Heat, Perth, Australia, 22nd September 2006.

Brechtian Punk Cabaret: it's not an obvious thing to promote yourself as. Some plain folks might deem it downright backward. But this, coupled with the inescapable ecstasy of being hooked on their studio debut, fired me into pushing this band onto other ears harder than any plucky barely-known I've ever pushed. Somehow, it worked, either that or Triple Js, Aus' own national, young-person orientated station, playlisting efforts paid off. This was a coupling of some metaphysical magnitude, these were the minor rumblings of a movement about to claw its way up through the dirty cracks in the pavement. Not that there's been a swathe of copycats, in fact I don't think there's been a single one; but that's just further testament to the uniqueness of the angst-ridden burlesque antics of this singer/piano + drummer duo. Who'd a thunk it? Not that they'd manage to make it to Perth yet. I was about ready to start a petition, but finally they've made it. And without my intervention. Bien venue.

It's the last night of the tour. They don't care and promise that we're going to get a fucked up show. Not in a bad way. Or at least the way Amanda Palmer announces it, damn inviting; like they're going to corrupt us in some wonderful way. And neither do they care. Its a frequent pledge, we see many a tour wrap up here. Some chumps have promised 'off the hook', and delivered merely 'off the peg'. Although it's not apparent yet, we'd best take heed.

I wouldn't normally spend much time describing stage outfits, but AP looks like she means business wearing black suspenders and a black t-shirt in which she probably sleeps. Brian Viglione is wearing knee length shorts, a bowler hat and body paint. As you do. Its a shit venue in that its long, narrow and almost impossible to get a good spot. Leon, Jess and I struggle manfully and finally make it down to the floorshow. Its far from shit however in terms of atmosphere, where the burgeoning spirits of this wanton band of misfits are ebbing in caustic harmony.

The fun really boils over with the introduction of Coin Operated Boy. You get the feeling that no two live renditions of this are ever the same as they stop, start, speed up, clearly do whatever whimsy their inter-connected minds can dream. There's certainly a chemistry, a sympathy between them. One of the defining graces of of a two piece is that you only need one relationship for it to work. No complex emotional inter-arrangements, just one alliance. The stage setup is beautifully symetrical: One side drums, one side keys, to match this union of equal inputs. AP unloads her frustrations into a fully realised clockwork fantasy as BV machine gun kicks with the best of them through the midway climax.

As pictured, BV emerges to play guitar, as AP abandons her ivory. Jacques Brel's Amsterdam gets a firey rub down, as does some music from Cabaret. P vansihes then remerges amongst the audience on the balcony, arm outstretched to the stage below as she enforces her right promiscuity; declaring "a tiger is a tiger not a lamb, Mein Heir". Charged goth friskiness indeed. It's perhaps one of the neglected misdemenours of the 20th Century that cabaret has been usurped by the hormoneless as artsy, watered down exhibitionism - spineless - now if we're talking cabaret as set in the powder-keg of 1930s Europe about to tear itself limb from limb over civil war, soviet paranoia, invasion, schism - now we're doing it. AP's teeth ought to be dripping with blood now.

In fact some much of what you'd associate with the base elements of their act; piano, female vox, all used to be so pretty, so goddamn chamber music, never to be used for primal bludgeoning. On Missed Me AP's deep gutteral, almost satanic groan could almost pass for doom metal, her ability to use her voice as an instrument, adopting second, third voices, idiosyncratic inflexions, suggesting some serious actor material.

As for BV's drumming I could babble for eons about his speed, his power, smooth transitions, ambitious fills made to look so easy, not to mention magnetic stage presence. I don't think I've ever witnessed a gig where I have been totally unable to remove my eyes from the drummer. And its not as if AP is lacking in charisma. Maybe its an apparition, but I swear he has Superman-esque speed blurs trailing from his arms. Even on comparitively sedate songs such as Ms O it still sounds like he's smashing the snare straight through the floor. And talking of smashing, before the singing has even begun in the first song he inadvertently destroys the kick drum pedal. Nirvana must've been boring in comparisson. Trash your guitars at the end of the show? Who cares? I read the Butthole Surfers used to kill their instruments after two songs. Random annihilation less than a minute in? Now we're cooking. And they're not even trying to dismantle. By my counting, he also breaks three sticks, one spectacularly end over ending into the wings, and he either cracks, or severly buggers in some way, one cymbal. This isn't to mention the frequent retrival of various individual drums, vainly inching across the foor, as they try to escape their punishment. War Pigs is without doubt his finest hour. Possibly one of the finest hours of any human being. It's almost imposible to describe fluid rapid fire beraks he unleashes. In fact, fuck it, you can't. At least not I. There ought to be a United Nations resolution to prevent it. And AP, unlike the footage I saw where she seems to be hyper-concentrating on hitting the right notes, is pounding mercyless on her tool. Can only two people do this? Such carnage.

The clock is fast ticking down, which song will mark their climax? Singer / guitarist from the supporting band The Red Paintings joins the throng to perform Mad World, which should by now be well into the death throws of hyper-exposure. Not only does it survive, it's somehow revived to some sort of level of relevance. If that wasn't miraculous enough, with the aid street artist / accordian jigger Jason Webley they unveil Livin' on a Prayer, yes, Livin' on a Prayer. An admirable rendition of Livin' on a Prayer. Hang on, I don't think I've made this clear enough, Livin' on a Prayer. Got that? Complete with interuptions wherein all three participants provide philosophical discussions on the meaning of the lyrics. The crux of it revolves around whether the line "it doesn't make a difference if we make it or not" is a noble romantic statement or a ploy by the New Jersian hair-pile to get his end away. It's agreed that Bon Jovi wrote some pretty stupid lyrics and despite announcing the idiocy of it all, we still sing along to every word. In fact, I can't remember singing along to so many songs in one night. Not only does Jason provide accordian, he also accapellas the vocoder part with notable accuracy. I was holding out for Girl Anachronism as a closer, but right now I couldn't care less. I've seen pretty much all of humanity here, every side, unpredictability, spontenaity, blistering vitality, humour, tragedy, guts, joy. Then they finish with Girl Anachronism. Rampant piano bashing, shrieks, ecstasy; closure. BV and AP front to the lip of the stage, bow, hug, bow, toss roses, high five some of the front row and leave.

We've had this date coming for a long time. It's a resolution to see this band, who since I first heard them I've actively promoted, yield such a bounty. Best show I have ever been to. No, hang on, Doves at Eden Project was pretty good. Let's put it like this: It was all I could've hoped for.

Transcripted by Christopher James.

Maximum props go out to Stuey, Leon and Jess for taking part with me. Kudos.