DARK MOFO // These Hands Reach For Hell

DARK MOFO – The Hymns to the Dead—The Odeon Theatre, Hobart—14 June, 2017 

Melbourne houses us; Tasmania lives.

Decamping from the airport into an Uber, I swear our driver is doing about 40, 50 tops. Trees and mountains ooze by, until we hit civilisation. Peak hour in Hobart is a joke, except it has a punchline. To city slickers, Hobart seems quaint, simple; even dull. Air tastes crisp, the streets are short of people, those out and about aren’t in any hurry. They don’t have anywhere to go, because they’re already here.

See that? Perfect. // Photo: Tom Valcanis

The white-knuckle, seat-of-the-pants adventures we crave, Hobart has no truck with. We drink, smoke, snort, and fuck our way into forgetting our waking life. Hobart is the dream. You can hear it in the depth of night. That’s why having the Dark Mofo festival makes so much sense here.

The city centre, hotels, pubs and even some homes are rinsed red for the festival. Locals, they seem to love it. Joaquin, a social worker by day and Uber driver by night, says it’s something Hobart looks forward to when the cold and dark sets in. What about all the strangers and freaks like me infesting the town? “Oh no,” he shakes his head. “We love it. It’s like having a different culture.”

He drives me to a dumpling place with confused décor. It’s the night of Hymns to the Dead, featuring Mournful Congregation, Barshasketh, Grave Miasma, Anaal Nathkrath, and Taake. It’s why so many battle-jacketed sorts are swarming (well, for Hobart standards) the streets. It has a picture of the Sydney Opera House on it. “Where is the Odeon?” I ask my friend Sarah. She shrugs her shoulders and pops in another dumpling. Another trip up the road to a pub, only a few doors down from the venue. Beer awaits. Beer is cheap…well, cheaper, since they brew, raise, and farm everything themselves. The template for Aussie self-reliance is Tasmania shaped. They even make their own TR00 MEDDAL ice cream: Valhalla ice cream. This becomes important later.

The Odeon is overrun with black jackets, beards, and smoke as we arrive, holding court at the back near a couple of watercoolers. Yeah, take note, every venue ever. We only caught a blip of Barshasketh (how do these guys remember how to spell it?) before Grave Miasma set in. It was all blast-beats and fury, choked thick by red and fog. From the outside looking in, black metal is a death cult, singing praises to pale horses with pale riders. I don’t think that’s true. A cult devoted to death brings no joy. Its sole purpose is to inflict misery on all things. Sure, black metal and extreme music is an expression of despair. What you won’t see is people standing around weeping or frowning at a gig like this. What you will see is heads slamming back and forth, legs and torsos tumbling over heads, and a whole lot of beer cups raised in salute to loud fucking rock n’ roll music.

Back inside, Anaal is gesturing to the Gods of Hedon, both old and new. “I have to say that stage diving is strictly prohibited,” Dave says in miles-wide Brummie. Pro-hib-ee-tid. “If you come up on stage and show your cock, well, there’s not much we can do about that.”

Take Anaal Nathkrath for example. Anaal scream songs about killing the world. Killing the world, pulverising humanity, all kinds of nasty shit. I don’t think they’re angry at the world, they’re just disappointed. Singer Dave Hunt’s screaming down his mic, and it feels like it can’t take all of the sound at once. My chest tenses; is he holding a live grenade? We’re punched back by every beat. Strobing lights pierce my vision. There’s so much going on, it’s almost as if my synapses will snap. Oh yeah, I’m so fuckin high at this point. Here’s why.

I say “Hi” to a woman, making my way forward into a breezy pit. This gig wasn’t sold out or anything. I got my ticket about half an hour before doors opening. We talk about what we’ve seen so far, and she describes Mournful as slow as “cold shit running up a hill.” She goes out for a joint. Before I know it, I’m standing outside a corner of the Odeon. I’m watching this woman construct said joint. Next to her is a biker-jacketed bloke rolling his own. “I know some of the world’s most amazing human beings,” she says, snipping off a twig of pot from inside a tin sweet case. Like Isaac Newton? “Wow,” the bloke says. “I’ve never been compared to him before.” She rests her free hand on the bloke’s leg. He has a name now. “Pat is one of the most wonderful people I know.” They lock eyes. Pat  reaches for her cheek, pulling her in. They start making out. A lot. She’s still rolling the joint, mind you. An awkward few minutes pass, and she thrusts the joint up toward me. I smoke some, she smokes some, I smoke some more. Finishing, I’m grinding the roach into the ground. They’re still engaged in tonsil combat. I motion to go. I never see them again.

Back inside, Anaal is gesturing to the Gods of Hedon, both old and new. “I have to say that stage diving is strictly prohibited,” Dave says in miles-wide Brummie. Pro-hib-ee-tid. “If you come up on stage and show your cock, well, there’s not much we can do about that.” 

Anaal Nathrakh // Photo: Tom Valcanis

Of course, some oblige. We witnessed a beanpole with sandy mane de-trousering, revealing the cleanest cock and balls you’ve seen outside of a porno. I mean, Jesus motherfucking Christ, it was as if he had Alopecia of the Dick. How in the fuck does that even happen? A chick made an opportune climb to the lip of the stage, unbuttoning the top of her jeans. A wait that seemed forever…and, a request to search for her phone, a black Sony Experia. Don’t worry; there are better phones out there. You did yourself a favour.

Anaal was a maelstrom of flashing, pounding, writhing, unyielding transmissions to the dark core of our being. Anaal is that monster that lives inside all of us, scratching apart the weakness of our better natures. We saw it – heard it – made flesh.

Taake was up next – many people had fled the hall at this point – and in their own soulless way, plunged into some tasty, classic riffs, drowned and flailing in a syrup of blast beats and high-end distortion. Taake didn’t have to say much. They did it with their music. Taake had to follow Anaal, and they kind of suffered for it.

This Dark Mofo gig let free the discontent in our civilisation. It was a flight from the cave of normalcy. Those at Dark Mofo don’t want comfort. They want God, they want poetry, and they want danger. They want sin.

They fucking got it.

Continued in Part II