Setlist incomplete

Robyn Hitchcock: Melbourne: 2006/10: Spiegeltent, Ballarat, and Swan Hotel Richmond. With the Minus 5 guys on the back of Ole Tarantula. Really rather good. Had a chat to Peter Buck - members of the brotherhood of Hitchcock lead guitarists...
R. Lamb


Robyn Hitchcock Live Review
Grand Central: Friday 20 October
Patrick Emery - Beat Magazine

The light rain on Friday night was welcome, yet ultimately unsatisfying, an acute reminder of the scarcity of rainfall in recent times. The return of Robyn Hitchcock to our fair shores was, in contrast, not only extremely welcome but demonstrably satisfying.

Hitchcock is, by his own self-deprecating admission, a cult artist. While 'cult' is frequently a diplomatic euphemism to disguise gratuitous self-indulgence, in Hitchcock's case it's perfectly apt. Hitchcock has developed his own cult of admirers and followers while remaining a unique figure in modern music. At Grand Central on Friday night - a softly lit venue that clearly hopes to cater for the more mature (in taste, not age) punter - Hitchcock, in concert with the Venus Three, demonstrated just why his cult remains so strong.

Hitchcock is every inch the showman. With his lengthy monologues - an amalgam of Peter Ustinov, Warren Ellis and Peter Cook - Hitchcock comes across as something of a psychedelic minstrel, the charisma and artistic talent of Syd Barrett without the mind-frying consumption of multi-coloured acid. Oli Tarantula was preceded with a bizarre anecdote involving failed attempts to telephone the Pope, the crowd transfixed by Hitchcock's rambling narrative and casual segue (against all the odds) into the song itself. On Briggs (A Man's Got to Know His Limitations) Hitchcock gives an accurate precis of the script of Clint Eastwood's second outing as Dirty Harry in Magnum Force, before concluding with Eastwood's classic catch-phrase.

The Venus Three - three fifths of the Hitchcock loving Minus Five - support Hitchcock without detracting attention. The majority of people who wear sunglasses on stage unfortunately find themselves with 'dickhead' tattooed on their foreheard; Scott McCaughey is one of the few exceptions proving the rule. On guitar Peter Buck is infinitely more impressive than when flanked by the pretentious bald guy; Buck stares at Hitchcock with a demeanour that suggests ongoing admiration at Hitchcock's talents. Bill Rieflin doesn't miss a trick on drums (and resists any temptation to re-live his more frenetic drumming days in Ministry).

I'm no Robyn Hitchcock tragic, and can't begin to reel off the titles of the songs Hitchcock included in the set-list. Apart from the material drawn from the recent Oli Tarantula album, McCaughey takes guitar and vocal duties to lead the band through a Minus Five track followed shortly after by a tribute to the Byrds pop rock brilliance. The band is called back for a second encore (failure to return may well have caused the audience to shed its mature sensibilities and engage in riotous behaviour) and the show is over. Robyn Hitchcock is certainly a cult artist; the audience departed Friday night, dominated by a belief that, like the 19th century cargo cults of the Pacific region, Hitchcock will one day receive the popular and commercial acclaim he deserves.