From Lynda:

(This report is for the third Vanguard show, and, in a way, it is all about Russell's balls. The person who told me I've been writing the same review for the past year and a half has my gratitude for being honest enough to say so, so he can consider this dedicated to him, and to his balls too.)

I have a friend at home who comes with me to shows whenever I want to check out someone new, a friend I've found myself wishing could be here in Australia to see these shows that Russell and TOFOG-Evolved are putting on. He's an excellent show companion in that he enjoys all genres of music - folk, punk, jazz, blues, reggae, you name it - and since he's a songwriter/musician in his own right and can play at least a dozen instruments, he can usually answer any technical questions I come up with. He's also big enough to create a buffer zone that keeps people from crashing into me at shows; that latter attribute is very much appreciated.

Another thing he does that I appreciate is stick to his standards. He has a measure by which all performers he sees are scrutinised, and they stand or fall in his eyes according to that measure: Do they take what they do seriously? For him, it's not a matter of it being "serious" music; two of his (and my) current local favourites are an up-and-coming satirical spoof band who play it fast and furious and hilarious each night, off the cuff to be sure, but always off a perfectly pressed cuff in terms of the sharpness of their lyrics and the precision of their play, and also a hard-working and musically tight young punk-reggae band whose songs are filled with an intelligent fury, and who are proving that it is indeed possible to achieve that seemingly oxymoronic state of disciplined chaos.

Both of these bands bands manage to be spontaneous and engaging, while still doing what they do with diligence and care: They sing the right words (at the right time)l, they play the right notes, their harmonies are spot on, the dynamics of their songs work to make the most of those songs, and they are in control of their own performance at all times, most especially at the times when that performance is at its most impassioned. Maybe most important, it's clear to anyone who sees them perform that they believe what they are doing is important enough for them to make the effort to do it right. They have what my friend calls "the balls to let the world see how much they respect their own music." Watching the shows being put on by Russell and TOFOG2 these past weeks, I'm seeing a band that is doing much of all of the same good things I've seen these other two bands doing, and I am seeing that same abundance of balls as well.

Watching the shows these past few weeks has also been making me think a great deal about my friend, also about some of the other bands I've seen and how performers approach their jobs in general - that bigger picture of how an artist presents himself and his work to the public - as well as some possible reasons for the choices he makes. I've also been thinking about the notion of "Pub Rock," since that seems to be what many people (those coming to the shows here, as well as those reading about them) expect to be hearing from this incarnation of TOFOG (and what may have been what the prior incarnation of TOFOG did play - from what I hear on the CDs, that seems likely enough, but not having heard them live, no way can I say one way or the other) - and since in the past few years circumstances have been such that I've heard more "Pub Rock" from more bands than I ever heard in the prior 15 or so years.

"Pub Rock" - which can take place not only in a pub, but in a club, a tavern, a theatre, a rink, an arena, or, for that matter, at Stubb's or at the HOB - is fun, not a bit of doubt about that, and because it tends to be so loose and casual and free (not the least because both those playing and those listening are so often three sheets to the wind during the show), it can make the crowd feel as if they have genuinely shared that show with the performers, everyone singing familiar songs together, no one minding the missed notes, blown lyrics, and poorly timed beginnings and endings. To many people, maybe to most people, Pub Rock is not about being precise or about getting it "right"; it's about having fun, about being carefree, as well as care-less, and those of us who wonder if it couldn't still be fun if it were also done "right" usually get told that we are taking it all too seriously, that to wish for such polish or precision - let alone to prefer songs that impertinently demand thought and attention and reflection - is to spoil the "in the moment" experience that seems fundamental to many when it comes to the Pub Rock experience. And, to be fair, some of the best evenings I've ever spent have been those Pub Rock evenings.

And some have not. On occasion, being perhaps one of the few stone-cold-sober patrons in the pub (or the club, tavern, etc.) has provided me with an interesting perspective, especially of the performers in such places. Some of those performers do genuinely seem to love the gig, to all appearances being as (usually boozily) content with the careless and easy sharing of an off key or awkwardly played tune as are their cheerful crowds, each and every person present having a wonderful time that few will remember clearly the next day. For those performers, I wish them as much happiness and artistic satisfaction as can be theirs for as long as their livers hold out.

