Mouseatouille: A Performance Of Solidarity And Joy At The Factory Floor

Mouseatouille: A Performance Of Solidarity And Joy at the Factory Floor is a review by Angus Sharpe.

How enchanting is a wind-chime’s tune? That soft, simple ring as a family of tubes clatter together in the slightest breeze, sounding off one another in a fragile, beautiful harmony. No matter how rusted, tired or neglected they may seem, I am always awed by the music these instruments bring to life.

It was this thought that came to mind as Mouseatouille – the ambitious Melbourne nine-piece – filled the Factory Floor with their sprawling alt-rock last Saturday night (October 25). From the intimate stage, an eclectic mix of instruments blended together, bouncing off each other and creating some of the most exciting new music Australia has seen in some time.

Though before this band rose to the stage, the wind-chime they composed seemed so tired it was on the point of breaking.

In the greenroom, band members huddled together on the narrow couch. Half asleep and half laughing, they had dreamily talked not about the fast approaching performance, but about their self-imposed ‘no-talking in the dorm’ rule for when they returned to the hostel.

Tonight was the last leg of their first-ever headline tour, and for the past week they had paid the gruelling price of being an up and coming 9-piece band on the road in Australia. Waking at 4am every morning, they had boarded the cheapest flights possible, flown to the next city, lugged their gear to that evening’s venue, performed late into the night, then crammed into a hostel only to then rinse and repeat the following day.

Yet, despite their clear weariness, each of the nine members seemed to valiantly hold one another’s spirits aloft – refusing to let any one person fall too far into the tempting pit of exhaustion.

Livelier members cracked jokes while the more pragmatic discussed logistics of how they would make it through this one last show. There was a distinct bond between them. They were more than bandmates, or even friends. Mouseatouille were a family.

And like that family of tubes in a wind-chime, as they each took their place on the intimate stage — clarinet, trombone, guitars, keys, and drums held at the ready — a wind began to blow through them. As music flowed from these instruments, the band began to sway in harmony, fatigue falling away, leaving behind only joy.

It is hard to synthesise the performance that followed into any one favourite moment. Each song – all off the band’s excellent third album DJ Set – behaved in a uniquely exciting manner. Loud moments of rock were sharply followed by charming interludes of clarinet and trombone. Keys fluttered in and out, while violin – plucked and bowed – wove heart-rending rings under the vocals. All the while, the band’s increasingly joyous energy swept through the audience – lifting us up and – as if puppeteers – convincing us to dance.

Yet, if I were pushed to focus on one moment of specific elation, it would have to have come when the band played Tom’s Lament.

Before the show, lead vocalist, songwriter, and de facto manager, Harry Green told me this was his favourite song to play live – but importantly only when it worked.

Describing it as a tapestry of every instrument fitting together, he stressed how hard it was to get right… and more so how often it has come off the rails in the past.

For Tom’s Lament to work, every member needed to be completely in tune with one another. They needed to be perfectly synchronised, and finely focused. Timing was paramount, and on this small stage, with their debilitating exhaustion, there was a great risk that tonight could be a misfire.

Therefore, I held my breath as Harry announced, “This next song is called Tom’s Lament.”

And I continued to hold this breath as lead guitarist Dan Antalov opened the track with a swaggering riff, backed by Spencer Noonan’s ever-increasing hi-hat heartbeat.

Siblings Harry and Sofia Green respectively followed this riff with broad strums of the guitar and a punchy melody on the clarinet, backed by Adam Scandrett’s booming bass. This melody – as if magnetic – soon collected the deep resonant tone of the eponymous Tom Pagonis’ trombone, and the sharp elegant bows of Erinna Lloyd’s violin. Rapidly an equally catchy riff trickled in from Fergus Menner’s piano and Chloe Dimitrjevitch’s synthesiser,
combining with the other instruments in a swelling symphony.

In this manner, with each musician completely locked into one another, the music rose to ever-increasing heights, growing larger and larger until… it sharply cut out.

With Dimitrjevitch’s synth hanging in the air, and Scandrett’s bass keeping the song’s rhythm alive, the eight musicians looked to Harry, watching for his signal.

Gradually, the bass grew louder. The crowd began to cheer. The frontman held his hand up.

Deliberately he counted from three… two… one…

And the stage exploded.

Cymbals crashed, violin strings soared, keys ran at a fiery pace.

And I let my breath out – awed by the spectacle.

After the set finished, I approached Harry backstage to congratulate him on such an amazing performance.

With a broad grin he embraced me. “Tom’s Lament worked!” He proclaimed with utter glee.

Speechless, I laughed back. I could do nothing more than wholeheartedly agree.