The entrance to MONA FOMA at the Princes Wharf shed, on Hobart’s waterfront. Photograph by Rémi Chauvin.
The conception of Tasmania’s MONA FOMA (the Museum of Old and New Art’s Festival of Music and Art, or MOFO, as it’s more affectionately known) unfolds like a fairytale. The colourful sonic marquee builds itself around a warped museum – buried in the cliffs of the Derwent River and ascended to from the waters like minions converging upon an ancient temple, MONA is the brainchild of the (at least, now) infamous professional gambler, and island local, David Walsh.
Walsh’s art collection is perverse, outrageous, and quite incredible. From ancient mummies and obese Porsches to defecating machinery, vulva casts and Picasso, the museum is a strange sensory carnival that is a real one of a kind. And if MONA is Walsh’s brainchild, MONA FOMA, the museum’s associated musical and arts festival, must be his favourite grandchild. Curated by Brian Ritchie, of VIOLENT FEMMES fame, MOFO (as it’s affectionately termed) is a self-absorbed four-day celebration of all that is decadent – music, food, wine and, of course, art. Hobart becomes Ritchie’s warped dreamscape and hedonistic celebration, occupying underused spaces and feeding the growing frenzy around the small river city’s cultural blooming – a media-fuelled coming-of-age fire comparable to that being lit beneath places such as Leipzig in Germany.
Music drifts from a pirate ship against the city skyline. Photograph by Rémi Chauvin.
Nestled against the wing of the Princes Wharf shed (a mammoth building on the banks of the Derwent River, which served as the festival venue) was MOFO‘s most prominent art installation; EXXOPOLIS, an otherwordly blow-up creation by the Architects of Air. A honeycomb of coloured bauble-rooms, hidden nooks and cathedral-esque ornamented rooves, the structure was a playground for children of all ages; and it did indeed bring out the youthful streak in many punters, who slid around in sockfeet, giggling, awestruck and slightly tipsy. Sadly, the Tasmanian weather stuck to its cliches and the waterfront was battered by fifty kilometre winds that saw its sad and premature deflation; for those that did manage to catch a glimpse, however, it was an adventure to be treasured for future daydreams.
Inside the magnificent EXXOPLOIS. Photograph by Rémi Chauvin.
An impromptu concert inside the EXXOPOLIS. Photograph by Rémi Chauvin.
BEN FROST was the first true trailblazer of the weekend, taking the stage as darkness hit on Thursday night. His live interpretation of Aurora was mesmerising, wrung with a bass that throbbed and pulled the temples with an almost religious energy. Frenetic light waves tore like beacons across the back of the stage, the sound reaching into an underworld that could never find a late enough morning hour to match it, pushing out a galaxy with pixelated fingers. The crowd was left trembling, swaying, a collective of hens wondering whether the roof was going to fall. The tension refused to let up; all this, and the sun had barely begun to set, leaking milkily through chance doorways. Swedish heavy-metal lords MARDUK continued to gnash away at the night, their storm of a set pointing a machine gun at the crowd and firing roars of guitar riff with a dark and theatrical snarl.
Ben Frost captivates the audience with his ‘Aurora’. Photograph by Derek Tickner.
Swedish heavy metal magicians, Marduk. Photograph by Derek Tickner.
FAUX MO, the festival’s official afterparty, is an oddball dreamscape of a place. Morphing and evolving over the years from humble beginnings, this year it took place in the Odeon Theatre; one of many underused and forgotten buildings that the MOFO magicians have rebreathed life into. A tangling of rooms and labyrinthine hallways, the latest instalment featured an underground whiskey bar with impromptu live acts, an angry table-tennis tournament room, and an impressive light and sound installation by the honorary ROBIN FOX. It ensured that each night down at the wharf was backed up by early mornings of hedonistic celebration, eyes ever-widened and hands reaching for the next concealed entrance.
One of the many beautifully kooky creatures that creep in the Faux Mo darkness. Photograph by Rémi Chauvin.
The colourful characters of Faux Mo. Photograph by Rémi Chauvin.
By Saturday, the windy weather had rolled right in; punters dashed for cover inside the wharf shed as the EXXOPOLIS slowly sank to the ground. Luckily, Syrian synth prince OMAR SOULEYMAN was there to bring the dance, serenading the hall with slice after slice of pop goodness. The audience formed dance pockets like melted cheese bubbles, oozing into one another in a tangle of limbs and grins as SOULEYMAN shuffled from one side of the stage to the other, robed arms raised in a cool move of crowd-raising.
Syrian synth paradise is found in Omar Souleyman. Photograph by Rémi Chauvin.
SWANS brought Saturday to a gut-wrenching, heart-palpitating climax with their intense and brilliant set. Raising the volume to a goosebump-inducing, near painful level, their wonderful and primal madness blew out the walls, shaking the wharf as though it were a limp shoulder. It pushed beyond the eardrums, deep into some core not named in anatomy textbooks, rattling it like a flag and waving it back to you almost gleefully. Received with a mix of bemusement, uncontrollable dancing and absent-eyed grimaces, it was unforgettable.
Sunday, the closing night, wrapped up the festival in style. After Japanese all-girl trio THE SHONEN KNIFE hollered through a string of pop jams, underground Flying Nun legends THE CLEAN pulled things back a notch, sinking into a sea of beloved songs from decades past. Just as their last note rang out across the hall, at the other end electronic party-starter DAN DEACON was preparing to kick the night into the realms of outer space with his famous dance party antics. A responsive, excited and more-than-slightly inebriated crowd moved for him like submitting puppets; from kneeling to dance-offs to a human chain that wrapped its way out one door in back in another, it was a neverending chain of moving feet and silly grins.
Dan Deacon sinks into the groove. Photograph by Rémi Chauvin.
The heated dance-off begins. Photograph by Rémi Chauvin.
Well then, kiddywinks – another instalment of Walsh’s annual treat has been unwrapped and devoured. Time to knuckle down for the winter and await its dark midyear sibling… Until next time, Hobart.
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