The Drones, photograph supplied
It’s a curious cultural cringe that makes Australia afraid to celebrate its creative heroes. Curious, and deeply boring. We endlessly proselytise about America and England’s art-punk icons: the likes of Lou Reed and Robert Smith are as revered on these shores as they are in their home countries. But we have very few Australian musicians allowed into the same pantheon. Paul Kelly, maybe, and John Farnham among the kind of people who are still active on Facebook.
What I’m saying is, in a world where we managed to kick our addiction to the myths forged by other countries, The Drones would have the status they clearly deserve. There’d be hardback books of Gareth Liddiard’s sui generis lyrics, a fawning documentary, a couple of competing biographies, and anniversary shows with string accompaniments at the Opera House. Short of that, however, I suppose the band has to settle for the consolation prize of being one of the best rock bands that this country has ever produced.
If anyone needed a reminder of their all-timer status, they provided it within the first ten minutes of their Factory Theatre show. Time has been extraordinarily kind to Feelin’ Kinda Free, The Drones’ last record before hiatus, and lead single Taman Shud dropped onto the crowd like an electrified anvil before everyone had even taken their place in the crowd. Similar was the power of Baby Squared, Sitting on the Edge of the Bed Cryin’ and Shark Fin Blues. Held in place by the exemplary bass playing of Fiona Kitschin, these mammoth songs floated in and out of utter destruction, falling apart and then coming back stronger, louder, angrier.
But rather than merely trotting out the hits, The Drones pulled out some of their thornier, more meandering masterpieces too. I See Seaweed is more tone poem than single, alternating between descriptions of grisly murder and a fiery condemnation of humanity’s grim addiction to self-preservation (“We’re lockstepping in our billions / Lockstepping in our swarms / Lockstepping in the certainty that more need to be born”). In the live setting, it revealed further pleasures still, stretching out to an endurance-testing length, increasing in melancholy and white hot rage with every refrain.
Same for Jezebel, a song I previously held up as the band’s masterpiece, until I stopped trying to separate gold from gold. “Cancer’s airborne now,” Liddiard cackled, guitars swirling around him, showcasing the wry nihilism that has always defined his songwriting, and has never seemed more apt than now.
A decade might have passed since they last performed, but neither the fire nor the fury has gone from the band. The decision to end a hiatus-breaking show on a cover might, under any other circumstances, have seemed odd. But The Drones’ version of Kev Carmody’s howl of pain, River of Tears, has always summed up their ethos perfectly – mean, glistening, defeated but unbowed.
The Drones performed at the Factory Theatre, on Gadigal Land, on Sunday 30 August.
Join our weekly newsletter