It is a different story with some other performers, a story I have both witnessed and have had told to me. I've seen the cynicism in the eyes of some of them as they half-ass their way through songs they have sung hundreds, if not thousands, of times (songs they know the crowd will demand yet again on this night if they do not willingly sing them), knowing that no more than this will be expected or noticed, or even wanted, from them by a sodden crowd who wants nothing to distract them from their notion of fun, maybe most especially any kind of music (God forbid, new and original music) that might presume to ask for attention or thought from that crowd. One of my favourite moments about these TOFOG-The Sequel shows is when Russell beams out into the crowd at the end of the cheerfully upbeat Swept Away Bayou, with its rocking beat and those uplifting harmonies still echoing in the minds of the crowd, and asks, "Is everyone happy now? Are you all feeling good?" and he beams even more brightly when he gets all of those smiles of agreement and nods of affirmation. Then he adds, "Good, because now we are going to do a song about suicide."

It is so very much not what the crowd expects; it catches them so off guard that the feeling of group befuddlement is palpable, and it is a deliberate (and courageous) upending of the apple cart of Pub Rock expectations. And song that follows - Raewyn - is no cutesy "nudge nudge" kind of song that pretends to be about something serious while really being more about getting shit-faced as a way of dealing with anything serious; it is instead a scathingly honest, achingly moving song, one that cuts to the quick with both its emotional and its musical power. Who let this upstart song into the pub? Someone who takes himself and his music seriously.

For any band to stand up in front of a crowd that more or less sees them as the party band of the evening and to play their set as more than that party band of the evening is to run the risk of ridicule. What party band crafts their song lyrics with diligent care, or arranges their songs with complex harmonies and subtly layered instrumentation? What party band rehearses their tunes over and over again, until those tunes can be played with precise timing and strategically planned dynamics? What party band continues to grow and develop and re-work the music to best effect, adapting itself to changes in crowd and venue? To walk out onto the stage and play with such polish - to have obviously worked as hard as you have to work in order to achieve the shine of that polish - is to say to the world that you take what you're doing seriously, which is to make yourself vulnerable to being mocked (or, most painful of all, simply dismissed) by those who cannot or will not take you seriously in return.

Which is why it does take balls to let the world see how much you care about your own creation. It takes balls to take yourself seriously.

The buzz about Russell's music seems to be spreading here - no wonder given the newspaper articles and the AFI gig and the like - and that buzz seems to be drawing the curious as well as the avid, those who are looking for something new and good, and those who are looking for something or someone to scorn. If I have learned one thing in Australia (two things, actually, the other being to look to the right before crossing the street), it is that there is no bigger or easier target here than Russell, universally known and universally opined about (positive and negative, apparently rarely engendering a neutral assessment), and the cosy confines of these regular Vanguard shows look to be creating quite the atmosphere for both the curious and the avid. At this third show, the place was well on its way to being packed, and both conversation and eavesdropping made it clear that the curiousity was as high for some as the expectations, at least the expectations for good music, were low. "So, how funny will this be?" one woman asked her companion. "Does he throw phones at us from the stage?" a fellow said to me, amusing himself to no end with his own witticism.

While the people up front at the tables seemed a far more supportive group, some of those standing at the back and upstairs had a bit of the aroma of bread and circuses about them, and I found myself thinking yet again about my friend's philosophy of how how much balls it takes to stand up there on that stage and say, "This matters to me; it matters enough to me for me to do my very best at it" when it would be so much easier (and safer) to hide behind a facade of "No worries, mate - it's just a bit of fun and foolery; I don't take it seriously, so neither should those who don't like it" to protect yourself from attacks by shrugging them off with a charming giggle.

