaide College of the Arts – Main Theatre

9:30pm, Fri 24 Feb 2012

I’ve let off a lot of steam (about audience behaviour, mainly) talking to Martin prior to the show; as all eight of us queued for Disappearances, we eyed off the fifty or sixty queued for The Year of Magical Wanking. The door guy announced the opening of the house for Wanking; a massive cheer went up from the guys in the queue. “Those are going to be some sad, desperate people in an hour’s time,” I thought.

A sparse set greets us on entrance to the wide expanses of the Main Theatre: a wide video screen, and two wooden chairs. That’s it. The house lights drop, and some very soft ambient electronica starts burbling in the background… quiet. Moody. Unsettling.

The video screens slowly come to life: they start showing houses passing by, as if we were looking out the passenger side of a car. The buildings that we see feel anonymous in what feels like early-morning light; there’s precious few people in the imagery, and when one inadvertently does appear – in the bakery, for example – it’s a surprise… they feel significant. The audio and video combine to create an incredible sense of displacement.

Two people walk onto the stage and sit on the chairs. She is white, and speaks with an distinctly Australian accent; he is black, and sounds anonymously North American. Their seats are simply lit, the lighting creating a white box at the feet of their chairs.

And, slowly… precisely… they begin telling their stories. Fragments of dialogue from people whose loved ones have simply vanished. There’s no strict narrative – each will adapt the persona of a character for a short time, alternating lines with the other actor’s character, in a very back-and-forth style; characters would change regularly, sometimes returning to expand on their experience.

These characters have all lost loved ones. And that “lost” is in the most painful sense: they’ve disappeared without a trace, with no trail to follow, no bodies found. Most stories recount the unsettling early days of the absence, followed by frustration when they report the Disappeared as missing; the blunt advice from police suggesting that maybe things weren’t good at home, or that it’s best to check back at the local station after a storm because “that’s when all the bodies float up”. Tangling with bureaucracy – trying to see whether a Medicare card has been accessed, or changing addresses – is also frequently mentioned, often accompanied by the admission that the character “felt like a pest” for continually trying to find some information – any information – about the Disappeared.

But amongst these tales of frustration and barely-contained anger are little gems of… well, not hope, because everyone is pragmatically bleak. But there are some police officers, some members of bureaucracy, that display genuine compassion towards the grieving characters. And, make no mistake, these people are suffering; they are the silent victims.

Having said that, Yana Taylor and Irving Gregory speak the characters’ dialogue with a constant, almost dispassionate monotone. And that totally works for this piece, with the effect being that we look down upon the actors as being numbed through years of pain, through years of the unknown. Rare, contemplative, and almost painful movements by the performers are accompanied by curious lighting changes: when they stand, side lighting frames them; when they sit, they become boxed in from above. And all the while, the anonymous buildings pass by in the background, while ambient noises continue to gnaw… The white-out at the end of the performance is almost cleansing, giving the audience a chance to mentally wipe the slate before emerging back into the real world.

The Disappearances Project is a very curious beast; it seems almost deliberately designed to keep the audience at arms length from the stories it tells. That, combined with the disturbing audio and video presentations, makes for a deeply unsettling experience… but one in which I’m glad I partook.

Though “glad” seems to be a completely inappropriate word to associate with the production.

[2012037] Price Of Admission [FringeTIX]

Wayne James @ Nexus Gallery

8:00pm, Fri 24 Feb 2012

As I sit in the little fake-grass garden outside the Nexus Gallery, I’m almost assaulted by noise; some rawk is blasting out of Fowler’s, a bit of doof-doof from the UniSA campus. I’ve acquired a wristband that says I’m over 18 just to get here; O-Week parties are in full swing.

But the most compelling sound is from the woman playing the accordion next to the bar. The Gallery is still closed, so there’s a collection of people sitting in the garden, listening to her play amidst the wall of sound; I join them. Wayne James comes out and greets me, sitting by my side; “she’s lovely,” he says, nodding in the accordionist’s direction, “I heard her playing up by the Markets this morning and just had to have her come open the show.”

She gets through another couple of numbers before another amplified noise source – who knows where that one is coming from – starts up; eventually, a small group of around a dozen scoot into the Gallery, where it’s evident that the noise-bleed will be manageable… but only just.

After his first sentence on the little stage, I was convinced that Wayne James is amongst the most earnest performers I had ever seen. There is so much belief and conviction in his voice, so much wisdom in his timbre, that you cannot help but be swayed by his words. And he has a strong opening, speaking of how we – western culture, driven by the US-lead consumerist ideal – are effectively poisoning our children with meals tainted with toxic chemicals.

Which is a fair point, I must say. And it’s hard to not take his words seriously, as he outlines his family’s connection with the land – James describes his ancestral tree in detail, starting with the settling in rural Canada of his grandfather and the passing of the farm (and the forming of community) that had occurred since. But with the “necessity” to increase production comes the “need” for chemical assistance… a need driven by the snake-oil salesmen of capitalist corporations.

And I’m still totally with him at this point.

But the manner in which James anthropomorphises money is a little heavy-handed and clumsy; sure, the sentiment is in the right place, but I get the feeling that his focussed idealism muddles the message. When he starts mixing in references to Indian tribes, things get even more confused – and, curiously, more interesting. In particular, his closing piece – a recital of Chief Seattle‘s 1854 Oration – was a wonderful conclusion, with the closing line “there is no death, only a change of worlds” a beautiful highlight.

Wayne James’ monologue may appear unfocussed as he drifts from one segment to another, but there’s little doubting that his heart is in exactly the right place. What he lacks in polish he makes up for with authenticity.