G.U.N @ Waywards Ballroom: Taking Aim & Firing With Unapologetic Expression of Self

Galvanic. Unapologetic. Noise. Condensed into the band name G.U.N — these words land with a blow.

They evoke images of flashing lights. Sweat and chaos. Deep vibrating bass. Distorted electronica. Weaponry music. And, after witnessing the Sydney electro-punk three-piece perform at Waywards Ballroom on November 14, I believe this may be one of the most apt band names I have come across.

As part of Waywards’ monthly C.A.S.I.O series, which aims to bring post-midnight live music back to the Sydney streets, there was something quite fitting about seeing G.U.N play at such a late hour. The band’s infamous performances collide pulsing club beats with the sly sexiness of a drag show and the ravenous fury of a punk gig. Everything about their act seethes with late night energy, so as they rose to the midnight stage it was no surprise how at home they appeared.

Melodrama dripped from lead actor Dick McQueen’s stage presence. Their short brunette wig hung low enough to just bracket the comically large sunglasses perched on their nose. And for the first minute, they stood staring at us from behind these glasses as if daring someone to take the microphone from them.

Slowly, a wailing drone rose from the two electronic maestros on either side of McQueen – bassist Frxci Murphy and guitarist/synthist Roberto Francisco – and as this noise grew, so did an apparent anger in the performer’s expression. Finally, responding to the frantic cries of the audience, McQueen parted lipsticked lips and let out a sharp warlike scream. It echoed through the speakers and heralded the performance to the room.

Swathes of distorted guitar, bass, and sequenced synth grew into loud club-like rhythms. They billowed from the speakers, and ploughed into the crowd, willing us to dance. Meanwhile, atop this storm of noise, McQueen’s voice was a constant beacon. The performer wailed, screamed and shouted while – leaving nothing behind – surrendering their body as a secondary medium of expression.

At one point their robe fell to the floor, revealing long fishnet stockings. Seductively they stretched and tore at the holes, twisting them up and around their bare chest. Muscles flexed as they moved with sharp, purposeful violence. And at times they descended into the heaving pit to stalk lion-like before their dancing disciples.

Yet, between these moments of tongue-in-cheek melodrama, McQueen’s tender humour would appear. Stopping the show toward the end, they broke character to bring their mother onto the stage.

“This is her first time seeing a G.U.N show,” McQueen choked as the two embraced to resounding applause. “And she hasn’t seen this ass since I was shitting nappies back in 1996.”

It was a beautifully sincere moment, displaying both the soft, caring nature of this person who had been so ferocious moments ago and – like a child showing a parent any piece of art – how proud they were of this project.

In the embrace it was obvious that to McQueen, G.U.N was not just a band that they performed in, but a place they could feel alive. An avenue through which they could express their feelings. And a mode where, within a society of constant judgement, they were allowed to be unapologetically themselves.

To have their mother witness this project was a momentous occasion. So, as she returned to the crowd, McQueen turned back to face us – elated.

“I want to dance,” they proclaimed with a devilish grin, “and I want all of you to dance too.”

Thus, Nutbush City Limits erupted with galvanic, unapologetic noise.