Lennox Theatre, August 3
8/10
These people, who crawl in here with the moral compass of a slug, are precisely why we must build a wall around Austraya. Have you listened to their lyrics? They’re swindlers, womanisers, gangsters and worse, masquerading as musicians, poets and comedians.
But Christ, they are funny, and some of the funniest songs were those they were revisiting from 20 years ago, when Mikelangelo and the Black Sea Gentlemen unleashed Journey Through the Land of Shadows on a hitherto rather glary, sunburnt and optimistic land. Suddenly we were being exposed to eastern European darkness, pessimism and depraved sexual practices.
Of course we quickly acclimatised.
If Hell ever did ads of the “why die of boredom with the clouds and harps?” variety, Mikelangelo would be the perfect frontman: equally suave and debauched, with a voice that combines Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash and Il Commendatore from Don Giovanni. Handily, he also writes most of the songs.
Where his Renaissance namesake needed a pope and Sistine Chapel to illuminate his legacy, this Mikelangelo has a band of rogues and thieves called the Black Sea Gentlemen. Rufino, the Catalan Casanova, is just the sort from whom you shield your children: a sleazy violinist who would shy from an honest day’s work as a horse does from fire.
Then there’s Guido Libido, whose piano accordion is a front for vampirical practice and backing vocals. The Great Muldavio is a ruin of a man who not only believes he can play the clarinet, he’s led Mikelangelo and Little Ivan down the same path. Surely there’s a law against three clarinets in one band. It’s especially sad for Little Ivan, who otherwise seems entirely innocent, beyond playing the double bass.
Revisiting their first album is not just an exercise in nostalgia. The original songs – pastiches of eastern European music – are blessed with the wit, melodies, harmonies and textures to remain wildly entertaining, as they send up these idioms with great affection.
Before One of Those A Minor Days, Mikelangelo deadpans, “This is a song about life’s disappointments. I hope you enjoy it.” The Great Muldavio uses his clarinet as a telescope as they launch into the opening Set Sail, and when Mikelangelo invades the audience, he never creates victims.
The show fell away slightly when the Great Muldavio’s eponymous song lacked the same swaggering commitment to falsehood, and This Broken Dream dared to take itself too seriously. The Wandering Song, meanwhile, began with Little Ivan’s double bass being carried about like a coffin, and Guido Libido delivered El Diablo as if eager to suck our blood. Some who loathe the accordion, think all who play it are in the clutches of the Prince of Darkness, anyway.
For The Dead Men Rise, Mikelangelo appeared in tight striped shorts, a brocaded waistcoat and cowboy boots. Nothing more. Even after 20 years, the surprises keep coming.