Oh boy, a stinking hot Monday night at The Tote. While it is a historic and dearly beloved venue, the lack of circulation inside leaves the air so thick with heat you could just about cut it up and serve it like a tray of sandwiches.
Later, a seat directly underneath the fan opens up, as this is about the only ventilated area in the entire venue, going to the bar is not an option. The heavily indie crowd seem chilled, perhaps a little worn out from the long weekend’s festivities.
Following opening three-piece Pop Strangers playing their driving indie tunes to the sparsely filled room, Bushwalking take the stage.
Guitarist Karl Scullin seems to be able to make his instrument cry in the same way Nick Zinner from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs does, but apart from this, the rest of the act is fairly samey.
The bland harmonies of vocalist Ela Stiles and drummer Nisa Venerosa increasingly have a nails-on-chalkboard quality and when Stiles pulls out a flute the hypothetical “can the guitarist play a solo for the rest of the set?” springs to mind.
All of their songs swirl into one mind numbing, endless drone that becomes less and less bearable as each minute passes. The second half of their set is vaguely better, mostly due to the drowning out effect of Scullin’s guitar.
Bushwalking are everything you have heard before, the same bassline and the same drum pattern, and nothing to go out of your way for.
During the next break, someone who surely is a right larf, rather cruelly plays “Burning Down The House”.
The trend of the evening seems to be somewhere between indie thrift store chic and discontinued wallpaper pattern couture. As time ticks towards 9pm, the sticky room fills up steadily until it is standing room only and a couple of girls nearby ponder the merits of a few minutes respite from the heat outside when the adjustment coming back inside will be uncomfortable to say the least.
As sweat drips from the ceiling, the Jack Tatum-fronted Wild Nothing make a low key entrance. From the very instant they start playing, they conjure up hot balmy nights and first kisses as punters clamour onto benches and windowsills.
“Shadow” is the perfect way to start with its jangling guitars and light as air vocals. “How are you guys doing?” asks Tatum, and he is met with a chorus of “hot” from the melting pit of bodies in front of him.
The vocals are mixed a little low through “Confirmation” but are quickly corrected midway through and manage to stay perfect for the duration of their set.
There is something unmistakably and deliciously 80s about Wild Nothing, if you close your eyes really hard and concentrate, they are pure John Hughes. When a pastel Oxford shirt passes through the crowd it is momentarily disappointing that a scruffy yet kind hearted misfit isn’t waiting for him at the bar.
Tatum and his band play intensely and energetically despite the awful conditions, which are probably made 10 times worse when on the stage under hot lights. “Counting Days” gently dream pops along but the showstopper is “Only Heather”, which simmers and flows so beautifully that its downloading on punters’ iTunes before the band can even finish.
Wild Nothing provide sparkly indie dream pop: longing guitars, shimmering cymbals, yards of perfectly placed synth, and bass lines you could climb with your bare hands. A heavenly end to an uncomfortable night.
