Report: ATP’s ‘Release The Bats’

All Tomorrow’s Parties saw its Halloween-timed Melbourne event lose several bands and dramatically change venues, but the day still boasted prize draws like Television, Sleep, The Breeders and Lightning Bolt plus a strong round of locals. DOUG WALLEN and EDWARD SHARP-PAUL report. Photos by KATIE FAIRSERVICE.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.] Think back, if you will, to the dreamy ideal that first sprang to mind when ATP announced they would follow up their two-day February event with a single-day Halloween party featuring The Breeders doing Last Splash, The Jesus Lizard, Fuck Buttons, Sleep, Lightning Bolt and The Scientists, among others.

Now compare that to the dwindling goodwill caused first by The Jesus Lizard pulling out; then by a venue change (due to weak ticket sales) that cleaved the festival in half by at least a 10-minute walk, then set times that made for tough choices as well as the fear of capacity problems for Sleep at The Prince (which didn’t turn out to be an issue); and finally, the last-minute dropout of Forest Swords and the replacement additions of Twerps and visiting US act Prince Rama.

So where did ATP end up by the conclusion of the actual day, seven months after that first announcement? Well, it was never going to perfect, not once the proceedings were split between St Kilda’s Prince Bandroom and Palais Theatre. But it was no trainwreck either, even if the assigned-seating issues at the Palais were a dealbreaker for some. (And considering reviewers were granted either silver or blue wristbands, they’re not the ones doing the complaining on that front.) Ditto the no-booze-while-watching-bands constraints of the Palais, though only cursory bag-checks reportedly made it easy enough to BYO.

No, the day went quite well – except that it went quite well in two different locations that required a potentially vibe-spoiling 10- or 15-minute walk to traverse. As M+N chat Bungle put it: “[It] didn’t feel like a festival at all, more like trying to attend two sold-out gigs at once.” But once you settled for a while in one spot and got over the venue-specific qualms (seating at the Palais, beer prices at the Prince) you were treated to some world-class bands.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

And to be fair, ATP tried their hardest on the day to work with a situation that had been forced upon them. They worked out cheap food and drink deals with some local businesses, including a hefty burrito and bottle of beer for just $12, and punters were treated to a free ride at the Palais’ adjacent monolith Luna Park. And let it be said that St Kilda itself was unusually appealing on the day, offering up immediate ocean views, green space and bars and restaurants galore.

Everyone was friendly too – as long as you weren’t sneaking into a different seating section at the Palais or standing up in the first few rows of the balcony – and the overall atmosphere was quite down-to-earth: just a whole bunch of music lovers converging at once and planning their systematic devouring of bands.

I went into White Walls expecting SST-era Dinosaur Jr. but wound up thinking about those Slumberland Records bands (past and present) that sneak upbeat guitar-pop songwriting into fuzzed-out, shoegazing noise. The bass-less Melbourne trio push that dichotomy out even further, reminding me of something like ‘doom twee’ on certain songs. All three members sing, including the drummer, looking clean-cut and almost out-of-place next to the twin-like guitarists sporting mid-length hair and black T-shirts. That noisy shell definitely overshadows most of the songs’ pop centre, but a surprisingly strong turnout doesn’t seem to mind, banging their heads more often than bobbing them.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

Edward Sharp-Paul: The Twerps nail it. They’re as tight as the songs need them to be (the new ones sound like a dreamier variant of “that Flying Nun necromancy thing they do,” as a friend put it) and, crucially, not a jot more. They look relaxed, too, like they actually think they belong up there on the Palais stage – Marty Frawley even throws in something that vaguely resembles a rock move at one point. Have they lost some of their charm from all this lifting of their game? No. Not at all. Definitely not.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

DW: Smoke machine and empty seats is the initial image gleaned from watching The UV Race from the first row of the Palais balcony. After that, it’s clear how much everyone in the band chips in and shares the overall attention now – more like a proper ensemble – rather than Marcus Rechsteiner overshadowing the rest of the band, as in earlier days. Adding to that is the fact that Rechsteiner remains on stage instead of venturing amongst the punters as usual, and the fact that his blacklight-friendly skeleton suit doesn’t even get unzipped.

