The PW1 wharf, where most of MONA FOMA’s musical program is housed, is a beast of a structure, a huge shed injected with some jazzy lights, a few choice food stalls, an art-ified entry region (with a movement-controlled theremin) and a kitschy medical themed bar with delicious espresso martinis served ice cold in blood bags that you can latch on to your belt buckle. A new take on the hip flask, I suppose.
Friday night sees the elastic vocals and layered harmonies of Brooklyn’s Dirty Projectors, former collaborators of festival main-man David Byrne. Tinkering their way through ten years of material, they pull heavily from their most straightforward and accessible album, 2012’s Swing Lo Magellan. They perform Stillness Is The Move with a soulful near-R&B sway and they finish with the sugary sweet Impregnable Question. The group are like organs in a human body, full of natural wonder and working effortlessly in sync. Their influences are either unthinkably vast or non-existent. There’s nothing to reference. They’re a truly unique act.
Saturday night sees Melbourne horror country outfit Graveyard Train smash out a successful set in a prime festival slot, maintaining their pace as one of the country’s most prominent rising bands. Graveyard Train ain’t so spooky anymore. Tonight they are gimmick-free, scaling back on theatrics and leaving the bare bones – a bunch of very good songs. Foot-stomping and hand clapping abound as the huge crowd gets extremely involved.
Sunday night is the festival crescendo, with David Byrne, St Vincent and a full brass band Burning Down The House. In a performance that sounds, judging from reviews, not dissimilar to their other capital city stops, the two eccentric artists give it their all performing hits from 2012’s collaborative effort Love This Giant, as well as tunes from their inspiring individual back-catalogues. Ice Age sounds lifted from a St Vincent record, as she takes centre stage to perform it. The song chops and changes to frame her vocal range, teetering on the edge of discomfort as the brass band surrounds her to finish. This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) is so on-point that it brings tears to eyes. The crowd is smitten. David Byrne is a genius. Annie Clarke is a genius. Their vision is perfectly realised right up to the end of the second encore. A highlight is Byrne dancing side of stage like a demented robot, every inch the devoted fan as Clarke performs Northern Lights.
After the days are done, there’s a nightly party named Faux Mo expanding across an underground abandoned film theatre, an upstairs bar and a laneway alight with projections. Aptly described by some attendees as “the funnest place ever”, the MOFO afterparty upholds the attitude of the festival – we’re just here for a good time. Like Camp A Low Hum for grownups, the lineups are kept secret (let loose on the day via the MOFO app) and each journey up or down a staircase seems to reveal a new slice of implausible bliss, from a band in a cardboard box seen only through peepholes, to an igloo made of oyster shells on a bed of salt, to a tiny nightclub in a nook under a staircase complete with DJ, lazers and a smoke machine that fits ten people at a time. There’s a solid lineup on the laneway stage turning it into a stand-alone late night venue. Hunx And His Punx create a high school dance vibe to sway with your sweetie, if the punch has been spiked with spiced rum. Melbourne noise favourites NO ZU make music to have fun to, wrapping up the final Faux Mo fiesta in a frenzy of horns and percussion. Other notables are DJ Ransom, Awesome Tapes From Africa, locals All Fires slaying the cinema stage with their New Order-esque sound and Chinese-Tasmanian Xiao Xia performing an opera song between bands that leaves people slack-jawed and glassy eyed, grasping the hands of those next to them.
There’s a satellite event not involved with the festival at a church atop a hill on the Sunday, designed to alleviate the MONA FOMA coma with bean bags, Melbourne downbeat band Mad Nanna, distinctive Tasmanian trio Drunk Elk and a dude called Ragtime Frank – a howling Las-Vegas-Elvis-type with an electric guitar and a sharp tapping foot, screaming furiously about devils and kings and the wicked world. Epic.
Let’s not forget the Museum of Old and New Art itself. There’s a dub step tunnel you play just by walking through it. There’s an installation with foam (FOAM-MO?) spewing forth from 16 wheelie bins. There’s a red velvet lined dungeon with exclusively over-18s art. Whether it’s the end of art or just an art gallery on acid, it alone is worthy of the hour plane trip south.
“I fucking love Hobart,” a guy repeatedly screams during the breaks in Graveyard Trains rollicking set. And he should. MOFO is the festival of the future. It has a sense of humour and it speaks to us in a language we understand. It should never quieten down.
BY TARYN STENVEI
LOVED: MONA FOMA MOFO FOMO FAUX MO COMA HOBA(RT) HAUXBART etc.
HATED: A Friday arrival meant missing Death Grips on the Thursday night, but they were pretty extraordinary at Ding Dong Lounge.
DRANK: Bottle upon bottle of champagne on the Faux Mo dancefloor.
