I Went To Dark Mofo And All I Got Was This Amazing Time

Photos by Josh Gardiner, Rémi Chauvin, Rosie Hastie and MONA.

How much can one city (hell, let's say state) owe to one institution. It might be old news to talk MONA's contribution to Hobart's place on the art and music map but shit, spending 48 hours there for Dark Mofo really hammers home what a kick these guys and their various pursuits have delivered to the sleepy harbour capital. It's clear to see that it's a combined effort, and success. It's hard to imagine a festival like this taking place Sydney, Melbourne, or anywhere in the country, with the council compromises that can strangle a singular vision. If MONA have brought the ideas and coin, Tasmania have brought the open mind, and arms.

From The Feast and Ferris Wheel of Death to the criss-crossing light beams over the skies and masked cowboys cracking flaming whips, Dark Mofo is idiosyncratic, awesome and exactly what it says on the tin—dark, cold and different—and I loved the shit out of it.

Here are some notes I made.

FRIDAY

We were warned tonight would be loud. Really loud. Earplugs would be on the door and highly recommended, said the email. But that shuddering noise is half the fun, right? No ear plugs then.

First up was Veil of Darkness, the side project of Tasmania's black metal hermit king, Striborg. Out from his forest retreat of Snug with a skull in hand he rattled our ribs with bass deeper than the strait we just flew over. A great start to a weekend of unapologetic volume. That's him above playing later in a cupboard.

Up next, Earth—a iconic trio who've not only inspired a legion of acts over the years but also tonight's headliners Sunn O))). And it's easy to hear why. Their glacial pace and grinding drone was a lesson in restraint, as teasing as a round of tantric sex with Sting's drone loving brother might be like. I got the impression that these guys are the kind to invite you to dinner but you don't end up eating until midnight. And dinner is cold gravel.

It came up all of a sudden, the smoke. A waterfall pouring over the monolithic amp stacks ringing the back of the stage, creeping out to swallow the entire venue. So much so that it pretty much obscured Sunn O))) the whole time, and brought two fire engines. Honestly, you couldn't see shit, just the glowing standby lights and the faint shape of a man or two in cowls and capes. But then we weren't there for the view. This was an hour long, thundering rumble—full of the kind of chanting that makes you think of dark ages and heathens and iron maidens and interviews with the church that really didn't turn out well for you. In all honestly, and despite myself, I had to close my eyes in submission, and I wasn't the only one. They also sent a girlfriend to the toilets, with the brown note, in her words, "shaking my uterus'. What a transcendental juggernaut. All hail.

SATURDAY

We walked into the venue to the subtle pulse of HTRK, just catching the end of their set. Another example, though brief, of the vein of restraint and focus that kept running through Dark Mofo and its acts.

Kirin J Callinan's set that follows turns out be the most charismatic performance of the festival so far. With the other acts at pains to keep their character in check, Kirin embraces his—fresh off the plane from a Toronto show in a pleated, Bowie-esque suit and treating us to his best 'Embracism' cuts. Kirin's time touring the US and UK has tightened his band and set up another couple of belt notches, not to mention his grip on his mantle of Australia's most exciting talent. Also, his merch desk is the best.

Total Control are rumoured to be calling it quits so this set seemed to carry a bit more weight. Again, the Dark Mofo missive seemed in play, with a linear and brutal set (front man Dan didn't even bother taking off his jacket for most of it) driving straight for the jugular. This band are one the best and are always amazing. Say it ain't so guys, don't go.

As had happened on Thursday night when The Bronx left the stage, Dark Faux Mo was up next, with The Odeon opening up its nether regions. If you had explored the place you might have seen Conrad Standish and Total Giovanni shaking hips in a jungle room sweatier than the back seat of a school bus; a near naked wood-sprite with green glitter smeared over his dick, thrusting his junk about the place (yes, it popped out); a hip-hop party in the stairs like those old ones in Shit Town, St Jeromes' skanky and permit-lacking little brother.

We missed the pillow fight in the basement but did catch some friends pole dancing out back in a jazz club while on mushrooms and eating wallaby shawarmas. Oh and did I mention the giant kitten heads shooting lasers out their eyes?

SUNDAY

It was always going to be a stretch, and a shrink, to get naked for the solstice nude swim, and not just because it was at 7AM and a weird idea to strip down in five degrees. Instead, the first port of call was Marco Fusinato's solo performance, again at the Odeon. After a weekend of noise and attrition it seemed only fitting to have someone play 8 hours of constant, blitzkrieg-like sound. The loudest set I experienced, the searing, complex and fractured atmosphere was probably my highlight, and I did it on an empty stomach too.

Just before we got on the plane for more turbulence, we found ourselves sat in the surreal environs of the Theatre Royale for the arch angel activist and operatic icon, Diamanda Galas. A setting that wouldn't have been out of place in a Burton film, it was the perfect place to be terrified and beguiled as she screamed her modulated and layered screams and pounded the piano with fingers and elbows. Re-working Das Fieberspital, a German poem about yellow fevered patients—underneath reliefs of other Germans Beethoven and Brahms—it was the industrial age in poetry and industrial noise on stage. Wing-beating, blood-pulsing stuff that made you think of the Third Reich, Star Wars and an endless night. Deep breaths.

Holy shit I love this festival.

Thanks to MONA, Dark Mofo and Tourism Tasmania for having me.

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