On June 26th 2004 the Moodists got together for one more hit out at the Tote in Melbourne. It was a top night, stunning the members of the band with the audience being three quarters twenty somethings and themselves weilding such a big sound. The night was kicked off by all female trio the Muddy Spurs who play a real unique kind of boogie. They know stuff too. The second spot went to Teenwolf who play rock in a very non post rock style. (I hope that makes sense). I mean, they are familiar with the substance known as METAL and they play hard and brilliantly. Led by Si from the Wagons and featuring an Australian/ Asian shredder constantly on his knees pulling ever more obtuse sounds from the spider shapes his fingers made on the guitar neck. The Moodists then came from nowhere, once again and stunned the lot of us. Here are two versions of the nights events from two sterling Melbourne writers.

 

 

 

 

 

 
The Moodists
26th June, The Tote
Dave Graney incites the precious, affected frog within us all. How we’d love to be French for a day and exact our pedestrian drivel upon witless nymphs, providing sorely needed succour for culture-starved urbanites, stuck here in the most livable city in the world (If we’re all consumers in today’s society – and thus have a contract with government – does that mean this particular item of propaganda is misleading and deceptive conduct under the Trade Practices Act? You work that out!). Everything about Dave Graney exudes panache (see my petit amor, how the frog is rising?). He’s the dapper wheeler and dealer in a Hemingway novel, set in Havana’s swinging days, selling rum to the Cubans. Last night he sold me The Moodists. And I bought it up, big time.
By the way I should declare the fact that Graney et al virtually write their own reviews. My hand is a prosthesis, acting in willful submission to last night’s instructions, the perfect sucker. One doesn’t so much as consciously enjoy The Moodists as one believes in their self-evident efficacy. To illustrate the point, imagine eating a big mac. As long as it tastes like a big mac, you’re happy – whether it objectively tastes good or not is beyond the point.
Opening with the mechanical noise of Machine Machine, straight away Steve Miller demonstrates his chef-lite skills at carving the air into bite-sized portions. Sonic canapés slither down your ears, like hot whiskey, making your ‘lobes smart. The Moodists are a rock ‘n roll tetrapod. They free stand. They’re normal. Yet it’s confusing in the very same way ‘tetrapod’ confounds your senses (why not just four-legged?). Easing into Swinging George, punk ode to the misbegotten pederast, Graney segues into the crowd’s trank’d sensibilities.
"He’d carry a tape measure for his own arcane educational purposes. Swingin George is a nostaligic look as kiddie-fiddlers of days gone by," the unerring enunciation of each word pours from the PA.
It’s probably twenty years ago that The Moodists were last rejected by Melbourne, and even now they don’t fail to confront and jostle with your brain for space. And it is confronting. For some more than others.
"Sing to my cock young man! Caress, stiffen, and guide it young man!" Graney sneered to a nameless heckler-way-out-of-his-depth. This sort of Doors-inspired interplay makes for a good night out, and I couldn’t care less whose sensibilities are wounded. Don’t harangue the musos man!
The Moodists are no prank. Parade your ears in their slipstream. You’ll genuflect, Christ, even Steve Miller was brought to his knees – all the while stabbing his strat and torquing the tremelo – in an environment of scarce resources the self-maximising consumer can do little but suck it up.
James Bean