But when you and your band walk out on stage dressed alike in "take me seriously" black suits (and at least they had more suitable weather in Sydney for these clothes than there had been in the sauna that is Queensland, as well as more suitable fashion climes; as Russell said, "It's good to be back in Newtown, where wearing black, like we do, is more readily accepted") and you make it clear in your very first song - abundantly clear with that breath-catching and perfectly timed transition from straightforward ballad to powerful instrumentation on the word "handle" in Weight Of A Man, a musical wake-up call announcing to any and all listening that they are about to hear something special from this band - that you think highly enough of your own music to play it as well as it can possibly be played, you leave yourself wide open to those who want to take a shot at a handy target far more than they want to listen to excellent music.

The latter types have been in evidence at other shows, but for the most part it's been silly more than disruptive: Middle-aged men bellowing out "Maximus!," the stray young fool telling Russell that he's not as good as Elvis, a tipsy woman screeching out that he needs to go find Nicole and make a movie with her, that sort of thing. And in each case, as the show progressed, the music itself has been the persuasive force that has hushed many of the raucous and the unruly, with what I have heard most often post-show being "It was much better than I'd thought it would be"; this has been the prevailing opinion among many of those who had apparently came to mock Russell, not to praise him. But I've been at the front at all of the shows, and I know enough to know that some of the rowdiest and most foolish behaviour tends to take place near the rear at shows. From the front, all that can be heard at some shows at times is the buzz of people who can't bring themselves to shut the fuck up while the musicians are playing, but up until this third Vanguard show, what was being said back there had rarely made its way up to the stage.

Even for most of this show, it was still that same background buzz, considerably louder than at the other two Vanguard shows (but nowhere near as raucous as it got at times in Buderim), and it was clear there was a vocal group up in the "GA" area of the balcony, but less clear what it was they were going on about to those of us down in front. The show progressed quite nicely, with a new story about Land Of The Second Chance that went into how Mario met (and lost) the lady in Rockhampton, as well as how Mario made his way to Australia in the first place. Russell told Mario's tale of how 12 Italian men came to Rockhampton on an arranged "date" with 12 Spanish women (per Mario, or Russell-as-Mario: "Spanish is not the same as Italian, but here in Australia, it is close enough") and how Mario fell for a woman whom he loved enough and trusted enough to let her be "free" while he went back off to work, believing that in a new land the old rules did not apply and he could trust her to wait for him without expecting her to stay home all the while he was away (and, as Russell-as-Mario further explained, when he eventually came back to Rockhampton, he discovered some old rules of human behaviour had immigrated to the new land as well: "She had fucked off with another bloke"). And then Russell also described how Mario, who was desperate to make more than subsistence wages with intermittent work, used his job keeping track of immigrant details to put his own name on the list of immigrants to Australia.

At the end of his description of Mario's decision to uproot his life and leave his home to come to a brand new place, and of all the hopes he had that he would be able to make a new life in that place, Russell sang the song that celebrates those hopes and dreams for a new life. As that song came to its end, Russell, apparently with all of the anti-immigrant strife that has been taking place here recently on his mind, delivered the first of a few no-doubt-where-he-stands comments about that strife: "I've just done an immigrant song; those who don't like that, you can stick it up your ass."

By the time they got through Mickey (introduced as a song that "proves it is possible to live through the excesses in your life"), most of that background buzz had died down, at least from where I was sitting, and there was nothing to interfere with being able to listen to the music. I can hear changes they're still making to the music, especially when it comes to dynamics, using very subtle increases and decreases in the volume of their play to build up to climaxes in songs, and sometimes adding new instrumentation (or mixing that instrumentation up) on quieter songs that have struggled a bit in holding the attention of some in the noisier venues, punching them up and making them much harder to resist.

As much as I love the MHMH CD in its own right (as a note, the 12-track advance copy of MHMH, the one that includes Breathless and Testify, is now being sold at the shows), the band is already quite a ways beyond how the songs are done on that CD, both instrumentally and vocally, harmonies and arrangements. I keep hoping that they are recording off the sound board and that what's being accomplished live in these shows will eventually be heard by as many people as possible. It has been so damn hard to resist recording any of it myself, far more discipline being required for that than in resisting the picture-taking. Most everyone already knows how good they look. What people need to know now is how good they sound.

