A hazy rabbit warren in which to forget the world.ĭay or night, Dark Mofo makes that easy. Cue a string ensemble responding to tarot cards a level spanning noir porn videos, a man tied in knots trying to paint the walls, and the literal cooking of flapjacks a hilarious drag show Wheel of Fortune a seven-metre teddy shooting lasers from its eyes and – my favourite escape – an underground cinema of half-naked hosts dripping wax on guests, mournful synths and, naturally, the dispensing of sweet biscuits. But the funnest part of any Mofo party is ducking through a door into an unexpected universe. The sets were excellent – Simona Castricum, Our Carlson and the exultant pounding techno of Sydney’s DJ Sveta, my picks. This year’s late-night party series echoed 2018’s three-precinct CBD sprawl, though unlike 2018, it was blissfully free of queues. Afterwards walking for coffee and a basque tart, my friends and I failed to adequately explain any of it.īetween that hug of Sleep and the hard slap of A Divine Comedy, Dark Mofo was the reliably nocturnal sinkhole of gigs, parties, performances and hangovers we hanker for.Ĭhief among them, Night Mass. As Richter dreamily played out the final half hour, this was the moment it all clicked, as if we’d collectively arrived at a clearing in the woods from hidden individual paths. Mounds of people in beanies and scarves slowly arched up on their cots, like op shop pupae emerging from their chrysalis. Curtains were pulled back and the grey Derwent River sat plain through the windows. This odd dynamic made it feel like we were the ones on show: the musicians’ always there stoic and steady, us in and out of both sleep and Sleep, our bodies quietly performing their own little theatre of thoughts and dreams.Īt 7.26am I opened my eyes to a growing golden light. I woke a couple times in the night at the disturbance, peeking through bleary eyes to see Richter and co on stage before sinking away again. I fought it off until 1.30am, eventually succumbing to the music's surprisingly loud wash. A few snores soon drifted under the lonesome piano notes. We’re going to play it for you now.”Īs lights dimmed, a scattered few sat up watching. “An invitation to disconnect and slow down. “This was written as a protest,” said Richter as if on cue, arriving at his piano alongside a string quintet and soprano vocalist. Some climbed into bed with books, others strolled around chatting quietly. Once inside we selected a blanket, heat bag and one of the 240 camping beds lined up like a natural disaster just went down. Which is why on Wednesday night, the line to get into the cavernous Mac2 warehouse was strewn with Uggs, pyjamas and sleeping bags. Running unbroken between midnight and 8am, the idea is simple, stupid: you go to sleep during it. German-British composer Max Richter’s Sleep is an eight-hour composition released in 2015, that’s only been performed live a handful of times. What I didn’t tell DJ Dave is I started Dark Mofo 2023 with my own pants off. Judging from the queue of international artists I saw this week gushing, “I can’t believe we’re at Dark Mofo”, that reputation now travels far beyond the local letters section. And yet it's grown into a singularly essential celebration of art, music, ideas and performances, unrivalled in Australia. (In its first year, local police threatened to arrest anyone participating in Mofo’s now iconic Nude Swim). Over its 10-year run, the festival – long based primarily in nipaluna/Hobart – has invariably been accused of satanism, cruelty to animals, for shock value only and plain offensive. People don’t flock to Dark Mofo for the quiet areas. In the quiet area we will have water available and a trained health professional to assist you.” “If you feel you need to take time out,” stated the program for the show, “please let our ushers know and they will guide you to a specially set up quiet area. I stayed and collected enough memetic mise-en-scènes of raw wonder from the athletic blitzkrieg of physical theatre to keep my memory whirring for weeks. “About 100 a night,” both a paramedic and outgoing creative director Leigh Carmichael told me. It was such a visual onslaught that by the time one performer shrouded in flames walked calmly to centre stage, I barely noticed.
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