[The Moodists]
Tote Hotel
At around midnight, our mood altered. As part of this alteration we were unable to remember the taste of ice cream, or the beguiling wetness of lollipops. Most troubling was our inability to recall the texture of puppy fur. Our childhood vanished along with the innocence of our inhibitions. Purity was replaced by a cold shot of pulp novel rock so repugnantly regal it
made us feverish like a roomful of Ray Liotta's.
To be here tonight, we would have scaled stonewalls, dived under barbwire, forever risking annihilation by enemy gunfire.
Before the show, we would have bathed in brown, beskunked bath water before getting bandaged from unqualified nurses.
My point being, tonight was vital. Vital enough to sacrifice one's continence, you ask. If you had asked the gentleman standing near the mixing desk during Swingy George, then perhaps yes (a spectre of warm, smelly vapour supposedly rose from a wet spot on the carpet then. I'm personally fine with it provided it was necessary and came as a relief for that person). A crushing stomp from Clare Moore elicited the first of many acts of danger. Machine, Machine, Chad’s Car and Runaway got us hot early on. By the fourth cut, Clare clipped her fingers with an errant rap of her sticks. Blood splattered all over her kit. Handsome Steve Miller played on; he was dressed to the almighty hilt and coaxing dirty black magic from the depths of his guitar. To his far left, Mick Turner (one third of The Dirty Three) stirred a burning cauldron of trenchant noise, while
bassist Chris Walsh simply stood his ground. Chris looked eager to butt people in the head. His bass is the one holding them steady, while Clare snapped gum and dropped deadly bombs on drums.
The audience made imbecilic requests. "Show us your scars!" or "C’mon say fuck again, please!?" Up near the stage, I spotted a crony of mine getting shirty. He was a regular provocateur, that Blake Menzies (not his preferred name). He was also a fine fiddle player (not his preferred instrument). Blake bombarded singer Dave Graney with all manner of impertinence. In return, Dave discussed his manhood at length, providing Mr. Menzies with this edifying thought: "Caress,
stiffen it, guide it."
Unlike his hat brim Graney’s groin had optimum flexibility. What he said and how he moved could best be imagined by the distillation of Clifford Odets, screenwriter, Too Short, Oakland gangster rapper and Lou Reed’s Tai Chi Master. He prowled the stage, producing leg kicks in sync with the whip-cracking blare. Sometimes the man in the hat would creep out centre stage, lurch forward and with a hint of madness in the eye – growl. And with the red lights flashing down, there it was – the very face of demonic farce. "I was in an onanistic state when I wrote this next tune, reading Aleister Crowley, listening to too much Led Zeppelin. I held an erection for six months." It was then that the band launched into something equally
pointed.
SHANE MORITZ
The Moodists Corner Hotel
Last night he wore black. He wore it nice and tight. Leather pants and vest, imitation chiffon shirt, slicked hair, a murmur of moustache. He jogged
on the spot, onstage, a boxer spoiling for a fight. He pulled punches at invisible monsters. He name dropped. He called his audience "evil and
sinister", he called the music "hard boiled". It was the last show ever in the history of their world.
The first time this correspondent ever witnessed The Moodists was four months ago, and now they're gone. It is said that in the 80s they were the
business, but the Australian public were too dim when it came to this particular breed of grot rock. The Moodists were too dark, too anxious, too
crooked for Countdown. Their songs are like detective stories where the black-clad win and the spies spend their lives in the cold. And last night
was a show, a real show where you turn up and let the band do all the work. Clare Moore whacks the drums, Chris Walsh doesn't second guess the
bass, Steve Miller and Mick Turner on guitars colour the bash with blush, and Sir David Graney pumps out bits of rap poetica like he's Patti Smith,
like he's Elvis. The show starts with Frankies Negative and Machine Machine and things are really cool. Really hot and really cool. There's leather
onstage and leather in the crowd. Graney introduces songs with stories about seedy South Australia: suburban car envy, pederasts who prowl
parks, the ramifications of an ASIO-sponsored identity revision. We Victorians have our long-held, smug suspicions confirmed - S.A. breeds 'em
backwards. Fortunately they also breed 'em onwards and upwards, and in David Graney's stagecraftsmanship there's some truly special magic.
Seeing The Moodists makes many Fridays and Saturdays spent cruising pubs in search of rock n roll charisma seem futile. Graney looks us in the
eye and declares, You're trouble/You're dead/You're thirteen/You're some kinda Jones, and the band backs his accusation to the hilt. Six Dead
Birds is a rollicking cook up about evidence gathering, and Double Life is delivered like Graney spends all his spare, insomnic nights swotting
Stanislavsky's Method. He gets heavy with many of these songs, heavily into character. What's the time/How can I lay in your arms just like this!/Did
I say that? he sings. There's an encore and Kim Salmon comes onstage. The room fills with the Scientists' We Had Love. Graney and Salmon take
turns with mic duties and all is white hot in the world. There's another song, don't remember what it's called, for at this stage life in the third row has
become dehydrated, delirious. We are an audience of mutts seeking flesh and bone.
We like leather and some kinda cool shit. We came in search of braggadocio and got some. We went back out into that black night drooling,
slack-jawed, satiated.
ELIZABETH MCCARTHY

 

THE MOODISTS + TEENWOLF
Tote Hotel
Saturday, June 26, 2004
By PATRICK EMERY
The Tote’s 21st birthday celebrations have produced some superb rock’n’roll events. The reunion of the Moodists was yet another such event, and further testament to the Tote’s ongoing reputation for memorable inner-city
rock’n’roll moments. I arrived in time to hear Teenwolf thump out a very engaging support act. They exuded a sort of Celibate Rifles feel, which is a very nice feeling to be
greeted with. The guitarist managed to a guitar solo on his knees without ever coming across like a white metal dickhead. A band certainly worth seeing again.
The Moodists came on stage around midnight. This was a
suitable time for a band that could easily get a gig as the
house band for a New Orleans cemetry. The Moodists’ music is dark, swampy and gutteral.
There is no peace, love and understanding here, no flowers of romance, no rainbows of hope. But within
that darkness there is a sort of beauty – not the sort of
beauty you’d see on a birthday card, but the type of
aural beauty that was consistent with the pungent
stench and adhesive floorboards of the Tote.
Clad in a shimmering three button suit and fetching hat,
Dave Graney was, as usual, picture of satorial splendour.
His idiosyncratic stage moves – something vaguely akin to a vaudevillian kick boxing routine – dominated the
band’s visual aesthetic. Steve
Miller’s slightly ill-prepared tuxedo complemented (but
not competing with) Dave’s fashion lead. In absolute contrast was Mick Turner in anti-glam t-shirt and jeans, proving yet again that there is more to rock charisma than crazy sunglasses and rehashed 60s rock rhetoric.
And then there is the rythym section of Chris Walsh and Clare Moore. Who cares what they were wearing, just listen to them play. This is no ordinary combination of beats and bass. Throughout Dave’s poetic lyrical meanderings and Turner and Miller’s guitar duels, Moore’s pulsating beats and Walsh’s thundering bass nailed the band’s performance for the whole set.
Songs like Machine, Machine and Some Old Jones bore testament to the band’s legacy and ongoing brilliance. Graney’s lyrics make a mockery of the facile moanings intrinsic to many contemporary pop tunes. Unlike many
other lead singers, Graney can contrive an ambience of nastiness without ever uttering a profanity.
Judging by the size of the crowd on Saturday night, the Moodists remain a cult interest for most music fans, even in their adopted hometown of Melbourne. But everyone there went away thoroughly satisfied. A Moodists
reunion is a rare treat, and something that every pub rock lover – especially those born after 1980 – should never miss.
This review from the i94 site