Once again, after coming across so well with the playing and singing (those a capella harmonies are getting even better the more they sing them together) of Swept Away Bayou, Russell did his "suicide segue," going on with a deadpan expression belied by the twinkle in his eyes about how, given the upcoming superannuation problems, it might indeed be a viable option for those who chose it for themselves. More of those subtle changes could be heard during Raewyn, Dave's cymbals more upfront, the doubled vocal parts of Russell's and Alan's starting quieter and building louder, giving what I think is the most emotionally moving part of their whole set even more power. They did a good job at nearly silencing the background buzz too, though that hush would only last for a bit longer.

It was after What You Want that mouth took precedence over brains (not to mention manners and class) in the case at least one audience member, who I gather had been going on and on upstairs for quite some time at a (thankfully) lower decibel level. Russell was trying to do the intro for One Good Year, and while he was asking people what kind of year they have had so far, he was lighting a cigarette. Suddenly, a shrill voice rang out: "Why do you get to smoke and we don't?" Russell glanced out into the crowd, and without missing a beat, his face completely serious, not even a telltale cocked eyebrow to distract from his posture of earnest and sincere explanation: "It's part of the performance," he said. Alan nodded in affirmation, an equally serious look on his own face (but with one incipiently wayward eyebrow threatening rebellion), adding, "It's a prop," in a serious tone.

Something fortunately garbled then issued from the heckling mouth, though Russell may have caught what she said next, because he replied again, still that perfect picture of diligent explication: "It's in the statutes, madam, you can read it there." More indistinguishable blather (for those who have ever seen Charlie Brown cartoons, she sounded to me like how all adults sound in those cartoons - blaah, blaah, blaah, blaah) from on high, and the explicator shook his head with a sigh, his every motion eloquently expressing his opinion of her lack of appreciation for his considerate explanation, now with just a hint of politely patient disapproval on his face, and earning a big laugh and approving applause from me and from most of those sitting nearby: "You are supposed to say, 'Thank you, Mr. Crowe'." Then, having settled that issue with such aplomb, Russell glanced inquiringly around the room and asked, "Are there any other questions?" And there were none.

At that moment, I hoped Alan was impressed enough by how effective this all was that the next jerk who screams for him "dance around like the drunken Newfie he is," and the next fool who pounds on a stage all show long and repeatedly demands one song be sung, and all of the other people who see shows as their personal opportunities to interrupt, disrupt, and interfere each wind up being told that they need to say "Thank you, Mr. Doyle" when they receive a similarly well-delivered explanation. Though I must say that the way Alan dealt with the twits who would not stop chanting for their hockey team during a show - by first getting an irritated crowd to give that team a half-hearted round of applause at his own request, then getting that crowd to delightedly give him a roaring cheer when they were next asked to applaud the idea of the fellows not mentioning their hockey team again for the duration of the show - ranks right up there with what Russell had just done when it comes to disruption control.

Russell was not yet done being impressive with his people-handling skills, but that would come at the very end. There was still an ass-kicking Another Girl to get through (capped of by that tentative but still compelling pick slide from Alan) and a return appearance at the Church Of The Holy Vanguard by The Preacher, eventually leading into another roof-raising rendition of Testify, a song which comes close to being too big for the Vanguard. Testify is a song big enough to fill an arena, and as soon as I heard about them doing that Australia Day show with its expected crowd of 20,000, my first thought was that I hope they do Testify there.

As for The Preacher himself, this was a night for him to go beyond his call to Eat For Jesus, to go even beyond fond memories of Shelley-Winters-induced tumescence. This was a night for The Preacher to say a few words about the shameful events in Cronulla, time for The Preacher to take things very seriously himself. He mentioned how Franklin Delano Roosevelt had been such a great man, and how that great man had supported the admirably-intentioned Good Neighbour Policy, which called for all nations to treat each other the way they themselves would want to be treated, an idea, The Preacher noted, that has its foundation in so many of the great religions of mankind. But when it came to the current state of affairs locally in regard to this notion of treating others the way we ourselves would want to be treated, "we are considerably fucked," The Preacher lamented. Though he would apologise a bit later for letting that fellow "who lives inside me" come out and spout off so much about religious and political matters, I was glad for the brave words of that inner-dwelling fellow, as did many of those around me seem to be equally glad.

