Dirty Three

Imagine finding yourself in an enchanted city, in the dark, with a light chill outside and gusts of breeze now and then. And feeling the wind on your half-covered shoulders, whether because it's supposed to be summer air, or because, deep down, that flow of invisible particles makes you feel free and melancholically shut off within yourself — it seems like a tonic hard to refuse. And moving slowly along the banks, at dusk, seems like one of the most beautiful things that could exist. A few seagulls drift slowly, the cemetery in the distance. Then a few clouds roll in, the seagulls take flight, whirling above the tombs, and the water ripples, and the wind picks up. Grey wraps around the horizon, and lightning flashes across the sky. The shutters of the houses slam loudly against the walls, hair in the wind and umbrellas at the ready. And then, after a light drizzle, the dusky light filters through again, the seagulls gently settle back onto the water's surface, the shutters go still, and the moon begins to wrap around an evening that promises to be calm.

This is what Dirty Three are all about: an ever-shifting landscape, one continuous lull after another broken by hinted storms. Warren Ellis's swirling violin runs seem to climb up the solid drum structures laid down by good old Jim White—architectures that appear unassailable, impossible to scale, let alone tear down. At the Teatro Fondamenta Nuove in Venice, the dirty three treated the sizeable crowd (given the venue's capacity) to a show of sheer tightrope-walking brilliance. True stage animals, the Australians pull off a live set that seems to fly by, for a grand total of almost two hours of sonic bliss.

It's 9:30 pm. Time's up. Ellis—one third musician, one third clown, one third entertainer—dusts off from that old case a violin that, in its humble career, seems to have been abused like few others. Bow in hand, and we're off. It feels like embarking on an epic journey, just like Ulysses and his crew. And they, Dirty Three, move between anguished litanies, punk-jazz spasms and classical veins with incredible fluidity. And we, the audience, simply savour it.

Heroic surges, violent notes, tribal drumming welcome a shamanic Ellis into the arms of a Venice that lets itself be enchanted. "Authentic Celestial Music," "Sea Above, Sky Below" break free of song form and land straight in the heart, moving us deeply. Restless, they stir; Ellis shouts, moves, flails his hands, jumps, spins around, and revels—seems to truly revel in his own music, in a way that's anything but self-indulgent, but genuinely thrilled, genuinely caught up in all that ordered chaos. And on it goes, trading exchanges with the crowd, drumsticks snapping, and Mick Turner's guitar tracing circles of infinite perfection.

Dirty Three are true masters and can conjure dreams like few others.

The city is quiet, the evening is clear. The moon exudes freshness and melancholy. A few gondolas here and there, and there's nothing left to do but head home, knowing you've just witnessed the concert of a lifetime. After all, in Venice, from a band that named an album after the sea, you couldn't have asked for anything more.