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Issue
5 Volume 1
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| Page 5 | |||||
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Monesque: the relentless truth
"
It's a big country and I could live here all my life, but I'd be
mad if I didn't come to Melbourne to play," says Monesque, who got
a nine-month residency at the Railway Hotel within weeks of her arrival
here. Monesque (her performance name) had always been creative. She explored
diverse creative media before settling into music. Her first band experience
was at 15, playing sax in a punk band in Brisbane. Melbourne has provided
her with a new environment to reflect on and write about. As a child Monesque was inspired by Glen Miller and later Ella Fitzgerald
and Sarah Vaughan. "At the end of the day, I want to be a song-writer focusing on my craft. I want to explore the power of music to heal people, to give people a temporary break from the struggle of living. If I can just alleviate the pressure I'm contributing to the betterment of society." Monesque conceives her music quite visually. "Every song is like a new canvas to me. Bowie and Roxy Music came out of art school. Artists improve with age and so do musicians - one's whole life is a progression. I hope to be doing this when I'm eighty, but better - life is for anyone at any age, not just for young people. Picasso went through different periods - he never gave up and kept developing."
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Twinkle, twinkle For most songs, the rhythm tells a sombre mood, woven by both drum machine and kit (which shares a corner of the stage along with a web of wires and the keyboard). I prefer the songs with kit, but I may just be a traditionalist when it comes to live music. My favourite part of the set comes when the drum machine starts making mistakes, creating an awesome effect. As well as being lyrically expressive, the music is topped with luminous vocals. Ben's clear resonant tenor is reminiscent of Ewan McGregor's Moulin Rouge duets. Although between songs he speaks like the Hulk, he sings like an angel. To the ears of the amateur, the wall of sound verges at time on noise. At some points in the half-hour set, I am convinced that very large church organ pipes are attached somewhere behind the black keyboard that read "KORG". I am reminded of school mass, held occasionally at the local parish church. The voluntary organist used to go berserk in her moments of glory, churning out chords as if it were her final anthem to the Lord. But then the smell of beer-soaked carpet and the gentle rhythms of Littlestar restore my senses and I return to the religion-free comforts of Pony.
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