It’s always great watching a band relax in front of a hometown crowd at the end of a tough slog on the road. The sense of comfort and relief is unmistakable and makes for a genuinely warm, enjoyable performance.

And so it was as the Wagons rolled into Melbourne for the last show of a long national tour, waving goodbye to the Tarago and hello to the studio. Frontman Henry Wagons, sipping from a hefty glass of red, was beaming onstage. The lively showman, whose rad little beard couldn’t hide his constant smile, promised a party and wholeheartedly delivered.

It was a tight set consisting mostly of tracks from the most recent album, The Rise and Fall of Goodtown. The band opened with ‘The Gambler’, and kept up the energy early with ‘Drive till Dawn’ and ‘Love Me Like I Love You’. After touring the material for more than a year it was well and truly polished and the group played wonderfully together.

Wagons is undoubtedly at his best when he’s able to jump around and let loose, and his deep, husky voice lends itself especially to grimy country riffs and jocular lyrics. So the show did lull a little during ‘Alone With Me’ – a kinda cheesy attempt at something slow and sentimental – and veered somewhere else completely when bassist/drummer Si the Philanthropist took to the mic to rap, which was so out of place that I couldn’t help but giggle.

Still, the band never took itself too seriously and was obviously having a ball on stage – easily enough to carry these rare odd moments.

The Corner was also treated to a taste of the new album. This particular track, ‘I Blew it’, was written while the band was touring with US alt-country sensation Justin Townes Earle, and it showed. The bottom-of-the-bottle ditty about lost love had a knee-slappin’ tempo and sounded a little twangier than the rocky Wagons of old, but the crowd enjoyed it. A sign of good things to come.

Covers of Elvis’ ‘Never Been to Spain’ and, later, The Wayfaring Strangers’ ‘Willie Nelson’ won the loudest responses of the night. “We just want you two sing two fuckin’ words,” roared the frontman during the ode to the 70s country icon, and the rowdy audience was all too happy to oblige.

The band finished the body of the performance with another singalong fave, the cheery ‘Goodtown’, before briefly disappearing offstage.

Wagons kicked off the encore sans band, with a spotlit, acoustic ditty about his home municipality, ‘Waverley’; the audience shared a good ol’ chuckle over local references to knives at the train station and mischief in Jells Park. The band returned for the much gloomier ‘Pamela May’, which took the mood down a notch, but powered home with the spirited ‘Jail, It’s Hell’. Wagons ran around collecting every mic he could find, yelling madly into them, as the band belted out their final big sounds.

A fitting, high energy finish to a show that should tide over Melbourne until the band emerges from the studio.

It’s easy to wander round the BDO and see where the music, mood, booze, cigarettes and wild horses take you.

After thrashing around Melbourne taking in Australia Day adventures to Tullamarine Airport, a BBQ in Port Melbourne and my own place in Richmond, there’s nothing like a good honest bounce in the sun, and both The Hilltop Hoods and Dizzee Rascal threw this one up, out and bandy like a muthafucker. Both teams showing that successful and adventurous hip-hop trips further than East and West Coast America. The Hoods ‘Chase that Feeling’ (pretty much an anthem for Australian Sports advertisements in 2009) created dust clouds from all the bouncing, while DR’s ‘Bonkers’ (along with anything else off Tongue in Cheek) sent the crowd into an ape-wild frenzy.

After that it was a case of ‘How the girls won and where it got us..and how the wild things shook their sweet things and where it took us’. Lily Allen stepped up first with her endearing and chaotic, pocket rocket version of Mick Jagger’s swagger. Draped in an Aussie flag and puffing on cigarettes, her cover of Britney’s ‘Womanizer’ sonically shuffled and roared out of the smoke before evaporating into ‘Fuck You’, a song directed towards racists and prejudice in general.

Not sure who or where filled the void between the acts above and below…possibly sets by Jet and Ladyhawke, but I can’t be too sure; I went for a drink and got cornered in the ADZ (Allowed Drinking Zone) while confusion and fumbling with tokens went on. Ah shit, I remember – somewhere at Lilyworld I watched Blowfly wrecking ball the shit out of the O’Jays’ ‘Love Train’.

