Arts
MOFO Oh, Oh
We are truly blessed to be right here, right now.
To borrow from a certain dead white male – if music be the food of love, I’ve had a fucking gutful.
There will inevitably be messy consequences as the excesses of the past 5 days and nights slowly seep out of my damaged shell of a body; however, I would not take back a minute of it.
I am of course referring to the triumph that was MONA FOMA. Now in its 4th year, there seems no limit to the experiences on offer for the fortunate patrons at the right place, at the right time.
And therein lies the paradox that has plagued the festival since its inception – failing the development of some time-bending technology (I wouldn’t put it past them); it is nigh on impossible to do it all. For your average punter there is inevitably a conga line of familiar faces, enthusiastically asking if you saw one thing or another to which one must reply, “Oh, bugger” or words to that effect.
But what am I doing complaining about being spoilt for choice? That’s just being greedy.
For this writer the festival kicked off in spectacular fashion at the Theatre Royal with a cluster of exceptionally talented musicians interpreting the music of Louis Armstrong. My expectations of a rendition of Pops’ canon coulda brought the house down; however that is not what we received.
Instead of being led by the hand through such standards as When The Saints, What a Wonderful World and Stardust we were challenged by an eclectic mix of improvised jazz.
Twas as though all of Tom Waits’ session musicians had arrived on stage at once and let loose. The movie character Jimmy Rabbit declared that Jazz is tosser’s music. Well, in all honestly, anyone who denies they don’t indulge in such practice is a liar and this was musical onanism of the highest order.
Thursday night kicked off with legendary ‘man behind the scenes’ Mick Harvey performing a selection of songs by the prolific French songwriter Serge Gainsbourg. Despite the occasionally unflattering transposition into our native tongue, they went down like Bombay Sapphire on a stinking hot day. It was a performance that was to set the course for the remainder of the festival.
To speak of highlights would be a grave injustice to the vast talents we were privy to. At risk of repeating oneself, there was just too much! Many column inches has been devoted to the geniuses behind the festival – Brian, David, Kirsha, Leigh, Nicole, Olivier etc … to wax lyrical about their achievements would inevitably result in plagiarism. What really struck me this year was the staff at every venue; ensuring everyone was well catered for … and doing so with a cheeky smile and sense of adventure. They really do deserve much praise; and a fucking huge after-party.
And this got me thinking. How great is this place in which we live … and where are the limits to what we can achieve? Having experienced as much of the past 4 festivals as physically possible, I conclude there are no limits. We are truly blessed to be right here, right now.
Prime example – the inaugural Mona Market for the year – MoMa. Treated we were, under the foothills of our virtually untainted mountain to the best produce, performances and profound ideas you could muster. Just to think, 10 years ago, the prospect of melting in the sun to the sound of Mongolian throat singers, supping down local French-style cider surrounded by the best fresh food around while people gather in tents to engage in philosophical debates; well, puh … who’d of thunk?
MOFO shows Tasmania what it is capable of. It’s all there, even if you require superpowers to take it all in.
Late nights and the small hours were spent grooving along at the after-party, Faux Mo. Each night provided a host of spectacles including numerous DJs and bands in a tranquil setting by the river and a bevy of gorgeous dancers who provoked and titillated us with gay abandon. Happy times.
The penultimate night (for those lucky enough to get tickets to the opening of the Triabunna Mill show) was magnificent. Kicking off with Hobart’s best-kept secret, internationally renowned metal band Psycroptic, we partied on till our legs collapsed beneath us. The incredibly talented saxophonist John Stetson put on an exceptional show that reminded this writer of the wonderful exchange in Amadeus, where some aristocrat or royal chap relents that there were too many notes in his composition, to which the arrogant, upstart Mozart replies “Well which ones would you suggest I remove?” Looking around the room at the intense expressions upon folks’ faces I felt many people would like a few less notes; however at the conclusion of each piece, their rapturous applause proved just how much looks could deceive.
There were many, many other wonderful experiences (please everyone, look up John Grant – ruddy genius that bloke) but the reason I was motivated to jot down these notes (when sleep would seem the only logical course of inaction) is to convey the idea that, despite all the negativity and backward thinking that dominates our daily discourse around Parliament and the Media, this great State punches well above its weight in so many ways.
It takes guts to innovate and realise that the staples we have relied upon for the last century have buckled. This festival and all the good folks who contributed and were involved are the future.
Credit where it is due. There it is.