Live Review: Augie March, Cosmo Thundercat

Sometimes, context is everything. A grand theatre steeped in local history is the perfect environment in which to enjoy Augie March, particularly if you’ve already seen them triumph in dingy, beer-sodden bars more than once. Augie rocked colonialist/bushranger chic well before today’s hipsters appropriated it, and Glenn Richards’ masterly lyrics are spun with pre-federation character even when his topics are contemporary. 

Sound check wafted in as I dawdled in the gallery next-door to Her Majesty’s Theatre. In it, grainy sepia photographs and old playbills in hand-painted fonts celebrated HerMaj’s recent 100th birthday. It had been a six-year wait to see Augie March in Adelaide again. That old-timey magic crackled in the rainy sky.

In the theatre foyer, people discussed local openers Cosmo Thundercat, a sort of psych-country pop band with too polished a sheen. Chimes called us back to the stalls after a short intermission, but those stalls weren’t as full as they rightly deserved to be. Something was awry.

Australia’s most meritorious contemporary rock band (apologies to The Drones) ambled on stage sans bassist Edmondo Ammendola, who arrived when he was good and ready. Drummer Dave Williams made wisecracks as he always has, maintaining a sort of light yet anxious atmosphere. Adam Donovan stood silent. Richards fumbled with his guitar cable. 

The dedicated Augie audience knew better than to heckle this less-than professional presentation. Just let the band get organised and comfortable; don’t exacerbate. Alas, the opening trio of songs from Havens Dumb was uneven. Only when Kiernan Box’s piano solo slipped into the exquisite The Cold Acre (from Moo, You Bloody Choir) did the theatre finally come alive with the depth and beauty Augie March gigs promise. This drew appropriately rapturous applause.

Comparable moments were regrettably scarce, and the magic anticipated earlier was largely missing. Performances rendered did not match the fineness of their stage: Richards was not in his best voice; constant distracting hums came from the sound system; Ammendola’s trademark pillowy, all-encompassing low end was missing. The three-piece brass section was a welcome if not vital addition, but its muted trumpet was shrill and jarring rather than cool and jazzy. A rendition of early classic The Good Gardener was the frustrating lowlight, irretrievably blighted by Richards’ quite-out-of-tune guitar. Frustrating, because Augie March is so much better than this. Maroondah Reservoir and One Crowded Hour were as beautiful and moving as they can be; This Train Will Be Taking No Passengers spilled with raucous energy propelled by Williams’ frankly excellent drumming and steered by Richards’ possessed vocal. Undisputed Havens Dumb highlight Definitive History was as poignant live as its studio counterpart. 

These brilliant flashes left everything else in stark relief. But Augie March soldiered forth, when in shows past they might have cracked the shits completely; they’ve always been a compellingly volatile live act. It wasn’t a bad show per se; in fact this very performance, had it been given in a rowdy city pub, would have been very good.

But on the opulent apron of Her Majesty’s stage, it fell short. Augie March thus remains one of Australian rock’s uncut jewels: occasionally glorious, but always, at the very least, worthwhile.