daevid allen with Trypswytch 07.12.07 Australia
Review by Stefanie Petrik
"I don't want to fuck a fairy." he gasped, laughing, his eyes strong and trying to link with mine as I pushed through the crowd. "It'd be too small!" he laughed at his own joke, his wife, clearly not laughing.
I had not instructed him to literally fuck a fairy, I had gleefully said: "Fuck the fairies you ran off with." The greasepaint felt like a trail of ants swarming over my face, my pores secreting some kind of thick honey. I was hot on the tail of a genuine Daughter of the Catastrophe, gripping a megaphone in my right hand, with a plastic bag poem we had prepared earlier. She turned around quickly, her hand diving into the blue supermarket bag. That bag must have had dreams of stardom, because it yawned and vomited the most virile and expletive poem that the audience had ever heard. Which was really unfortunate for them, really, as most of the audience had been living for at least 100 years. If this was one of the worst things they'd seen, obviously I'm doing something wrong cause I've seen a lot more fucked up shit and I'm only 24.
daevid was up on stage in his poetry jumpsuit, white and slick and covered in words; his guitar pedals looping a crushing sound. Max stood next to him with his familiar blue guitar-quiet on the outside but also emitting a confusing source of sound for the audience. Kavi sat near my kaoss pad on the right side of the stage-surrounded by bells and drums and percussion paraphernalia.
After the previous act, the promoter and her husband (who sounded like a cross between opera and Radiohead, both so talented it hurt and so in love with each other they were spreading it through song like melting butter on asparagus), we seemed like some kind of bad dream. Real music shouldn't feed back on purpose. Music should have words, and structure, and riffs.
Real music certainly shouldn't say "fuck" for at least consecutive 8 minutes, and if it does, it most certainly shouldn't be yelled through megaphones by two obnoxious girls right in your face.
But there we were, walking calmly through the audience, who were recovering from a lovely dinner and a glass of Rosé cask wine and looking for a bit of after-dinner entertainment. Instead they got Trypswytch. Misbah, dressed in a green gown looking like a French homeless woman covered in paint and glitter; daevid, silver-haired and expected to be respectable by this point in his life (Ha! Never!) wearing a jumpsuit covered in words; Max, all dressed in white and looking rather calm, as usual; Kavi, who had forgone the costume altogether in plainclothes; and me, wearing a black skeleton jumpsuit looking like some kind of satanic mime. Misbah was the flesh; I was the death. But I didn't intend to be a little one, not right here on stage anyway.
"Fuck Martin Atkins, for having the idea of a fucking fuck rant before us", the megaphone blared. "Fuck our own unoriginality."
"Fuck my congested pancreas" duel anarchists played off each other.
"Fuck orange, it doesn't rhyme with anything", somewhere someone was wailing through the PA system, the scream digitized and spat back out at a delectable frequency. The great thing about noise bands is that when it is working well nobody can tell who is making what sound. If it's a really good night, you can't even tell if it's YOU making that sound. It just turns into a wall of vibration and you rage and rally up against the music, your presence itself turning into an instrument. Just ignore those 'noise' bands that translate 'noise' into some kind of droning lull. That's just pointless.
"Fuck genocide." she screamed through her megaphone, throwing her head back to laugh like a deranged ringmaster. Her magnificent golden tits glinted. A man behind her shoved his chair back, hitting her in the hip in the process.
"Fuck video hits."
Turn and retreat for the stage. It was much easier for us to make our way BACK to the stage, now that everyone had politely pushed their chairs back in before running for their vehicles.
When we reached the stage, both Misbah and I's microphones curiously didn't work. Awesome. I raided Kavi's percussion gear, and Misbah utilized what was underneath those magnificent golden breasts; her lungs. Has she got a set of them or what?
Eventually, as I cannot compete with Misbah's golden tits I snuck backstage at about half time and sat there until it was all over. People love the flesh, recoil from the death. But it's ok. I had got my point across by that point, and daevid was going spastic on the microphone and interrupting with the megaphone would have just detracted from his particular point. Plus, I didn't really wanna go back into the dwindling crowd because I wasn't really feeling the love by this stage.
# # #
"If you ever hire those people ever again, I am never going to work with you. Never ever." Threatened Elenor's business partner of nearly a year, on her birthday, no less. Before being forced to hand over our fee, contractually of course.
The local journalist, a mild mannered centrelink officer from Brunswick Heads, and a small collection of music nerds and local artists all loved us. Everybody else went home early in disgust. I guess that all is right with the universe after all.