Live Review: Icehouse @ Riverstage

The gentle warmth of the late Australian summer sunset enveloped the grassy incline of Brisbane's Riverstage. People sprawled across multi-coloured picnic blankets – cups of beer and dagwood dog sticks in hand – as Karen Lee Andrews (who formerly performed under the moniker ‘Ms Murphy’) and her band played in the last rays of sunlight in a soul-funk send-off to Saturday afternoon.

The early bird members of the crowd swayed back and forth as Andrews’ rich, gospel-like alto notes stretched out over the surrounding waters of Brisbane River. Bursts of tambourine quivers and meaty bassline riffs transported this small slice of the world straight back into the halcyon days of music: the grooves of the early 60s.

Fremantle melodic pop-rockers Eskimo Joe were next to enter the scene as the last of the light dipped below the horizon. Lifting his guitar high into the air as he played, frontman Kav Temperley almost immediately gleaned a series of guffaws from the mature crowd as he addressed the barricaded VIP section in front of the stage: “You guys in the front row have a lot of responsibility in those expensive plastic chairs.” He then encouraged them to initiate a crowd clap-along as drummer Joel Quartermain led the band into a series of rock ballads, managing to drop in a delicious solo as he did.

By the time Icehouse themselves graced the platform, the whole audience was on their feet – picnic blankets and mosquito spray forgotten. A cold, blue light settled on the stage, and the deep and primal opening bass note of their titular song Icehouse (released back when they went by ‘Flowers’), seeped slow but gradually through the amps.

Akin to the sound of the alien tripod invasion in War of the Worlds, the bass continued to build as the distortion echo on drummer Paul Wheeler’s kit created the illusion of playing in the middle of a cavernous glacier far away. Flashes of golden light spurted from the stage toward the end of the song – spots of sun that signified the melting of the glacier, of the icehouse itself, as they prepared to launch into their next number, Uniform, from their iconic 1982 collection Primitive Man.

Paul Gildea, on lead, took full advantage of his wah pedal as icicle shafts of light filled the stage. Ever the entertainer, vocalist Iva Davies erupted into the German verse as scarlet strikes of lightning appeared on the rectangular screen strung up behind the band.

“This is an old one…wait for it!” Davies yelled into the mic before Wheeler launched into the opening kicks of Fatman. 

It’s seemingly stock standard for a crowd to enjoy the live concert of an artist who they chose to go and watch, but it’s always a pleasant surprise when the actual band genuinely enjoys playing and loses themselves in their own music. After over 35 years of performing Electric Blue, one might assume that Icehouse had grown weary of cycling through the same popular songs. But if Gildea dancing over to bassist Steve Bull mid-song to give him a crisp high five and a clap on the shoulder is indicative of anything, it’s that these guys – in typical Australian larrikin fashion – after all these years, still know how to have fun.

It was at this point that sax player Hugo Lee stood centre stage under a burning spotlight and electrified the night with an extended solo. Everyone, even the vendors at the food stands, went manic and pumped their fists into the air, continuing as the band progressed into the next fan-favourite track, Hey Little Girl, equipped with mystical synths and harmonies courtesy of Michael Paynter.

Gildea and Davies stood shoulder to shoulder, leaning against each other as they riffed the tune of Measure for Measure’s (1986) third track, the new-wave xylophone/synth/electric mashup intrinsically characteristic to Mr Big.

“Look how gorgeous you are! What do you think?” Gildea turned to Davies, admiring the audience who had just finished a three-and-a-half-minute boogie. Davies shook his head with a rueful smile. “What do I think? I’m not paid to think, Paul. Up here on this stage are human beings slightly touched with insanity.”

He wasn’t wrong, of course, but that’s precisely why everyone was there in the first place. This same insanity had possessed the crowd, even the VIP-plastic-seat holders who were now standing, singing the lyrics of Crazy and No Promises right back at the band. A lush piano chord here, a lush guitar chord there, and everybody sang “nah nah nah nah” everywhere.

Davies leant forward. “You gotta be?” We threw our heads back and screamed: “CRAZY!”

For Touch The Fire, Paynter left the comfort of the keys and sauntered forward to stand alongside Gildea and Davies. Also, he just so happens to be a countertenor, so he rightfully left every person present utterly speechless as he casually hit high notes that most people couldn’t hit if someone had swung a mallet into their kneecap. Even Davies, who performed with him all tour, stood back and waved his hand at Paynter in disbelief.

Man of Colours saw the production arrangement harken back to its opening ambience: beautifully haunting and mesmerising. Electrics were forgotten as an acoustic swung over the sweaty shoulders of Paynter. Davies ditched the guitar altogether, instead playing a dreamy, mellifluous piece on the oboe as Paynter sang a series of high-wailing notes into a delayed mic in such a way that he could’ve been mistaken for a phantom along the wind.

“This one we need you to sing along with!” Davies didn’t even have to specify the song name. Everyone at once knew we were about to witness the unofficial Australian national anthem, Great Southern Land. A slideshow of classic landmarks of Aussie culture glided onto the monitors: The Twelve Apostles, sun and sand, kangaroos. If it was Aussie, it was there.

Always finding a way to keep us on our toes, Davies turned to Gildea between songs and announced his 'Fun Fact Of The Night': “Do you know what the world record for stacking M&Ms is? It’s seven, Paul.” He turned to the crowd, his eyes alight. “Try it when you get home.”

Slipping back into frontman mode, Davies raised his voice as if the microphone in his hand was barely doing its job. “We have the opportunity to make some NOISE!” His voice then lowered conspiratorially. “And the opportunity goes like this….” With that, the band launched into Can’t Help Myself. Everyone took the cue, singing, “I wanna be someone else!” out into the night.

For their final number before the encore, Davies invited Eskimo’s Temperley back onto the stage to perform a duet of the pop-rock anthem We Can Get Together. The audience danced along, singing at the person next to them even if they weren’t acquainted. Spilt beer and half-eaten dagwood dogs lay forgotten in the grass. A dad in a lime-green polo lifted his son onto his shoulders as he squealed in delight. In the aftermath of Covid, this song now meant something new to everyone.

What’s the best way to end a night celebrating Icehouse’s legendary contribution to Australian rock n’ roll? If you answered “Throw in The Angels,” you’d be absolutely correct. The punchy, fuzz riff of Marseilles blew through the speakers at a suspiciously high volume for a city sound curfew of ten o’clock. Of course, not one person cared because Lee and Gildea engaged in arguably one of the wildest sax-guitar jams in recent live music history.

For the grand finale, the band transitioned into perhaps the song that best captures the natural disposition of Australians in general: Nothing Too Serious. “Twenty-story buildings coming down on me / Rivers of blood running red / I had a little accident…nothing too serious.” If that isn’t the most Australian lyric anyone has ever heard, I’m not too sure what is – it’s essentially the poetic rendition of 'She’ll be right.'

Although they’ve been in the scene for over 40 years, Icehouse, with every live show, continues to demonstrate and solidify the reason they have become such an integral part of Australian music history. Rightfully inducted into the ARIA Hall of Fame in 2006, to this day, they remain one of Australia’s most successful (and most cherished) bands of all time.

“Make sure you all get home safe,” was how Davies closed the night, with Gildea and Bull nodding in assent. The message was clear: Rock n’ roll is cool, but responsible rock n’ roll is cooler. If possible, everybody loved them even more.