The Graveyard Train gig review @ ANU Bar
The sharpened edges of the black, flat-brimmed Stetson hat glistened menacingly from the dark recesses of the bitterly cold, largely empty ANU Bar. Something important was going down, of that much I was certain. But what? Cowering as I was in a fit of shame and fright in the farthest, safest corner of this glorified university shed, closer inspection of the Stetson or, indeed, its owner, was proving impossible. The edges of the Stetson glistened with urgency but mercifully, perhaps, I could see little else. All the while the questions lingered, like memories of sweet love lost. Who was this demon? Why had it come? Or indeed, why had I? In the icy darkness little was being revealed and even less was making sense. Even in the gloom of this horrific bleak nothingness though I searched valiantly for clues, an eager young pro bono Wordsmith (though I hate U2) conquering his fears. I eyed the shadowy figure in a panicked grasp for clarity but I saw nothing, nothing at all. Perhaps it was for the best. The likely tell-tale stains of the bloody refuse of the prior slain remained hidden; submerged in darkness along with the violent history of its anonymous owner. I, along with the other frightened stragglers joining me in the dumbstruck audience, could do nothing but wait.
Mercifully, the sound signalling the beginning, as it were, of the end, came suddenly; a ukulele began to strum and a chain, heeding the call of its jauntily plucked Master, began to rattle alongside in a foreboding, unified rhythm. Above it all, the Stetson suddenly began a slow tilt towards the heavens above, the shadowy figure underneath seemingly positioning itself for some manner of stern address. It moved with slow and deliberate assurance, seeming confident of its authority among the few lost, desperate souls gathered in this funereal pit of visible breath and shivering trepidation. As the Stetson lifted, an untraceable light illuminated the form atop which it sat. I gasped deeply as the eyes appeared; piercing and alive, tinged with sadness. I was soon after clinging desperately to a stranger alongside as the face of a being weathered but composed, solemn but unbowed, loomed into view. It was the face of a story teller, a messenger: a Man who had seen it all. An immortal.
Amidst the surrounding gloom of shadowy fear, the ominous jangle brewed to a stirring crescendo and finally, when we could bare his silence no longer, the Man spoke. His words were never to be forgotten, but never to be repeated. It was wisdom very much of the moment. His words said it all. Electric terror surged through the crowd. What did it mean? The crowd, of which I had become very much a part, huddled tightly together in the middle of an otherwise empty room. Or was it? Something in the atmosphere tended to suggest that the space around us had become filled by spirits from another world, a forgotten age. Somewhere in the frosty mist of our surrounds spirits lurked of the ilk even Bill Murray would struggle to contend with. Only united could we becalm; in the warmth and comfort of communal humanity our shared terror finally began to subside. As if sensing this new prevailing calm, the Graveyard Train pressed confidently on, displaying a charming whimsy even whilst slipping into the most harrowing of material.
Pedalling tunes from their first two albums of country and blues murder balladry, The Serpent and The Crow and The Drink, The Devil and The Dance, this gang of misfit journeymen thrilled the unfortunately small gathering with their startling musicianship and off-beat harmonising (predominantly a series of tuneful yelps and moans) that all unfurled before our eyes and ears with rare creativity. The Graveyard Train are crafty purveyors of melodious murder, despair, mummies and werewolves, but underneath the surface a wry social commentary bubbles. Indeed, lines like ‘I’ve got a wife two kids and a car/My boss says I’m gonna go far/I tell myself that one day soon/I’m gonna lurch right out of this tomb and move like a Mummy!’ paint a picture of real world suffering that can only be corrected by a walk on the wild, horrific side of life. A later song offered a similar slice of life, contemplating aloud about how a night at the cemetery can go easily bad through just one ill-timed dog bite. Certainly, such an unhappy incident could lead anyone to muse ‘I got bit by a dog, now I think I’m a dog and I don’t know why.’
And so it was. By the end it had become a joke the entire crowd seemed in on. Oh! How we laughed.
Ceaselessly sick and twisted, sure, but when all is said and done, can there be a more thrilling spectator experience than baring witness to such a creatively in-tune ensemble jubilantly exploring life’s grimmest possibilities? If you can’t smile at the maniacal howling of a tale in which a randy young fellow falls foul of a gang of whorish witches, your plastic surgeon has probably botched your face lift.
Truth be told and all hyperbole aside, the band put on a fantastic performance which, as if to reflect their own mortality, finished all too soon. Fittingly though, the show’s untimely demise offered a perfect encapsulation of all the doom and sorrow in which we just joyfully wallowed. In a performance which told of murdered lovers, surging demons and man-eating witches, the evening’s greatest tragedy was the brevity of the display. They Graveyard Train are too good to play shows this short. They were so good that I would have had them play until they were dead. They were so good, in fact, that I was unable to prevent myself from making the purchase of a band t-shirt, despite the fact that they did not even have any in my size. Not to worry, it matters little; this is a shirt I will starve myself to fit. There can be no confusing the truth of this matter: it is a shirt I will wear to the point of absolute disintegration. I will marry in this shirt. The Graveyard Train are a band worthy of nothing less.
The Brothers Grimm followed this performance with a charismatic set of manic rockabilly that I fully intended to review in greater detail. But alas, it seems I ran out of room. It seems that once one boards The Graveyard Train, there’s no telling when the journey will end.
Article written by Craig Tuck.
Tags: ANU Bar , Craig Tuck , The Devil and The Dance , The Graveyard Train , The Graveyard Train gig review @ ANU Bar , The Serpent and The Crow and The Drink