The crowd pleasing associated with other bands of the bigger stages gets old and leathery after a while so an artist unhinged and boot deep into crowd baiting is what makes a festival worthwhile. Enter Peaches — a firecracker of perverse confrontation and costume changes. A dirty, glitterball, gutter-punk Lady Gaga. Or whichever of the two XXXXs came first.

Peaches ripped through her set with outright bravado, macho showmissship and prevailing gonzo oddities filled with electronic bips, bops and cyber-hops. Particularly the songs ‘Billionaire’ and ‘Set it Off’. By the end of the set, Peaches had convinced a decent amount of the crowd to remove most of their clothing. Having since seen the movie ‘Whip It’, Peaches show in memory seems like a roller derby in full tilt – always on the tipping point between blood, cum and 911. In short, the lady’s a badass.

Outside, while the dying rays of the day fell down around the venue, the Boiler Room began to remind everybody that the sun also rises and the beats from the tent filled the air with booms, moods and shudders. A dog fashion disco indeed.

A good day for all…including a few of the horses.

Thanks to Jim Beam and Coke, Philip Morris Products, the female genitalia, 100% paper hats and no sleep for fuelling this BDO adventure.

Rewind to the final days of summer, 2007: I was enjoying a sizable music festival spliff with a stranger who called himself The Pirate, and who initiated the exchange for no other reason than I was camped next to him, when I enquired dopily about the porno-grooves spiralling from the stereo of his nearby panel van (of course).

The portly, scruffy-haired gent proceeded to deliver a nugget of musical wisdom that was, in hindsight, probably one of the greatest I have received to date: “This’s Pornland, man,” he said, a steady plume of smoke snaking from his nostrils, curling to a haze around his bloodshot eyes. “You’ve gotta check ‘em out live if you get a chance.”

. . . . . . .

“Merrr-ryyy Christ-maaas, motherrr fuckerrrs!” roared Pornland front-man, Slatty D, as he strutted onto the stage wearing a cheap Santa suit and black eye mask, microphone in one hand, jug of beer in the other, to the roar of a boozed-up 1.15 am Espy crowd.

The audience was a 20-80 mix of young St Kilda trendies, probably there by chance, and dedicated fans (a little older, and with grins planted firmly on their faces in anticipation), who lapped up the special chance to catch a sporadic reformation show.

The band commanded the full attention of both groups – it’s difficult to tear your eyes away from seven fully developed men, barely clothed in a combination of brightly-coloured leather, capes, top hats, vests and fur coats, topped off with thick mutton chops and teenage moustaches. Pretty much every bad stripper stereotype you can imagine.

Flanking Slatty D from stage left to right: the sultry Marccio ran his mouth over the the sax and flute, Dylan ‘the heart-throb’ McCoy dominated the guitar, Maccy G pounded the drums, Son of a Famous Man sensually slapped the bass, Baboona Valdez wrapped his tongue around the backing vocals, while Security Dirty Joe watched over the whole filthy mess.

Then there was the extended Pornland family, dragged on stage as entertainment over the course of the night. This time, Boy, a topless waiter with suspenders, distributed cans of beer and a bottle of vodka to the band and front-row; Pilot Man, dressed as (you guessed it) a pilot, was playfully ushered off stage for drunkenly slurring and confusing a verbal song intro; and something that looked suspiciously like previous band-buddy Wolf Man appeared, dressed head-to-toe in some kind of furry animal costume, albeit for a few fleeting moments, and referred to only as, “What the fuck is that?”

“I’m gonna stick my dick in your motherfucking ass,” squealed Slatty D, launching into the first offering — the aptly-themed ‘Pontius Pilate’, a risqué ditty (in any other context) about the man who famously sent Jesus to his death.

I like to party / Jesus died so we could party / I like to party / Pontius Pilate start the party

All the classics were performed with smiling, pornographic zeal, and, where possible, given a festive slant.

“All I want for Christmas is an erection,” Slatty D exclaimed, leading into ‘Get it up’.

It’s been so long that it’s hard to remember / what it feels like to have a stiff member / … I just can’t seem to get it up / get it up

He also lovingly dedicated ‘Old Man’ to his deceased father.