Not that all of this seriousness hindered the fun at all. This was neither a one-note nor a single-mood performance, the interactions being as varied as were the tunes. Some of the most fun on stage happens when Russell decides to torment Stewart, who makes such a temptingly helpless target, not able to answer back or even to flee when he is playing, although he gets tormented even when he's not playing. After Breathless and before Folsom, Russell delayed a bit, maybe an equipment-related matter, and he invited Stewart to go up to the mic and say a few words, not something Stewart seemed at all inclined to do, but he dutifully came up and managed to get a "hello" out. When Russell came back to his own mic, he glanced over at Stewart, who had quickly retreated back a step or two from his mic, and then Russell smiled a mischievous smile. Turning back to the crowd, his smile grew broader as he said, "He is such a sensitive fellow"...then the punchline pause, with Stewart looking at Russell with an expression that said he knew beyond a doubt that something was coming, and he was quite right in that assessment..."In some countries, they call it 'gay'." Stewart had a look like he had expected something much more outrageous than that, something that will most likely be said at a future show.

The main Torment Stewart event would come later, during Molly Malone. As Stewart began to play, Russell began to prepare for that event, limbering first his shoulders and then his arms, stretching his neck to loosen the muscles, and moving his jaw back and forth to ensure maximum flexibility. Then out came the tongue, which also got put through a few limbering and stretching exercises. All the while Stewart is playing, his eyes cut to one side, warily watching Russell's preparations. Finally sufficiently warmed up for the event, Russell strolls over to Stewart, slipping behind him. Stewart is still playing, not missing a note, his body tense and his eyes even more wary now that he can no longer see what Russell is doing, or planning to do. Russell leans toward Stewart, stopping with his face a short distance from Stewart's head, and he opens his mouth and extends his tongue as far as it will go (which is quite a ways), waggling it and undulating it for maximum visual effect. People are already laughing, and now that Russell has built up the suspense so skillfully, everyone is on the edge of their seats waiting to see what Russell is going to do and how Stewart is going to react to it.

A final flourishing waggle, and in the tongue goes, deep into Stewart's left ear, a short, sharp "Blaat!" coming out of Stewart's horn as Russell's tongue slides in, just a moment's surprise before Stewart recovers and picks up his part and continues to play. While he continues to play, Russell is reaming out his ear with his tongue and as he does so, Stewart's face is scrunching up more and more, his body cringing away as far as he can move without taking his horn from the mic, but still he doesn't miss a note, even though no amount of scrunching or cringing is getting him out of the reach of that persistent tongue. And we are laughing so hard we're starting to cry. Alan has long since given up even pretending to play his guitar, he is laughing so hard. Stewart finally gets to the last note of his part and as he lowers his horn, Russell extricates his tongue, grinning wickedly at his horn player while Stewart starts to shake the excess moisture accumulation out of his ear. It was a perfectly and wonderfully silly moment, and it took place in a show that had time and space for both the silly and the serious, as well as time and space for both laughter and for thought.

It was also a show that had time and space for even more bad behaviour, and more importantly, time and space for more skillful handling of that bad behaviour. Round Two of disruptions started when it came time for Folsom and Russell issued his invitation for those in the "cheap seats" to come down front. So far, this invite has been less than successful, at least in the Vanguard, possibly because it is difficult for many people, especially the polite ones, to make this kind of move in that kind of atmosphere. It would probably help if those already up front at the tables would stand up too, maybe move forward a bit, but so far nearly all of them have been very reluctant to do so, and that might be at least partly because of how Russell himself is issuing the invite. A blanket invitation for all to come forward (and how "Preacheresque" that could sound), cheap seats and expensive seats alike, might wind up with it being more than mostly the "Notice Me" people coming up front, or the people like me who do it to try to encourage others to do the same (as well as to give the person who wanted Alan to see her Newfoundland shirt the support she needed to stand up so he could see it). As the invitation is presently being issued, it's making it hard for the polite among those who are seated to feel included in it, and the polite who do feel included in the invitation seem reluctant to come and stand in front of people seated at dinner tables. It's a moment that's a tough call for the bashful and the reticent.

