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 Photo: Justin Edwards
Local band Butcher Birds have built a significant fanbase through playing a steady stream of gigs, but it seems few fans are here tonight. The band’s stage presence is almost non-existent – the three girls on guitars gaze at their shoes with unerring interest, while the lone male member bashes happily away on his kit. The grungy riffs that fill the room are enjoyable enough, but nobody dares penetrate the invisible support band force-field at the front of stage.
Throughout Snowman’s set, I’m thinking of a word that starts with ‘w’ and rhymes with ‘bank’. A set that wallows in self-indulgent, discordant sludge is the opposite of entertaining. Guitarist (and Brandon Boyd look-alike) Joe McKee is so post-modern that he drops down into the crowd and screams into the faces of bemused punters, before spitting into an onstage ceiling fan. Charming. Andy Citawarman attacks his keyboard, guitar and electric violin with considerable force, and alternates between operatic wailing and yelping like a dog. The only coherent musical element of this apocalyptic nonsense is the strong rhythm section. I haven’t a clue what they’re screaming about, but I’m certain there’s no mention of sunshine, lollipops or rainbows. Unforgivably, the band refuses to play their most accessible track, the rather excellent You Are A Casino. The Drones have achieved acclaim and popularity without compromise or pretension. Their unique sound attracts a wide array of listeners, from curious indie kids to seasoned rock veterans. A full Zoo crowd greets their return to Brisbane as they warm up with Jezebel, the epic first track from 2006’s Gala Mill. Bassist Fiona Kitschin offers occasional backup vocals, but opts to spend most of her time grooving toward her amplifier with her back to the audience: how rude. Dan Luscombe is singer and guitarist Gareth Liddiard’s duelling partner; the latter claws at his axe’s tremolo arm constantly and achieves dizzying levels of feedback seldom heard at the Zoo. I pity those without earplugs. If Shark Fin Blues isn’t already widely considered an Australian rock classic, naysayers had best goddamn fall into line. Liddiard’s brilliantly evocative maritime-themed lyrics combine with driving guitars to reach an emotional climax few artists could reach. Even Michael Noga busting his snare drum midway through can’t dampen the song’s delivery: it’s quickly replaced while Liddiard and Luscombe noodle around. Noga continues to shoot daggers at Snowman’s drummer-cum-drum tech as the floor tom comes loose a few songs later. Noga’s frustration is clear but he soldiers on, sarcastically suggesting to the crowd that he’s having a good gig. Liddiard’s entrancing performance of the acoustic convict-era story, Sixteen Straws, reduces the audience to near silence. However, one can’t shake the feeling that the drummer’s bad vibes are contagious, resulting in a presumably atypical set that falls short of devolving into an unrestrained Dronestown Massacre. I Don’t Ever Want To Change concludes a satisfying, if frustrating set: forgive my harshness, Drones, but we both know that you’re capable of slightly better. ANDREW MCMILLEN
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