There’s a train of thought in the contemporary music community that the age of indie-rock bands fuelled by white dudes dominating the airwaves is over. It’s hard to disagree, watching the never-ending tidal wave of bargain bin indie (bindie) bands touring the globe for a year on a record warmly received by Pitchfork, before falling forever into the abyss. Look at the biggest (and sustained) acts on the planet right now: they’re rappers, they’re electronic producers, they’re, dare I say it, pop – not because the genre term itself is a contraction for popular – but because in the past five years the alternative crowd has (mostly) thrown away it’s allegiance to snobbery when it comes to turning their back without listening. Kendrick’s filling stadiums voicing black oppression, Bieber’s now lovable and a psychedelic rock outfit from Perth are one of the biggest acts on the planet. Music isn’t what it used to be. That said: it never should be.
There’s no denying that Modest Mouse are past their prime. While their last few records have had an amiable amount of interesting fodder, even the most die-hard fan knows they’ll never again reach the heights of 1997’s The Lonesome Crowded West or 2000’s The Moon and Antarctica. The earliest of fans will tell you that 2004’s Good News For People Who Love Bad News is when things turned sour, but frankly, they can get fucked: that album rules. It was much closer to 2007, when the group released We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank, that many of the earliest fans, began to abandon. Perhaps that in itself was a signpost for the genre – the iceberg ominously waiting to sink the Indie Rock Titantic.
Make no mistake – Modest Mouse is no longer a band. Modest Mouse is Isaac Brock – the sole remaining member of the group that formed 23-years-ago (alongside drummer Jeremiah Green, who went on a short-lived hiatus a decade ago), who surrounds himself with a collective of rotating musicians who add next to nothing to the performance. That doesn’t matter; no-one sees a Modest Mouse show for any reason other than to see Brock in his element. Rarely sober, always theatrical, generally quite off-key and dramatically passionate.
Opening with a crude version of Ocean Breathes Salty (which found life in the latter third of the song), over two hours Brock led his adherents to march through a setlist heavy on material from 2015’s Strangers to Ourselves (Shit in Your Cut, The Ground Walks, with Time in a Box, Wicked Campaign), all which were lapped up by the younger audience, but elicited groans from the older. Then there were the reminders of why we all once fell in love with the band: Cowboy Dan, Gravity Rides Everything. Melbourne fans will no doubt jeer Sydney-siders who didn’t receive a rendition of Float On, however many would happily have exchanged it for their serving of Doin’ The Cockroach.
Like every band that has spanned three decades, Modest Mouse means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. To me, this night signified the end of my love affair with the band, one that was first spawned in my early teens. Isaac Brock is an incredible musician and an authentic songwriter, but over the course of their career and the many times I’ve witnessed them, it’s impossible to ignore that there’s little heart left in this forlorn project. There were glimpses of nostalgic bliss. I’ll occasionally still spin Dramamine when I’m in need of a moment of clarity. But one must know when it’s time to move on.
BY TYSON WRAY
Loved: Saying goodbye.
Hated: Saying goodbye.
Drank: It doesn’t matter.
