If you’d never been to The Northcote Social Club before, then you may be wondering what is going on as you pass through the band room doors. Sprawled out in front of you is an open room, the audience are not squished into upright position chest-to-chest. In fact, many of the crowd are lying down, dreamily staring up at the stage as Melbourne singer-songwriter Paddy Mann, from Grand Salvo, sits nestling his old guitar, about to delight with his folk balladry.
The room is comfortable, like your lounge room. The atmosphere is dark enough that the figures on stage are illuminated, but is light enough that you can see the faces on the other side of the room. Choosing your spot on the carpeted floor, you lay down in time to see Paddy start a solo tune. Hearing him you are instantly reminded of the narrative folk of Bonny ‘Prince’ Billy and the minimalism of Iron & Wine. When the song concludes you clap, not just out of niceties, but because the performance is worthy of applause; Mann’s skeletal, acoustic offerings are mesmerising, far above the standard singer-songwriter fodder.
The show develops around you, as Mann is joined on-stage by a female backing vocalist and a double bass player. The same craft is exhibited on these songs as those of Mann unaccompanied. A few chords and words pass over the head of Grand Salvo, and while you cannot say that the performance was perfect, you are confident in detailing that the music is top shelf, condensed ‘freak-folk’, worthy of a place amongst the growing legions of people revitalising this seemingly has-been sound.
After more clapping, another Melbourne band, The Crayon Fields, take to the stage. As xylophones, tambourines and organs sweep from the stage, the sounds of ‘60’s pop fill the room. Harmonies bounce from the walls as Geoff O’Connor and his band breeze through there three-minute-and-under pop. You’ve heard these songs before, the majority of them being from last year’s Animal Bells. Live, you are pleased to report, the tracks contain the same bright-eyed enthusiasm. You ponder whether this material could be any more expertly arranged? To you it seems unlikely, the structures and conciseness are nigh on perfect.
While the energy of the band is high and the band’s fill-in drummer is nearly hypnotising you with her zesty performance of these numbers; you notice that the multi-part vocals are not exactly pitch perfect. After some more thought and a few sips of beer, you realise that you are a critical being and that such minor details hardly distract from the splendour of the sound.
You go to the bathroom.
Upon returning Sydney band Rand and Holland are just about to start up. You are excited, this being their CD launch and all. The band doesn’t look like you expect them to. In fact, the lead singer and the guitarist seem an odd pairing. This thought is washed away now that the music starts playing. Who cares what they look like anyway? The first number they perform is from their old album and the guitarist, Stuart Olsen, starts by drone some single notes from his beaten up old guitar. He manages to get some pretty impressive noise out of an instrument that looks like he found it at a tip, you think. In fact, at times, it sounds like a banjo. Cool.
As the band begins to embark on material from their new album, Caravans, they are joined on stage by a female duo, a bassist and a drummer. Your head is trying to classify these four people into some neat little category, but it isn’t working. It’s not the beer either, you’ve been careful with that after what happened last time. In fact, you’ve grown your hair longer, in hopes of avoiding recognition.
Anyway, you drink some more and this still doesn’t help you understand what they are all about, but by this time you’ve relaxed enough to just lie back and enjoy. As Rand And Holland launch into ‘The Light’ from Caravans, you uncontrollably start toe tapping as the swirls of interplaying guitar and the two-step rhythm begin to hypnotise you. As the song progresses on its epic-folk journey, you get washed away in the sound. Maybe there is a reason that most venues don’t so closely resemble a super-sized version of your bedroom, you begin to fall asleep…
You sit-up and do the whole wide-eyed: “I’m awake” thing. But your fooling no-one, most of the others are in the same, semi-awake, tranquil state as you. It is expected here. Shit, even the band admits that they are nearly falling asleep and it is their album launch. You realise that this may sound bad, but this isn’t the intention. It is kind of like how burping after a meal is considered a compliment to the chef; falling asleep at a pop-folk outing is a similar compliment.
You really like the singer’s voice live. It’s not that you thought that there was anything wrong with it on Caravans, but it is often obscured by the layering on the album. In the flesh (or the throat-box … you giggle to yourself. You are now officially drunk) Brett Thompson sounds authoritative in that kind of Roy Orbison, suave way. He seems to be the confident one in the Thompson and Olsen pairing. In fact, all four of the musicians on stage seem to be doing their own different thing in terms of image and stage performance. But, musically they are unified, tight and well rehearsed, aware of the subtle changes that are needed to illuminate their brand of indie-folk.
As they play more songs, you resume your feet tapping and although you need to go to the toilet again, you hold on till the end of the set. You know that you’re watching an interesting band here.
As the night closes, you giddily rise to your feet and leave. Tonight you have seen some sensational Australian live music and you’re pretty chuffed about the whole thing. You know you’ve liked Caravans the first few times you’ve listened to it and that you will approach it with an increased understanding and enjoyment now that you’ve seen them live. You go home and fall asleep fully clothed, shoes and all, listening to the album.
Grand Salvo
Rand and Holland
The Crayon Fields
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