And yet their intersection of dodgy pop and caveman punk stays catchy and charming, albeit falling more to the shambling side of things with time. The banter is a plus, as is the explanation of ‘Burn That Cat’, inspired by Rechsteiner’s dream about being fingered by a cop who turns into a cat (which he then burns). Still, there can’t help but be a disconnect between this band and this space. And being sober myself doesn’t help; The UV Race as a live act are beer’s best friend.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

Back at the Prince, The Spinning Rooms do everything right, burrowing concertedly into post-punk dirges that veer off and crack apart with leader Pete Dickinson’s intermittent screams and the wobbly honk of Joe Greenaway’s tenor sax. It’s a gripping set that keeps me planted right up front. My only complaint is a vague feeling that songs keep finishing just as they’re threatening to truly explode. There’s a lot of chugging momentum, thanks to single-minded bassist Noah Wilson, that’s relinquished for the sake of finishing a song and starting the next.

That said, ‘101011’ – the opener of their first album – is especially intense. And the closing ‘Single Life’ recruits Phil Gionfriddo (The Bowers, Jacky Winter) and another guest guitarist along with vocalist Christina Arnold (The Perfections), who sings scalding backup and plays keys on a few songs. With all seven on stage at once, it’s a forceful presence indeed. The room is pretty packed for the time of the day and there’s a palpable energy. A palpable heat too: unlike the chilly Prince, this feels more like a proper rock ‘n’ roll den, with Dickinson dripping sweat and fantastic Stickmen drummer Ianto Kelly losing his grip on a stick more than once.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

Next on the same stage, Hoss are nothing if not timeless. They’re no-bullshit marauding feels as eternal as Motorhead-style, and as ripe for booze-pairing. It’s always going to be strange seeing a band like this in the middle of the day rather than demolishing someplace like The Tote at 1am, but even our body clocks couldn’t deny the stubborn, sun-blocking charge of these rugged battlers.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

Back at The Palais, there’s no questioning the appropriateness of the failsafe location of St Kilda for Pop Crimes: The Songs of Rowland S Howard. It might have been a while since Howard’s old stomping grounds had such a flex influx of rock dogs streaming through, but ATP’s presence feels like a brief glimpse of bygone days. And just as much, having this Howard tribute at a festival named after a Birthday Party song couldn’t be any more fitting.

On top of that is the cast assembled: led by Howard’s brother Harry on bass, it alternately features These Immortal Souls’ Genevieve McGuckin (keyboards) and Craig Williamson (drums), Howard’s Birthday Party bandmate Mick Harvey on drums, bassist Brian Hooper (The Surrealists, Beasts of Bourbon), the quietly expressive JP Shilo doing Howard’s guitar parts and Jonnine Standish (HTRK) and Conrad Standish (Standish/Carlyon) singing. Regardless of who’s singing – the Standish spouses on ‘Pop Crimes’, Jonnine on ‘(I Know) A Girl Called Johnny’, Conrad on ‘Exit Everything’, Shilo on ‘Crowned’ and Harry on ‘Autoluminescent’ and ‘The Golden Age of Bloodshed’ – the songs’ rumbling, doomed romance and ever-quotable lyrics beam through. Despite the beverage-prohibited theatre setting and Harry reading lyrics off a sheet, it’s a beautiful tribute.

The very best moment for me – and one of the most special of the day – is Jonnine singing ‘Dead Radio’, her smoky, world-weary voice inhabiting the cigarette similes of that classic song about gravitating towards exactly what’s worst for you.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

ESP: Total Control are as tough as always, and at points even fun. As always, I wish they tried a little harder to adapt their unique synth-punk sound to a live setting. Attempting an authoritative judgement beyond that seems unfair, though, given I lob in partway through their set. Among the band’s many friends and initiates, it feels like I’m trying to get the gist of a conversation well underway. They kill ‘Carpet Rash’, though.

