photo credit: Simon Grossi

I am wrecked. I am totally, utterly, irretrievably, stereophonically wrecked. My lobes are right now hanging low around my knees, puffing ciggies out my earholes, desperate to reclaim some measure of coherence but failing utterly in the wake of their recent experience. The temple of my aural sense has had a visitation, and from now on there will always be a hollow place where that angel swung its wings down in a low arc, shining golden light on those fortunate enough to be there in its presence.

The venue was small, and a woman in a green dress with a slit up to her crotch was shaking to some bopping beat when we got in there. I sipped at a beer and tried to catch a look–out of curiosity only, her music was terrible–of whether she was wearing any panties (yes, white). The tin shed nature of the Fly By Night didn’t result in the best acoustics but it more than made up for it with the good crowd and the intimate nature of the stage. There was only one dick in the entire crowd, and he was easily picked out and avoided by the condom beanie and dirty hippy shirt he was wearing. Other than that, there were a bunch of people that appreciated music, a separate and altogether more compatible group; not your typical ‘fans’ out to prove how much they related to the artist.

Soon a man with a guitar and a drummer take over the stage. I wonder where the rest of the band is until the guitarist tells me that ‘we’re going to play a movie and some music. can we get the projector running please’ and all doubt about the need for bass or keys is gone in the instant his mesmerising, metamorphising paintings and movies are displayed to the soundtrack of a hundred loops and re-loops of guitar, bow scraping across frets, slaps, and a strange blown instrument. The drummer is snappy, never misses a bit and does it with style, but the guitarist is the main attraction and he delivers; barefeet slap pedals with confidence, stopping every so often to check on how far we are into the visual journey before taking up his instruments again. Had the night ended there, I would have been happy, but we had a long way to go.

She didn’t stride onto stage so much as march, so much as fall, so much as stumble, so much as walk. There was confidence, but there was also anticipation, nerves stringing her muscles tight under rolled up shirt sleeves and jeans. Or at least that’s what I thought it was, nerves. I was wrong, however, as I realised soon after when she began. They weren’t nerves, oh no, they were bits and pieces of herself bunching up, ready to be released into the crowd in a storm of voice and action, dance, drama, love and hate and regret. And release they did. She doesn’t so much as sing as perform; hers is a monologue and each song is herself as much as any limb or heartbeat is. I have never seen anything like it, and after this I damn well want to. It was better than any big stage, big sound band I’ve ever seen. It was honest and whole, and beautiful to behold. It wasn’t just another tour date. It didn’t feel like just another tour date. She was performing for us, and her koal eyes and straight edged fringe and pony tail nodded that yes, yes this is me and I am giving it to you, take it please, and thankyou.

I caught one of her flowers and felt incredible the entire way home.

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