An eager, nostalgia soaked swarm of flannel, proper beards and battered Converse All-Stars filed through the dank passage and into The Tote’s bandroom for stoner dirge lords, Tumbleweed. Doubtless the droves of talking heads would have many a memory of standing on the same squelching corner, in the same pub, watching the same band while the same skin held a firmer pose.
Without much fuss, beers were fetched as the shaggy, dreaded Kaleidoscope trio mounted the stage to lash out a bass-string-pulling set of unadulterated grind. With their self-titled debut EP tucked under their Wollongong spawned arms, the punishing drums and vicious bass lines of Darcy Wall make way on cue through much of the set for singer/guitarist Anthony Sweeny’s vocal, which hinted at a (perhaps drowsy) Layne Staley. Like all burgeoning acts, Kaleidoscope have their ebbs and flows but one thing remains constant – they look like dogs
“Tune my vocals! We are a guerrilla rock band!” blurted the balding singer of Sons of the Ionian Sea, in a swamp-diva act of attention-seeking, only to humbly assert “we are completely honoured to play with these legendary cunts.” Fair dues, but charming he ain’t.
Witticisms aside, the descent into a an intense and foul slow dancing mess of battling riffs gathered quickly as each of the four members circled each other, dragging the nodding heads closer. While the act of never directly addressing the presence of an audience is often without note, SotiS (as they insist) pulled it off with the defiant smugness of a busking jazz band. However, the progressive waves traded among each track gave rise to the mood before pleasant thanks to the flanking acts brought an end to their time.
The flick-switch 90s recoil plunged the room back into an era when long hair wasn’t groomed and nasally howls were a force across the musical spectrum. Tumbleweed are the business just as much now as they were fifteen years ago, slaying into a no frills grunge-core “Hanging Around” while Richie Lewis leered from side to side, slinging his still long locks amid the relentless wall of distorted rattles.
Lenny Curely and Paul Hausmeister’s guitars drove through, furious and watertight, all the while the flailing arms of Lewis parted the green lit gloom, punching their way through 1993 single “Daddy Long Legs” to roars of approval. Striking is that Lewis’ voice has deepened over the years, as you’d expect, but the edge to it hasn’t been lost. If anything, the warmer undertone fires from beneath, filling out the sound.
A quiet disappearance was stunted as the now swaying crowed surged forward across John Wren’s sticky rug at the hinted stomper, “Mr. Pharmacist.” With nothing left in the tank, adrenaline took over the band to slay all before them. Bouncing to each chord, the crash to close left a sweaty pile of gasping souls across the room.
There’s a venerable shock value to reproducing the same menace years after fruition. For all the hideously over-exposed, under-qualified, shitbag popstars who’ve thrown their years-out-of-date canned cheese back on the table in desperate hope of another lick of the toad, there’s much to underline here. Having held their own on the back of the all-conquering ‘Seattle sound’, Tumbleweed put Wollongong on the musical map in this country, hacking out a path that shouldn’t be forgotten. They’ve re-entered in an era where word-of-mouth has faltered, but people still talk.
Here in 2012, for this sold out night, people could only talk about Tumbleweed.
– Ciarán Wilcox