DW: Television are arguably the biggest drawcard here, though not announced until the second round. Of course, that was before The Jesus Lizard dropped out and other hijinks. But for me this set is the highlight of the day. It’s just four people with four instruments, and yet it works wonders: drummer Billy Ficca is so active yet so delicate, Fred Smith provides a slippery pulse, Tom Verlaine is still an eerie shaman of instrumental and lyrical imagery, and guitarist Jimmy Rip (who’s taken over for Richard Lloyd) is reverently attuned to the exactness of detail.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

It doesn’t start out perfectly, with a live sound-check explaining the less-than-ideal sound for the first song. But from there on it’s sublime, with the reshuffled tracklist of Marquee Moon solving one of the key problems of seeing an album done in its entirety live: knowing exactly what song is coming next. With their poise, age and attire, the four look like elder bluesmen of New York City, or an art-school ZZ Top. Well-known songs could be reflected upon differently live, transporting us in new directions compared to the same record played ad infinitum.

To quote ‘Torn Curtain’, Television go “rolling back the years” with this set, and yet there’s no mistaking where they’re coming from now. It’s the wisdom and calm of middle age over the urgency and effortless cool of youth, which only enhances the feeling of an all-hold-hands séance for electric guitar. ‘Guiding Light’ comes off sweeter than most, as does the ’50s-prom opening of ‘Prove It’, while those cascading licks and Greek-chorus harmonies feel eternal. The title track makes for a natural finale, complete with one last bout of instrumental sparring.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

ESP: No disrespect to Prince Rama, but their appearance on the bill felt like as much of an afterthought as the jack-o’-lanterns. What’s more, they seemed destined to be up against it, announced with a day’s notice and clashing with Television. However, as an oestrogen-ated dance act on a testosterone-rich, guitar-heavy line-up, they were a welcome diversion, and they attracted very respectable numbers to the Prince. Not that they weren’t punk rock: they broke down the fourth wall, performing a synchronised dance from within the crowd for their last song before sneaking out the door before anyone realised what was up. Well played.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

DW: I miss the first half of The Scientists because of dinner and immediately regret it, such is the band’s instant appeal (and dapper attire). That swamp-rot element is there throughout, but each song sends Kim Salmon and company off to disparate corners: ‘Fire Escape’ is happily Stones-y, ‘We Had Love’ more Nuggets-ish and ‘Travis’ something like deadbeat psych. It’s all blues at heart, only sent through a barbed-wire spiral of frayed guitar and venting choruses.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

Relegated to a tent for Harvest a year ago, Fuck Buttons are treated like royalty this time, as befits their boost in status after the magnificent Slow Focus. Paired with a giant mirror ball and silhouetting/shape-shifting projections, Andrew Hung and Benjamin Power bridge the gap between as that noisy yet melody-friendly album and their more abrasive earlier work. It’s voluminous and as loud as crap, even compared to the other bands in what turns out to be a surprisingly loud setting all day and night.

‘The Red Wing’ from Slow Focus still feels like their version of a ‘hit’, somehow building a big rap-worthy beat from a glassy melodic sample. Like their best work, it proceeds like a force of nature, all mass and inevitability. It’s funny to see the Palais staff react after the set, and even funnier to hear the prim-and-proper-sounding guy on the loudspeaker (the same one telling people to smoke behind the designated white line in front of the building) warn everyone beforehand that “The Fuck Buttons” will soon take the stage.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

ESP: The lure of Lightning Bolt was such that people were being turned away before showtime, with the Prince Bandroom utterly crammed. My early suspicion that the smaller, lower-profile Prince would become a poor cousin as the night wore on was completely unfounded. Want sightlines, quality sound and a comfy seat? The Palais it is. Want a proper gig atmosphere? Plenty did, and they were at the Prince. Or lining up outside, poor sods.