But the Notice Me Folks are by definition not often counted among the bashful and the reticent. As soon as Russell issued the invite, a couple came right up front and started to dance; this seemed like a good thing at first, until it became clear that this was a "dance till you fall out of your top" kind of exhibition. Bad enough that, but then the woman started trying to talk to Stewart while he was playing. When it came time for Russell to introduce Easy and Free, the woman, who was now standing right next to me and was up against the stage directly below Russell, kept leaning across and trying to get Stewart's attention while Russell was trying to talk. This looked to be heading someplace interesting.

Sure enough. She was waving her hand and bouncing her assets and Stewart was doing his best to ignore her when Russell looked down at her (and what an arresting look in his eyes that was) and told that her he was trying to speak to the rest of the people there, the ones who wanted to listen. Undeterred and clueless, she responded, "I'm just trying to talk to your trombone player." This caused a hoot of laughter from a few of us, not to mention a bemused look from Stewart, both of which seemed to puzzle her, and an even-more-arresting look from Russell. Then it seemed to finally penetrate her brain that she had managed to obtain Russell Crowe's attention. "Do The Photograph Kills," she demanded. Russell looked her in the eyes, unblinkingly, and responded, firmly, "No. We're not going to do that song." The combination of the look in his eyes and the tone in his voice seemed finally to penetrate one level of foolishness, only to hit a second level. "I don't need you, I've got him," she said, quite the defiant non sequitur, pointing to the very inebriated fellow with whom she had been so boisterously dancing, though the fellow did not look to be quite so inebriated as not to be more than a little dubious about where he now found himself. He looked distinctly uneasy about the notion of his being the one who was the reason for his dancing companion's "not needing" Russell Crowe.

Despite her defiance, as well as her rudeness and her foolishness (along with an appalling lack of knowledge when it comes to brass instruments), it was clear that Russell had won the battle for control of the moment, and that he had won the battle not by fighting or by getting angry, but by quietly refusing to surrender that control. As he continued on with his Easy And Free intro, starting again from the beginning, "for the benefit of those who lack focus," his would-be interruptor held her place at the edge of the stage, but she did so with her mouth shut and her attention, such as it was, on the man to whom that stage belonged.

Russell put it all behind him and continued being the man whose stage it was, as did Alan and the rest of the band, still being sweet and silly (Russell's sound effects when Alan tries to sing the verse about going out with the dog to hunt now include the barking of the dog, the cocking and firing of the gun, and the subsequent yapping and howling of the just-shot dog, and Alan has gone from busting up when Russell makes these noises to not being able to keep from giggling before Russell even starts in on them, and there was still the meeting between Russell's tongue and Stewart's ear for all to enjoy coming up in Molly Malone), but also still being in unquestioned control of songs that merit such attention and command, all of the men on that stage still having the courage to treat their music as something that deserves to be taken seriously.

Russell Crowe and The Ordinary Fear Of God: Serious fun, with balls. Works for me.

One more show for me this round, since I wanted to see Russell do a show without Alan badly enough to change my airline ticket so I could do so (and found that "No worries" is not exactly an Air Canada philosophy when it comes to flight changes). Still well worth it though, I'm,betting. I'll write about that show, though since I'm heading home for Christmas the next day, it may take awhile for it to appear, but I won't be writing anywhere near so much the next round of shows because so many of the "regular" show attenders/reporters will be at most of these shows too, and I don't want to step on any toes. Maybe I'll write about the shows that don't have many others there to write about them, and I will put something up on the GBS board I post on too. At least that's the plan, though every now and then, no matter how much I swear up and down I won't write about a show, something happens at that show to make the temptation to do so anyway too much to resist.