Pornland
The Espy
December 25
Rewind to the final days of summer, 2010: 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.
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.”
. . . . . . .
“Merry Christmas, mother fuckers!” 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. It’s every bad porn 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 slapped the bass sensually, 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 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 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 is the kind of gig – and band, for that matter – you stumble upon. A few nondescript posters will pop up around the venue, and in a handful of 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.
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, followed by an explosion 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
