Did Chris Cohen come all the way from Los Angeles to Australia to play under a big white dome in a park in Melbourne? If so, I think he should be happy with how it all transpired – audience turnout, audio quality etc. His upbeat, more poppy pieces get the heads bobbing and smiles smiling, but other moments of exploratory chords and arrhythmic vocals test the crowd.
Constant Mongrel is a much more immediate offering. They seem to have a mission to keep you away from the enticing chairs and in towards the stage, aided by their razor sharp rhythms and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it songs. And yet, it still feels like an early set at a festival, where noone’s willing to enjoy themselves too much, too early. Calling it Polyfest makes it sound like an all day affair, yet we’re halfway through the bands and the smattering of toddlers running around seem to be the only ones enjoying themselves. Constant Mongrel’s set also marks the first time I notice how many of the crowd are wearing artist lanyards. I know you can get a lineup that really appeals to other bands, but they could probably do more than standing near the sound deck with arms folded.
Merging down and dirty post-punk song structures, snarling vocals and walls of electronic sounds, Melbourne’s New War are like The Birthday Party In The 25th Century. You get the reference, right? Sludge and sci-fi in a melancholic union is surprisingly what the crowd needs right now, and New War’s reputation for a profoundly electrifying live show remains intact.
When a band is a constant touring presence for a sustained period, any deviation from that schedule makes it feel like they’ve been away forever. So it is with all-girl quintet Beaches, whose set is drenched in shimmering multi-guitar walls from end to end. The upside is that the crowd treat it like a reunion or comeback show of sorts, even though the time between local gigs can be measured in months. It does take the gang some time to warm up, however, with a few sketchy harmonies and even a second take of a song after it begins to crumble. Perhaps the time away from the stage is just as significant for the band as it is for the crowd.
Personal & The Pizzas – three roustabouts from New Jersey – round out the gig with the same basic song nine or ten songs. Just change the subject matter slightly – from girls to driving fast to pepperoni pizza – and you’re off and racing again. It’s a lot of big, dumb fun that deviates much from the various degrees of seriousness displayed by previous bands, and a good finale to proceedings. Curated by Polyester Records, the afternoon festival highlights the eclectic world of music that can be found at the esteemed record store (celebrating its 30th anniversary). But I can’t shake the feeling that a stronger thematic link – all power trio punk or psych rock, for example – would have brought a larger audience, and one that stayed for all bands rather than meander in and out at their leisure.
BY MITCHELL ALEXANDER
Loved: Bands and Miss Chu’s dumplings within metres of each other.
Hated: Sun out, jacket off. Clouds take over, jacket on. For six hours.
Drank: Sailor Jerry and ginger beer.
