January 18th, 2009

Ghosts of the Civil Dead

All Tomorrow's Parties

A fine time was had yesterday. We weren't familiar with most of the line-up so we tried to sample as eclectic a list as possible, which was not hard. I'm not much of a music reviewer, but here are some quick notes:

Bridezilla: violin players are crazy, dude.

Michael Gira: A man singing angry songs in the courtyard of a ruined sandstone castle, amid industrial ruins, in a beautiful harbour. It worked.

Psarandonis: Not actually a lyre player as I managed to mis-read (a lyra is a bit different). Like the Dirty Three but more Greek.

Robert Forster: didn't make much impression, in our short time there. Seemed to be very specific songs about where he was in the 80s, from Bavaria to Darlinghurst.

The Necks: Bit too low key for me, but pretty good to lie down and recuperate to. (I was right in remembering that they had done the soundtrack for The Boys, but this wasn't quite as ominous.)

Spiritualized: Also didn't see a lot (this was our wandering period), but there was a good variety even in that.

The Saints: I didn't see grown men crying, as mentioned in the brochure, but there was a grown woman tearing up nearby, after (I'm) Stranded.

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds: they're good. I'm not sure the stadium wall of sound suits a lot of his songs, but they do work, and it may have even improved a few of the ones he played from Dig, Lazarus, Dig.

Fuck Buttons: heard them on the way out -- they seemed somewhat similar to the Necks, but more interesting.

Somewhere therein we also watched a 1967 French hitman movie, Le Samourai. We've wanted to see it for a while, and it was indeed very good. (It also saved us from yet more exposure to the sun, which was useful, our sun cream notwithstanding.)

The Louis Wain exhibition was small but charming.

There is a SMH photogallery here.

We managed to get through the whole thing without an All Tomorrow's Zombies reference. Oops.
Melinda Clarke

(no subject)

Repo! The Genetic Opera is a beautiful thing in all its bloody, gothic splendour. I can't help wishing the songs were a bit better, but they have their moments of transcendence.

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Anthony Stewart Head fans take particular note. And people who think Buffy needed more disembowelings, I guess.