Bleak Squad Brought A Gentle Storm To The Factory Theatre

On hiatus from touring in 2019, Marty Brown, percussionist of post-rock Melbourne band Art of Fighting, decided he needed to start a new project. Dialling the number of three close friends – Adalita Srsen, Mick Turner, and Mick Harvey – he asked if they wanted to form a
band.

The significance of these names within the Australian rock community meant if only one were to accept Marty’s pitch, the critical attention would be immediate. So, when all three agreed to the idea, enormous anticipation for a new sound naturally built.

Bleak Squad released their debut record, Strange Love in August 2025 to critical acclaim, with The Guardian calling it “a quality set of songs tailor-made for those long, dark nights of the soul.” While maintaining qualities each member has become famous for, the four modified their sound to match a common theme. The result was an album of dark mournful music, carrying influences of 90s rock into the modern day. Now on tour with this record, as the icons strode onto the Factory Theatre stage on March 5, they were greeted with resounding applause.

At the fore was Adalita, the stoic leader of famed Geelong four-piece Magic Dirt. With knee-high boots planted before her microphone, she held an electric guitar above her glittering skirt, dark eyeshadow emphasising the strength of her glare. On her right, Mick Turner, the perplexingly beautiful guitarist of Melbourne three-piece Dirty Three, picked up his instrument and, before playing a note, seemed to already sway to the music he would soon draw into the room. Brown took a seat behind the drums. And Mick Harvey – founding member of Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, who tonight would move between bass, guitar, drums and piano – placed his bass on his hip and, peering through tinted glasses, leaned into his microphone.

“We’re Bleak. Squad.” He growled sardonically. Then laughing, “Marty told me to say that.”

Ageing Australian rock fans, all dressed in black T-shirts of varying bands from the 90s, lined the barrier in wide-eyed wonder – teenagers at a pop concert. Yet behind them, the theatre was surprisingly empty. Whether this was the result of a lack of interest, lack of advertising, or the 10pm Thursday-night start time, barely one-quarter of the 800-capacity theatre was full.

So, as Adalita thanked the adoring fans for coming out, there was an added sincerity to her words.

If they were concerned by this lack of attendance, the band did well to hide it. The four would laugh and heckle each other between songs. And while performing, there was a genuine carefree looseness to their otherwise morose music.

Every song was like watching a storm blow in. An austere, clumsy chaos would slowly build beneath Adalita and Harvey’s often harmonised vocals. Harvey’s low tone rumbled beneath Adalita’s wavering pitch, emphasising the dark nature of their soaring lyrics.

“Let the world go to hell,” the two harmonised in one darkly beautiful moment, “it’s going there anyway…”

Meanwhile, Turner’s guitar tripped drunkenly through the mix, its awkward steps guided by Adalita’s distortion and Harvey’s bass, piano or equally distorted guitar. Brown’s drums shimmered, as if mist curling through each piece. And together the music would rise.

In this storm, thunder would never crack. Nor would lightning flash. The music would simply fold into clouds, grow heavy, then fall.

With more than ample room to move and breathe, each audience member was allowed to bask in these moments of catharsis. Swaying beneath its weight.

Treated to the entirety of Strange Love, as well as adaptations of songs from both Harvey’s solo work, and Magic Dirt, there was very little the audience was left wanting as the band departed the stage.

As I left the theatre, I overheard someone whisper to their partner, “How lucky were we to witness something like that?”

A sentiment with which I wholeheartedly agreed.