Fair enough, too. You just don’t get that sort of intensity from many bands. Nor do you get such a combination of metal chops, hardcore energy and avant-garde experimentation. Looking as he did like Animal with a gaffer-tape fright mask, even drummer Brian Chippendale’s endless quest to get a decent vocal level onstage was entertaining. And when he took delivery of a Hellraiser mask? Too much. Even Prince Rama were moshing at side stage.

A friend warned me, only half-joking, that Sleep would only make sense if I smoked up beforehand. He needn’t have worried – I got a second-hand high from the oozing pores of the stoned, sweaty throng. The music? Well, if Lightning Bolt were a shot of adrenaline in the forehead, Sleep were a stoned Brachiosaurus sinking into a peat bog – both intense, both heavy, but other than that, as divergent as one could imagine. Songs? It’s not important. It was sustain, the weird clarity of a guitar fuzzed out beyond recognition, the exhilaration when all that murk congeals into an almighty groove. Matt Pike was an almighty, forbidding presence, and it was great to see the purveyors of such heavy, dissonant riffs being so diligent with tuning their guitars, too.

DW: Having to sound-check live is never ideal, but when it gives The Breeders an excuse to warm up with their long-running cover of Guided By Voices’ ‘Shocker in Gloomtown’, it’s a blessing in disguise. But of course Last Splash is the main course here, and it unfolds with all its idiosyncrasies pretty much intact. It’s an album split between two-minute pop songs and lopsided experimenting – and often mixing the two. There’s some filler, but even that’s free-wheeling and fun.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

Unlike the stoic precision of Television, The Breeders radiate dishevelled giddiness, from Kim Deal’s jovial band-leading to the body-slamming drumming of Jim Macpherson. Even the deadpan workmanship of bassist Josephine Wiggs and the admitted shyness of Kelley Deal doesn’t tarnish the portrait of a misfit family reunion. And auxiliary multi-instrumentalist Carrie Bradley is visibly as much fan as member, bouncing around ecstatically on violin and keyboard.

The record itself feels just as gloriously slapdash live, whether it’s intensely heavy (‘New Year’), drawn-out and droney (‘Roi’, for which Wiggs and McPherson swap roles, as on the record) or lullaby-ish (‘Invisible Man’). ‘Cannonball’ gets everyone on their feet, and reminds us of the several winking asides about rock promoters, famous dead people and bongs. It’s all sludgier than the album, which works well for the surf instrumental ‘Flipside’, Kelley’s ‘I Just Wanna Get Along’ and the wavy-mic warbling of ‘Mad Lucas’, a dirge submerged.

[Historical image is withheld pending rights review.]

On the melted ballad ‘Do You Love Me Now’, Kim’s scratchy little-girl voice maintains its heartbreaking potential, like the ciggie-sucking kid from Dinosaur Jr.’s Green Mind all grown up. ‘Divine Hammer’ remains a power-pop quickie that sticks, ‘Drivin’ on 9’ proves more rocking than the original doe-eyed bluegrass lark and ‘Roi (Reprise)’ brings the album to an abrupt and awkward end. Bradley exits and a two-song encore kicks in, starting with ‘Huffer’ from 2002’s Title TK ‘Safari’ and finishing with the cathartic rocking-out of ‘Iris’ from 1990’s Pod.

Bumping up against the venue’s curfew, the band finish by 10:45. It’s a nostalgic set, but the way nostalgia actually functions: warm, fuzzy and imperfect, letting us overlook the shabby bits while revealing new angles we couldn’t see at the time. Not that The Breeders were trying to play into that emotional feedback loop: what they embody most, then and now, is friends just mucking around.

Is this the last ATP in Australia? For all its troubles, I hope not. Who else would assemble this mix of bands and – faced with cancelling the thing altogether – score an unlikely (if imperfect) outcome in St Kilda circa 2013, of all places?

+