The queue outside the Thornbury Theatre on Saturday night was unusual
for a number of reasons. The venue itself rarely sees such an impressive
turnout as it is stationed in a uniquely remote part of the city, and suffers
from something I like to call ‘the NSC divide’, whence inner-suburban gadabouts
refuse to venture any further north than 301 High St. And then there’s the fact
that the line, stretching quite a way down High St, was comprised entirely of all
kinds of nostalgic/futuristic human-peacock hybrids, feathers and masks and
flesh coming from all directions. It was a staggering sight to behold. After
initially recoiling at the cavalcade, I spied a gentleman just beyond the Absinthe
fairy sporting a rainbow polka-dot tailcoat, x-ray specs, tennis shorts and an
enormous black rubber penis. The night had begun.

There is always a buffer period in situations like these, where you
wander aimlessly with a lofty expression (I recommend it) and come to terms
with your new surroundings. The organisers seemed to have anticipated this by
collaborating with RMIT design students and building a number of interactive
installations for people to busy themselves, whilst pretending not to
perve on the foot-traffic. The foot-traffic proved to be a distraction all
night long in fact, and bands struggled to get a rise out of the crowd though
the room was nearly full.

>There was attention enough during the sideshow acts, including Mojo Juju
& Frankie Valentine doing a swing/burlesque double act, Caravan of Doom
and quite possibly the strongest man I’ve ever witnessed, whose introduction
was so muffled that I can only refer to him as ‘Anti-Gravity Man’. Caravan of
Doom performed a number of death-defying and/or very silly stunts with their
usual demented prowess. Mojo Juju and Ms. Valentine performed scorching
renditions of Cab Calloway’s "Minnie The Moocher" and Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ "I
Put a Spell On You", which was akin to having static electricity in your heart.
The performance seemed to lose a bit of momentum though, as the performers were
all stationed around the room (the band on the mezzanine, Juju on the stair,
and Valentine down near the crowd), the former two being all but ignored in
favour of the latter’s, ahem, assets.

Kira Puru and The Bruise sauntered onstage soon after my conversation with
that nice young man in coat tails and x-ray specs; they were a welcome respite
from the entertaining (yet constant) onslaught of weird. Puru (and her boys in blue singlets) started out sullen, but
hijacked the mood with impressive efficiency and a striking Etta James likeness.
Amongst all the comings, goings and endless chatter, her voice was a beacon of
lust that cut through the feathers and taffeta and highly flammable hair.
Guitarist Geordie Malone took the attentive few on a ride straight to the seething
underbelly of rock’n’roll, dancing mercurially alongside drummer and bassist. It’s
a shame their show was beset by constant chatter, but anyone that did listen
got to have a bit of their face melted so that’s good.

The Barons of Tang took the stage with the air of a band that
understands the beauty of a quick change-over. Bless their gypsy death-core
hearts. They launched into their set with energy that was unmatched by the audience…at
first. But it wasn’t long before heads were nodding, hips swayed and the crowd
bounced along to the familiar strains of "Even If You’re Missing Fingers You
Can Make A Fist" from new EP Knots And
Tangles (also the defacto theme song for the Boho Ball’s tour videos). As I
contemplated whether one can ‘shred’ on an instrument used predominantly in
polka music, Carlos Parraga proved it to be true and let loose on his
piano-accordion with the kind of energy I can only describe as ‘goddamn metal’.
There is a sense of abandon and fun in the Barons’ music that defies the
written word, and in the Masquerade Ball itself. You just have to jump in.