In light of our city’s unassailable cultural taboo on dancing, consider it a miracle that so many Melbourne blow-ins on cheeky three-day weekenders decided to follow local custom, joining the restive Hobart natives in utterly losing their shit to The Bronx on the floor of the Odeon. Singer Matt Caughthran set the mood early, throwing out belligerence and bile and every modern iteration of the f-bomb to the crowd, and receiving everything short of a Tom Jones volley of sopping wet underwear in return. Pole-vaulting himself into the crowd during set closer Heart Attack American, Caughthran disappeared from view and invited whispered speculation as to whether or not he had shed his earthly form and transmuted into a being of pure hateful energy.
Elsewhere, Triple R’s manic pixie dream boy La Pocock held court with disco bangers among the velvet deco features of the upstairs bar. Setting the room’s tone for the evening, topless dancing was first tolerated, then encouraged, and finally mandatory. In the crew space at the back of the building, a Sunn O)))/Shoshin collaboration blanketed the room with enough fog to smoke an entire piggery of hams, and enough auditory dread to rival the killing floor.
Mykki Blanco gave the standout performance, wielding his mic stand as if dramatising the Stations of the Cross, while the mix of rumbling bass and sharp hisses and meows from a distressed cat soundboard threatened to tear open a sinkhole beneath the vinyl theatre floor. A perfect example of the pastiche and eclecticism that makes Dark MOFO so entrancing, rivalling even David Walsh’s laudable fondness for placing Tracey Moffat tableaus next to scat-themed art.
BY SEAN SANDY DEVOTIONAL
Loved: Using scientific method to gauge the general munt factor of the late evening by observing the different puddles of sick in the men’s room sinks.
Hated: Overlayering for a mild Hobart night and dragging my duffle coat around like some fool.
Drank: Sneaky sips of other people’s Moo Brew.
