Newtown Social Club, formerly known as The Sando, closed its doors on Sunday April 23 with a solo set by The Drones frontman Gareth Liddiard. JOSEPH EARP was there to see it. Photos by Ashley Mar
In 1974, an unsuspecting world witnessed the release of Having Fun With Elvis On Stage. The 37-minute-long “album” – the brainchild of Presley’s controversial manager Colonel Tom Parker – consisted of nothing but The King’s cringey, halting onstage banter; track after track of boring stories and playful jabs at the audience. It was an Elvis record that didn’t actually feature any Elvis songs – a money-grabbing musical car wreck that was quickly derided as one of the worst records of all time.
Over the years since, critics have assumed that the problem lay in the format – but maybe, just maybe, the issue was with the artist. After all, following his outstanding Newtown Social Club show, one can imagine that a Having Fun With Gareth Liddiard On Stage album would be nothing if not darkly entertaining.
Touching on everything from Xavier Rudd (“prick”) to his dream of playing a gig at Parliament House, mowing down some pollies with a machine gun and then taking himself out, Liddiard’s punky pontification was a work of art all in itself – a glimpse into the rage and wit that underpins his music.
Of course, the songs were pretty bloody good too. A grotty, satisfyingly messy mix of covers, reworked Drones tunes and cuts from his excellent solo record Strange Tourist, Liddiard’s set was without fault – even when the singer-songwriter encountered a couple of, you know, faults. The terrifying historical epic ‘Sixteen Straws’ was held up when Liddiard briefly forgot the lyrics, while a drink spilt onstage resulted in a short musical break so an obliging punter could get a fresh one for the performer.
Not that any of the crowd cared. The packed audience at this Newtown Social Club send-off show hung on Liddiard’s words like carcasses on abattoir hooks. They joined in with his banter, helped him out when he needed prodding with the lyrics, and cheered and cawed when the first cluttered, cathartic notes of ‘I Don’t Ever Want To Change’ rang out.
And isn’t that always the great, beautiful irony of any show Liddiard plays? Songs like ‘Oh My’ might speak of great spiritual loneliness – they might boast lines promoting Thomas Ligotti-esque ethical suicide and nuclear holocausts – but you don’t feel alone when you’re in a room full of people singing them. In fact, quite the opposite. Liddiard might be the only performer in Australia who can get a sold-out crowd of punters to bellow lines about skinny ice caps and dog food on a Sunday night – and have them feeling fucking great about it as they do.
