Live Review: Mark Seymour & The Undertow

National Theatre's foyer music is very era-specific, carefully selected to appeal to tonight's demographic. The band's custom bass drumhead reads "The Undertow" in typewriter font. Plus one who's a mad Mark Seymour fan (admitting she went to Bruce Springsteen in order to see the re-formed Hunters & Collecters support slot) is disappointed he's chosen a burgundy shirt instead of a black one this evening. Seymour's daughter Eva sings backing vocals and looks proudly across at her dad while he's performing, which is touching. Eva gets kicked off stage before they board the Football Train. There's political banter and plus one offers, "Oh, yeah. He's very left. Very!" Peter Maslen's economical drumming style conjures booming cymbal crashes from the smallest move of the wrist. Irish Breakfast showcases Seymour's extraordinary songwriting ability and masterful lyricism — he's a definite contender for Australia's answer to Springsteen. 

When The River Runs Dry transports us back to Monash Uni gigs of yonder year. Master Of Spin captivates, but Throw Your Arms Around Me is everything. Seymour's lyrics are so 'Strayan: "Shark attack on Tuesday/They shut the beaches down." It's blokey music with a social conscience. Guitarist Cameron McKenzie and bass player John Favaro round out the talent assembled onstage and when they all lock into the groove it's unbridled exhilaration. Westgate (which features recurring "When the bridge falls down," lyrics) could be a companion piece to When The River Runs Dry and closes the first half. 

After a ten-minute intermission that stresses out the bar staff, we head back to our seats. As if he heard my mate's earlier gripe, Seymour returns to the stage sporting a black shirt. Punters call out, "Carn the Dogs!" then, "Carn the Pies!" in between songs — huh? Seymour has an endearing habit of pulling his head away from the mic rapidly like a muppet falling backwards. A couple decide to dance in the far aisle and refuse to return to their seats upon an usher's request, which is pleasing to see. Say Goodbye is a clear highlight with its dirty rhythms and irate accusation: "You don't make me feel like I'm a woman anymore!"

An encore is absolutely demanded after which Seymour fares us well for now with a, "Love you, St Kilda". And if the signing line in the foyer is anything to go by, Seymour's legendary status is secure.