Live Review: The Last Waltz Revisited

We can’t really go into the history and folklore of The Band’s legendary final blowout 40 years ago.

If necessary, Googlise and/or check out Martin Scorsese’s sprawling documentary, and decide for yourself if Neil Young was coked off his scone, whether Neil Diamond should have been in the room, or pondering if Band leader Robbie Robertson was a genius or just a bit of a dick.

The RocKwiz banner here makes sense. You get a band that cover the range of music their forebears could, variously dealing with blues, funk, honky tonk, and what we’d now likely call alt-country. Drummer Peter Luscombe was a special delight, channelling the great Levon Helm in loose-limbed beat-keeping, stretching for the backing vocals, and facial grimaces.

Throw in Ash Naylor spooling out guitar lines with genuine affection, and Vika & Linda Bull just being typically flawless and effortless in what they do, and this was no ordinary covers show.

Then there’s the catalogue of guests to handle the range of singing styles. Some surprising: Richard Clapton surfaces, reading the words to Up On Cripple Creek but having a damn good time. A revitalised Kevin Borich — “One of my heroes since I was in footy shorts,” according to that Rogers chap we’ll get to in a minute — cranking out blues licks for Who Do You Love? and Mannish Boy like it was the Bondi Lifesaver, circa 1974.

Paul Dempsey seemed a soul released as well. There was a joy to him, even winning against those unfurling brass lines in the glory of The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.

As The Shape I’m In launched, behind this scribe there was a candid admission: “Yeah, I’d still fuck Tim Rogers.” Fair point. For his part, Rogers was typically expansive — hip-swivelling, smart-arsing, adding harmonica or shaking the maracas as called for, or even when not.

But Olympia was the revelation. In fearsomely tailored suit and shock of bleached hair, she is Joni Mitchell’s lilt for Coyote, then all broken tenderness for Helpless.

If there’s a problem, it’s still the strange formality an audience seems to develop by simply being in this venue. Even a surprise appearance from Brian Nankervis’ poetic alter-ego Raymond J Bartholomew didn’t really loosen bums from seats, although we’re all on our feet following the final ensemble rendition of I Shall Be Released.