It was starting to become a little repetitive. Every six months King Gizzard would drop with a brand new album exploring a different area of psychedelic rock/pop. The album would coincide with a bumper run of shows in various Melbourne venues, often debuting an entirely new set of songs. In theory that’s what we had here: album seven, Paper Mache Dream Balloon, a dalliance with all-acoustic instrumentation, and a four-show week.
But this time things were a little different. Aside from a pop-up show earlier in the week, Gizz weren’t actually the headliners. Rather, Swedish superfreaks Goat assumed that post. More significantly, the setlist was as close as they’ve come to a career-spanning retrospective. It was something of a relief – their constant in-studio limb flexing is admirable, even if they don’t always hit the mark, but it’s nice to know their songs don’t simply get trashed after being committed to tape.
In typical fashion, however, they began with a new one. Rumours of a heavier record ahead aren’t unfounded – this one inherited the krautrock bone structure of I’m In Your Mind Fuzz while gaining hard rock-indebted technicality. It was matched by a few other similarly-natured newies, some hinting at the brazen eccentricity of Queen, others leaning closer to the Duracell charge of Queens of the Stone Age. Elsewhere, the set jumped through Hot Wax (Oddments), Hot Water (Mind Fuzz) and Paper Mache’s dizziest number, Trapdoor. The standout was Quarters! lead track, The River. It’s been hard to fully appreciate what they were trying to achieve with Quarters!, perhaps due to the record’s uniform organisation, but this fence-toppling live rendition showed off the song’s surprising sensuality.
You could’ve easily assumed Gizz were the drawcard, given their hometown notoriety. But the Croc’s a huge joint, and Goat certainly attracted their contingent of followers. It’s a good thing, too, because what they brought to the stage was wholly founded in community. It was a wild ride – the stage populated by a troupe of androgynous figures decked out in tribal garb and animal masks. The two female (we think) vocalists were unerringly energetic, flapping limbs around in a big fuck-you to gravity.
The setlist also danced around, from Afrobeat to lubricated kraut, touching on classic rock riffs and howls of devotion. Nothing here was necessarily groundbreaking – the influences, while vast, were all familiar and suited one another – but it was still like nothing we’d seen before.
BY AUGUSTUS WELBY
Photo by Anna Madden
Loved: The Croc’s sound system showcasing its full potential.
Hated: What you mean.
Drank: Foxes, mountains, till the bitter end.
