Cold Chisel hold a tricky place in the mind of any young-ish Australian music fan. Their back catalogue’s a fortress guarded by a rabid, gravel spitting guard dog of a frontman, flagged with a perception of uncouth Australiana. It’s a fair assessment, although unfair to the songs.
Barnsey’s blaring conceals a rich depth of character within these songs – no secret to longstanding Chisel diehards. Their central appeal comes from a tremendous respect for music history, compounded by genuine heart.
“You guys know Mossy?” It was almost a concession of sorts from Barnes, introducing de facto frontman Ian Moss for My Baby – a brilliant love song, emboldened by Moss’s tasteful guitar flair and supreme vocal, and most importantly, ear for chorus power. Cue the sax.
“Not yet, you’ll fuck him up,” Barnesy wryly barked at the crowd as they prematurely indulged in Saturday Night “Do-do-dooo-do-do-do-do”-alongs as Don Walker – more Sunday casual than Suave Fuck – introduced the piano line. Saturday Night is perhaps the perfect Cold Chisel song: Walker’s writing, Mossy’s forlorn verse, Barnesy’s fuck-off roar. Chisel aren’t an arena rock band, but the songs are big enough to fill any venue on earth.
It was a masterclass in setlist curating, closing out the main portion of the set with the triptych of Flame Trees, nuanced political narrative turned barroom shout-along Khe Sanh, and Bow River. “We’re fucken’ old bastards,” Barnsey said as a badge of honour, as many in the crowd gave theirs a polish. Age, booze and coke may have tempered Barnsey’s larynx with a lack of finesse, but it held up tonight. Mossy’s voice was perhaps as strong as ever, and his guitar skills are definitely stronger than ever, taking centre stage in an arresting Georgia On My Mind to open the second encore.
There was a moment during Flame Trees, Barnesy stepping away from his mark to wrangle Moss into centre stage, grabbing his mate by the hair to share the microphone for the chorus. Decades of history, but all that mattered was the song, the music, together, with a few thousand people. But who needs that sentimental bullshit, anyway.
BY LACHLAN KANONIUK
Photo by Ian Laidlaw
Loved: Mossy and Barnsey’s incredible display of mateship.
Hated: Missing the open air expanse of Hanging Rock the Saturday (Night, do-do-dooo-do-do-do-do) after.
Drank: Slightly overpriced wine.
