Sweat
Branch Nebula
Dance Massive
North Melbourne Town Hall
Shortly after 7pm we were ushered into the main space of the North Melbourne Town Hall and greeted by a fully lit, empty space. For a few minutes we milled around aimlessly, eventually congregating as a cluster in the centre. Without the traditional guidelines one becomes accustomed to in a performance space, such as chairs or even strategic lighting, we were rendered at the mercy of directions. Suddenly a very small girl, wearing what looked like a typical hospitality uniform started shrieking at us. “Welcome” she smiled through bared teeth “you have done a wonderful job of coming into the room, however you will need to do it again, faster and quieter this time. Everybody out and please come straight back in much quieter and much faster.” On that we were sent back out into the foyer only to spin on our heels and return, as directed, more swiftly and silently.
Back in the main hall I had hopes that some movement (hopefully involving some dancing) might release me from this scripted control. Alas we were greeted by another monologue dictating how we as an audience should react, how we should behave and what we should think of the oncoming performance. The lack of music made the audience nervous and (maybe it was just me) frustrated, shifting from foot to foot quite audibly. The swaying became a methodical beat as the sticky floor tried to slow our feet’s attempt at quiet revolt.
Suddenly our tiny but very vocal ringleader began to ask members of the audience to help her remove items of clothing and replace them with washing gloves and a hair net. Afterwards, she threw herself dramatically on to the floor, writhed momentarily before calmly standing up again. Then came more shrieking “DON’T LOOK AT ME”, whist suddenly the room burst to life with dancers moving various objects into position. They were dressed like workers from various service industries and we had nothing to do but watch them awkwardly set up a dinner table, arrange various spaces around the hall for what would become miniature and ever mutating stages.
Such was the pattern of the entire evening. The audience was never allowed to rest. The group was constantly being divided and folded and shifted like a deck of cards. At one point we were made to choose which dancer we wanted to watch. At another point we were asked to sit down on a magically produced chair, only to be told to stand up moments later. It was borderline pantomime but all the time accompanied by a very cool lo-fi soundtrack produced live by “noisician” Hirofui Uchino and the occasional break out of skilled dancing.
Each performer had a unique style of movement. Within the cast there was a B-boyer who accompanied his own break-dance by singing to himself, there was a relatively traditional contemporary dancer who oozed fluidity and technical strength, a parkour style dancer who could do some incredible things with a football and a martial artist who also had the ability to glide up walls as if he was in the film “Inception”. I only really relaxed into the performance when each dancer gave into their own niche choreography, visibly losing themselves in the sound and rhythm of something in which they were obviously passionately engrossed.
As a final chapter, members of the audience were invited to take a place at the elaborately set dinner table and were gently restrained by the tablecloth. As the rest of the audience crowded around trying to see, the dancers served wine, water, and food. The service started off civilised and gradually built into intoxicated abjection with one waiter/dancer stripping down to nothing and dragging his naked body through the mess of tomato sauce, crisps, pineapple, confetti and red wine.
Following this final orgy, the cast stood facing us and publicly forgave us. It was much like a priest would absolve their congregation, in essence cleansing us of any potential bad thought or hypothetical sin. They each then performed a mini solo before exiting the hall, leaving us to wander into the foyer a little unsure whether that was “allowed”. We were greeted by plates of fine food and full glasses of wine as we re-entered the foyer, but there was still a niggling voice of authority whispering to me NOT TO EAT THE FREE FOOD….However, the grumble in my stomach reminded me to damn the man and take a punt, so I plucked my roll and ran into the north Melbourne night, feeling a little like a rebellious school kid.
All images copyright James Brown.
