Angie McMahon, Photograph: Valerie Lee
Angie McMahon performed at Forum Melbourne on Wednesday 29 May.
Serious question, where the fuck does Angie McMahon’s voice come from? Is there a Higgs Boson BOSE system installed in her larynx, rearranging subatomic particles? Or does she have ten lions and five angels living in her lungs recreating the tremor of the 1883 Krakatoa volcano, which, according to Google, produced a sound that could be “heard up to 3,000 miles away, shattering eardrums and creating tsunamis.”
Tonight feels like a coronation for McMahon. As Chris Lewis points out, these Melbourne shows amount to an “I was there” moment. She has sold out three Forums; industry sources tell me “she could have done five.”
The last few years have seen McMahon go through an astrological rite-of-passage, a relationship break-up, a change of meds and a diagnosis of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). There were also Victoria’s brutal lockdowns, which she rode out in her Preston home, wondering if and when she’d get the reciprocal catharsis of singing for audiences again.
29-year-old McMahon could pretty much burp the alphabet for an hour and keep us captivated, but she has a new album, Light, Dark, Light Again, which made good on the promise of her 2019 debut Salt. On the topic of gas, McMahon tells us she’s had acid reflux all week. Somehow, it doesn’t affect her timbre and merely endears us to her even more.
After a breathing exercise gets us all on the same page, McMahon begins with a song on a similar theme, “Fireball Whiskey.” In another artist’s hands, lyrics such as “I really hate to vomit…” may scan as twee or try-hard, but the song hits us hard and instantly, much like a shot of that spicy, cinnamon-flavoured liquor.
A relieved, happy grin spreads across her face as she backs away from the mic to emphasise her enormous feelings. The aforementioned hardships have led her to the triumph of this moment: she’s glowing with purpose in Naarm’s most enchanting live music venue.
McMahon swishes a purple scarf around, simultaneously meek and all-powerful, channelling the electricity in the room and adding another element to her stagecraft. “I’m getting tingles in my legs,” says my plus one, who later informs me the gig is in her top 10 all-time concerts.
“How are you?” McMahon asks after a few songs. “Really good thanks!” blurts a keen punter who has obviously been pre-gaming like a champ. His name is Greg and he becomes a well-meaning, ultimately harmless thread to the night. Greg clearly needs something more out of this event, though I’m not sure what yet. Someone holds up a pro-Palestinian sign which McMahon acknowledges and later asks for it up on stage.
She chugs into “Mother Nature.” “Flocks of birds, changing forrrrrm.” I want the drums to punch me a little harder in the ribs, it’s my only complaint of the night. “I was buffering,” McMahon sings on “Fish” over a half-time arrangement, her band locked in, making eye contact with each other. Some of the bar staff are singing every word with creased brows.
It occurs to me that Angie is her most complete self when she’s on stage. There’s no posturing, the anxiety has melted away. “I’m starting to feel like a fish in the ocean who knows that it’s caught on the wiiii-iiire,” she emotes, hitting her chest twice as dark blue lights swish and dip around her. I see a few punters copy her.
McMahon is in the mood to share: “I am in love now. I found a good one. I wanted to find a love that’s as strong as my parents’, and they’re here tonight.” She adds, “I’m gonna blow my nose again… that’s hot,” gaining laughs.
“It’s OK to make mistakes,” is one of the biggest singalongs of the night. I feel a tear nudge past my left eyelid and slide down my cheek. The band slow motion glide into McMahon’s recent triple j Like a Version effort: “Reckless” by Australian Crawl. McMahon takes some political poetic licence midway through the song: “We’re still contributing to war crimes…” The crowd is lulled into a state of calm as we all stand and heal together.
Photograph: Valerie Lee
The gig finishes. The crowd stomps their feet in appreciation. “Thanks for the signs,” McMahon says, holding up the Free Palestine placard while taking a bow with her band and giving a succinct, perfectly measured speech about ending the atrocities in Gaza.
The lights go up and we begin filing out. There’s a shared feeling of dazed contentment. I bump into Greg coming out of the toilets and he is keen for people to know he is “Greg from the show.” I listen to him.
“My mate Scott couldn’t be here. He loved her,” he says, the past tense suggesting perhaps Scott is no longer with us, which explains Greg’s need to honour his fallen comrade by making a connection with their hero. “He had a massive crush on her.”
Now the world has got it bad for Our Angie and we need to be cool with that. Because she’s about to tour the world and let that molten lava voice ring out over 300,000 people at Glastonbury – and everyone else in a 3000-mile radius.
