The Toff was crammed fuller than a fairy’s phonebook for Japanese Jibber-jabberer Damo Suzuki on Sunday and the stage was not spared the overload. A support team of six local and imported musicians accompanied this hairy midget in what developed into a marathon of grinding guitar wrenches and impelling nonsensical chanting that spared no thought for the wellbeing of us bystanders or the band members themselves.
It’s a treat to experience noise at this venue and a spot behind the sound desk is almost enough to offset the appallingly high beer prices. It’s difficult to pinpoint the moment this performance lost me, however, the recurring mantra-esque chanting left me wanting from somewhere near the midpoint. While there was nothing in particular wrong with the show per say (the guitar and drum work was outstanding for what I can only assume was virtually unrehearsed material), a nagging frustration crept through my corner of the room—I needed the ensemble of players to break free from the shackles of Suzuki himself and cut loose into a climax that never eventuated. The set (for want of a more accurate description; it was actually more like one really, really long intro) at times felt more regressive than exploratory; it ebbed rather than flowed. The rare musical freedoms (i.e. the odd solo) granted to the band paid off and at moments felt sonically somewhere between Joy Division and Mogwai. These moments were unfortunately sparse though, a bit of a fizzer in that respect.
Despite my personal reservations about this performance, I was the clear anomaly in the room. What continues to slap me in the face is that we are able to enjoy an enormous diversity of acts here in
Sam McDougall
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