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459 Fitzgerald Street
North Perth, WA, 6006
Australia

HUNX AND HIS PUNX, BOOGIE FESTIVAL & MORE @ EASTER IN VICTORIA, APRIL 17-20

Lyndon Blue: Review

HUNX AND HIS PUNX, BOOGIE FESTIVAL & MORE @ EASTER IN VICTORIA, APRIL 17-20

Andrew Ryan

It was Easter, and I saw
in dark rooms and bright
paddocks, rock and roll happening
lucky days!
Hot, Cross Fun
Vibrating air – I caught it careening through space
I smelled sweat and dust and soot and
beer in tins, hot wine in plastic cups,
I wriggled cold toes in dirt-smudged boots
Trudging across floorboards and train
station platforms and nature’s dancefloors
composed of bop-compressed loam

You could choose any
beginning you wanted but
Supposing it started Thursday
(Maundy Thursday)
(The Last Supper),
then Leo painted just three of us
in the back of a Silver Top
one clasping a whiskey-flask

Tumbling out on Smith Street,
whereupon, the weirdo setting
sat. Goofy, winking:
“COPACABANA INTERNATIONAL”
with its big plastic sign like a motel
the grainy self-promo TV
in front of the curtain,
in the front window
boasting footage
of Latin Dance Classes and Brazilian BBQ,
neon cocktail and smiling salmon fedora
function table with white tablecloth
In we go!

Darkness, glow, clouds of skin and accompanying cotton
Or leather, suede, denim, polyester, PVC
Punks, freaks, hipsters, cowboys
as promised, function tables
white tablecloths, and
GOOCH PALMS on the stage
Leroy brandishing an a-grade mullet
and leather codpiece
bare hairy legs strutting a wild rhythm
Kat, stage right: wonky grin and rose-coloured coif
head bop, jaunty sway
Leroy thrumming six strings, roaring
Kat beating floor tom and snare
Primordial punk (minimal components, plenty)
Catchy ~~~ (Hook, line and sinker)

Rum and lime
A game of spot-lit foozeball
A blurry ramble

And SHANNON AND THE CLAMS
All the way from Oakland,
In sequins, bow ties, braces
Hawaiian twang storm
Nightmare glam-cavern boogaloo
before
HUNX AND HIS PUNX from next-door
(San Fransisco): Hunx (Seth Bogart)
Strutting and spitting
Outrageous vocal eruptions
Bikini Kill crop t-shirt
Enormous inflatable penises
Swirling, imploding crowd, heaving
30-second songs that slap you and sting: punk done proper
Over and out, disco ball, slide around a black dancefloor

Then another dancefloor, ‘round the corner, up some stairs
Til just before dawn, and roll home
to the tune of Dick Diver playing out your phone
One gold-standard hangover later and
we’re at the John Curtin Band Room

PETER BIBBY intones to a growing crowd
With his Bottles of Confidence
and I have the good fortune suddenly of being
one such bottle (a bottle with a bow)
for which I’m excitedly grateful
and then the mothership (POND)
scoops us up
and stretches us out like a rubber band
to launch across the ether
Our brain-floss chopped into hulking rhythms
Bathed in vitamin-rich sunlight
and synthetic lavender radiance
and algal-bloom stinky freak factor (just enough)
the “mature”
but still innocently life-affirming
endless honing of
purple disco-pulsation
graceful heron-migration
chromatic crop-rotation
rusty robo-vibration

Another morning passes, the pre-noon hours
are feeling shunned and shortchanged
But we know it’s a worthy exchange

A tram, a train, a bus – a highway
Hills, gums, grasslands, locales
My face sleeps on a window
Until: TALLAROOK (alight)

A shuttle, a valley, a tent
Campfires, costumes, greetings, hugs
BOOGIE: good energies flowing from
the hot springs of human grooviness
Cold air,
Hot wine
Cold hands
Hot flames, folks gathered round

Caravans peddle treats
Forming a half-perimeter
around the main party precinct.
The other half – a wooden clubhouse, a birdbath,
grassy slopes, eucalypts
And in that oblong
a sort of magic bubbles.

We enter to the booming juggernaut
strains of BOXWARS,
and the screeching assailant tones
of BATPISS
before a peculiar tangent
arrives, shaped like two Texans
or: “THE MASTERSONS”
playing acoustic country
pop
which is their prerogative but
I don’t dig the Dixie Chicks and I dunno

STELLA ANGELICO comes out in
“provocative” leather leotard
Flanked by meat-and-taters riffs
Rockin’ rollin’ power-wheeze
C’mon everybody, dance
The program has taken a turn
for the bemusing
? ! /
And we retire to the fire,

BUT

POND

Bring us back down to Earth
and promptly launch us back
into assorted celestial orbits
Jesus was quiet on Easter Saturday,
and tonight they worship Michael Jackson
with a sprawling kosmische kover

Before GARY CLARK JR
Shreds us a flashy
blues-funk-odyssey lullaby

I roll around chilly in my tent,
coat, boots and all.
I awake early – 7 o’clock – and though
I’m still sleepy, the warmth
afforded by food and fire outside wins out.
I watch my breath steam
out in front of me, drink a few cups of coffee
watch the festival crawl back to life.

Peter Bibby emerges – he’d said
he wanted to cultivate the most horrendous hangover of his life, and it looks like he might have succeeded
Coincidentally, we now have to play a set.
Nick is a little worse for wear too
but somehow we get through it
without any trainwrecks. THE OCEAN PARTY strum
through the early afternoon
with their Real Estate-type indie smoothness
before BED-WETTIN’ BAD BOYS supply unforgiving, strictly Antipodean garage punk
We gather our things during the luminous pop of TEETH & TONGUE, who are
possessing the multitudes to kick up dust, joyously.

I snooze on the bus back to Melbourne town
I’m out like a light
Easter’s done
I don’t dream
Or if I do, I don’t remember
But the long, rolling weekend was
a reverie
I shan’t forget