Foals - The Palace, Melbourne 27.09.13
At dinner I am shown a sixteen second Instagram clip of maniac frontman Yannis Philippakis stage diving from the level one balcony of the Palace from their show the night before. So the show is going to be wild? Ok. Cool. Yes!
Eyeing off an audience filtering inside, and employing powers of deduction I may have figured this out without the aid of our social overlords. Most of those making their way down into the mosh during an Alpine support slot were males, in singlets, prepared to sweat.
Alpine’s six members steal moments to look around the Palace, and articulate an unadulterated joy at arriving home having just been touring the United States. Describing the retired ballroom as “a delicious cheesecake” prompting many more to look around in appreciation of the doomed venue. Is this the last gig they’ll see here before its demolition? “Level one is the best layer,” one of the lead singers announces. “Smile more,” she says, she knows what Yannis did last night.
Foals keep the wait between sets short. The house lights are down, Anna Meredith’s ominous Nautilus tears through the room, and we are besieged by an onslaught of strobe lights. I now believe the entire audience to be standing facing the stage with their eyes closed. With retina preservation a personal high priority of mine, I am unable to confirm this. Maybe people used their hands to shield their eyes, maybe they faced the sound desk. The strobes continue to blind the audience as the five-piece are led out by synth player Edwin Congreave, drummer Jack Bevan, and bassist Walter Gervers. Jimmy Smith follows with his guitar already shouldered, and we wait for Yannis.
The four begin to pick the start of Prelude, and Yannis tears out onto the stage, scooping his guitar up on the way. The song builds and the mosh, already wild descends into a frenzied craze with the lead singer’s presence now in front of them. Three drinks are thrown in quick succession. Is this a record? I have no idea, I’ve never counted drinks thrown at a concert before. Has anyone? Is now the time to start?
Prelude carries organically into Inhaler, and from there we are whisked through a frenetic set that bleeds from song to song, featuring moments from all three of the band’s albums. During Total Life Forever the gentleman in front of me appropriates a slower tempo to lean in toward his girl, nibble at the bottom of her earlobe and charismatically repurpose the lyrics “To your arms, into your arms, I will go when I’m low” in a shout whisper. She smiles. Smooth.
You wouldn’t have read about the release of Holy Fire without hearing about Foals’ discovery that music can be a jam (who knew?) and their steady progression away from math rock. On stage they have embraced this new philosophy with each song slow to decay, finishes blurred away in heavy jams. Songs stopping. Starting. Stopping. Starting. Providence almost finishes five or six times before it dissolves finally into Milk and Black Spiders, which in turns morphs into an extended version of Spanish Sahara. Yannis has crowd surfed with his guitar, Bevan leaps periodically up on his drum stool, banging his sticks together and we are quick on the uptake. Drinks continue to fly.
Though there are the momentary interludes of a live show: a change of guitar, fresh water from a water cooler on the stage, and Smith switching to the Vibraphone for Late Night; the music on stage never seems to lull, and there is always the sense of a gradual build. The synth is still running, the drum is still beating for us, and Yannis is chatting to the crowd. Those that have seen the grainy, pixelated spoilers are asking themselves, is he gonna jump? He thanks us for buying out tickets first (despite this being the second show), gets stroppy when someone chucks a scarf in his face, dedicates a song to single mothers, single guys and launches into My Number. iPhones are raised religiously, (there is seriously a dolt with an iPad Mini) a circle pit/wall of death is formed, three crowd surfers float up above it all, and drinks seven, eight, nine and ten are all hurled equally enthusiastically skyward. Amidst the chaos of the pogoing crowd the song finishes, there’s no jam; Foals are gone.
There is a smattering of stomping, and a guy clad in a Fremantle beanie attempts a Foals chant. The chant doesn’t get very far before Jack Bevan hurtles across stage toward his drum kit to break out flashback song Hummer. The circle pit rages on and the now near tangible cloud of testosterone musk that hovers beneath The Palace’s epic disco ball whirls into action again. The rest of Foals saunter out, and Yannis himself throws drink number eleven right into the faces of the front row.
At 11.42 they announce their last song: Two Steps, Twice and I am a little deflated. The band, slated to finish at midnight, might be done fifteen minutes early? And no heroic leap from level one. Yet. They tear through the song, and once Yannis has finished singing he disappears from the stage. While the song descends into the longest jam sequence yet, people begin to scream.
Though we can still hear the wireless guitar, it is only occasionally that a glimpse of the semi translucent guitar head can be caught bobbing it’s way through a parting crowd. People leave the barrier, only to return, screaming and swearing at the pulsating mosh beneath them. A small pack of disciples trace Yannis’ swagger through the best layer of this delicious cake, and when he reaches the far barrier those in his way seem to glide away effortlessly. Guitarless now, Yannis climbs and points deliberately at a really tall guy in the crowd—You had better catch me. He laughs, and then he drops into the waiting, dutiful arms of patrons who had been debited $76.10 seven months earlier.
Everyone screams, there’s a surge, the jam goes on and the ear biter tears his shirt off. Drinks fifteen to twenty three are thrown as if alcohol is free and Yannis is passed slowly back toward the stage. He meets more crowd surfers, bodies heaved up onto hands and left to tumble across a sea of sweaty exhaustion. Reaching the stage, and the microphone, the song fades.
“Long live The Palace. See you soon. See you later Tony Abbott”
Foals are gone, and the drinks keep flying, how many? Who gives a shit. Foals forever.
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