He is nearly 80 but he likes to party / Experience has made him a hit with all the ladies / He likes to get it on / Get it on with his slippers on

This the kind of gig – and band, for that matter – you stumble upon. A few non-descript posters will pop up around the venue, and in a handful city alleys, to inform the initiated and those they’ve relayed their tales to. Then the word-of-mouth extends. Even within the Espy, pre-show, you hear mutterings: “Have you seen Pornland before?” “Stick around, they’re great.” And so the community grows, cemented once the newcomers are inevitably wowed by the sheer energy, and chaotic presence of the enduring porno-funk collective. It’s one of those refreshingly grass-roots, organic phenomena – boosted by the fact that the band only plays a couple of times a year, at most. The myth grows between shows.

After a steady hour-and-a-half, Pornland had exhausted the vodka and beer, and the hip-swinging audience weren’t far behind. But the band couldn’t escape the powerful call for its undeniable crowd-fave.

“Slap that ass, motherfucker!” screamed hundreds of punters, off kilter, “motherfucker, slap that ass!” (Repeat).

It’s by far the simplest song on offer – indeed, these are its only lyrics – with clear late-night, bouncy, sing-along appeal.

The band joined in on the chant, yelling along with the audience at first, before a rhythmic bass slap acted as a well-needed metronome, quickening to the right pace, and exploding into a blur of squealing wah guitar, howling keys, group derrière-slapping, and call and response.

Pornland concluded the show with the slower, arm-in-arm, sway-along number, ‘Strudel Juice’.

Studel juice, dripping in my pants / Strudel juice, every time I dance / Oh, my strudel juice, it’s gonna flow / Oh, my strudel juice, I think I’m gonna blow

The band was ex-troduced, each member bidding adieu with an appreciative solo, before leaving with a final, “Happy birthday Jesus.”

Utterly incredible.

. . . . . . .

Note: At the conclusion of my smoking session with The Pirate, he jumped from the roof of his panel van onto one of our camping chairs, which shattered under his seafaring strength. I never saw him again. If perchance you read this, Pirate, you’re a legend.

Image courtesy of Pornland

Perhaps I give too much credit to emporiums suffixed with ‘warehouse’, but I expect that a pharmacy that sells prescription drugs to be able to understand the most basic of grammatical concepts. I mean, these guys have the power to dispense codeine but can’t understand you don’t put an apostrophe on plural nouns?

If that wasn’t bad enough, they’ve neglected to include a question mark on what has become one of the clumsiest sentences to ever adorn a shopfront window. How do colds and flus save money this winter? It’s like they got one of their retarded, drug-addled Sudafed addicts to pay off his increasingly large debt by doing odd jobs around the store. One of them had to be this.

Naturally, a prim older sales assistant – a true Chemist Warehouse devotee – had the brainflash midway through dying her increasingly prominent post-menopausal mustache that white paper inside the window simply wouldn’t make their point strongly enough.

‘Stop! We need pink paper. And on the outside of the window- take that!’

Thankfully, some brilliant like-minded individuals, instead of shaking their head and angrily writing blog posts, took advantage of its vulnerability, and rectified said problem.

These grammar police deserve to be saluted. Smith street thanks you.

The Herd
Hi Fi Bar
June 13, 2008

It’s quite entertaining to watch a sea of white guys (myself included) dancing enthusiastically to hip-hop – the stern faces, full-body lurches up and down, and awkward hand movements.

But when you’re confronted with the dynamic eight-piece arrangement employed by Aussie hip hoppers the Herd, it’s difficult to stand still. Complete with acoustic and electric guitar, bass, clarinet, plenty of mics and – my personal favourite – a piano-accordion, the Herd live is as compelling aurally as it is visually.

Last week’s show at the Hi Fi saw the band energetically spruik its new release, Summerland. The album features more of the group’s genre-challenging, funky, hip hop beats, and from the politically charged single The King is Dead, through the light party track Zug Zug, to the biting reworking of Aussie bush ballad Toorali, it made for an exciting live experience.

But there was plenty on offer for those who hadn’t yet snagged a copy of the newbie. Hits dating all the way back to the 2001 self-titled debut were pumped through to an eager audience all too willing to participate.

We Can’t Hear You, Unpredictable and 77% were big crowd favourites, and a powerful cover of Redgum’s I was only 19 pulled everyone together for a highlight arm-in-arm sing-along.

The band finished off with a fresh take on its popular ode to the fish and chip shop, Scallops, which sported a new, jazzy feel. It sounded great, and topped off a very solid performance that is sure to keep fans happy ’til the next round of shows in August.