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Kid Koala You know the feeling. You're in a mediocre venue, listening to an out of tune version of a mediocre album by a mediocre band, whilst drinking beer out of a mediocre (and susceptible to squeezing) plastic pint vessel. Yawn. Well, for starters, it could be argued that you're going to all the wrong gigs, and should read Pixelsurgeon more often, but still, there is another way. It's Kid Koala, and his Short Attention Span Audio Theatre Tour, hot on the heels of his second album, Some of my Best Friends are DJs. This charming man, (who we got the chance to interview just as this tour was kicking off) assisted in particular by a certain P-Love, and in general by DJ Jester, has put together a spectacle that is absolute gig perfection incarnate. When you finally walk/cartwheel/somersault away from this inspirationally romantic scratch-a-thon, without doubt your face will be aching from all the smiling and laughing, and your feet will be twitching to touch down on another dance floor. Memories of those mediocre gigs will be fading rapidly in the rear view mirror as you realise that you've just witnessed something quite miraculous. In fact, presuming you've already clocked the audacious score on the right, mark this spot on the screen with a greasy fingerprint, and book a ticket for one of the remaining dates. See you back here in a bit.
Okay - all sorted? Now don't worry, but I should probably mention that your first reaction when you step into the venue, glimpsing the wedding reception-like quantities of tables and chairs leading up to the stage, is quite likely to be one of surprise. Well, now it won't be a surprise because I've spoiled it, but you'll still be a little bemused when you're asked to choose a crayon from a plastic pink tray. Then, just as you get to thinking you've fallen through a poorly signposted wormhole in the time-space continuum, which has tossed you back to pre-school with your Spiderman lunchbox in tow, you'll be checking your false teeth are in straight when you realise that the crayon is for the Bingo. Yep, you read it right, even with that failing eyesight of yours. The Bingo.
Right, over to the bar then. This bit seems pretty normal. Good good good. You unzip your jacket as you bookmark the sign for the cloakroom, simultaneously trying not to miss your chance to catch the eye of a barperson, squeezing in a little quality time to acquaint yourself with Kid Koala's distinctive little sketches on the Bingo Card. Transferring said card to your back pocket, you rub your hands together to prevent the imminent beer from slipping from your cold, dead hands. You feel your ears adjusting to the venue acoustics, the clinking of glass, the raised voices at the bar, then...hold on a second, what is that sound?
You realise you must have left the volume on your inner monologue too high, as your friend is already making his way to the A4 order of ceremonies stuck wonkily to the pillar at the back of the room. "That sound" he replies, "is Lederhosen Lucile." Well, that explains it then. That explains why the music you can hear sounds like the kind of music that Kraftwerk would have made if they had chanced upon Heidi in the mountains and recruited her as lead singer and goat milker. Half cabaret comedy act, half one woman band, the undeniably sassy Lucile gently rams home the fact that you're on the brink of what is going to be an all-round off-kilter gig with her 80s keyboard loops. But in a good way. If calling things to the crowd like "Ya! Das is good yah? Do you like my frozen hosen?" is a good thing. You're not quite sure. Whether you'll be listening to this kind of thing at home next week, you catch yourself thinking, is probably another matter, but for now you're intrigued, and you notice that the room is in tangibly high spirits.
You notice that Kid Koala, or Eric San, is buzzing around the stage already. Being the main act, you speculated that they might lower him onto the stage by hydraulics and dry ice after a twenty minutes too long build up, y'know, for the kids, but instead he's bobbing up and down around the reams of equipment like the marsupial he's named after. And grinning a lot. Then as Lucile comes to the end of her muesli-fuelled set, you are treated to a fantastic middle eight as P-Love and Kid Koala jump onto the decks to scratch it up for the first time. Wow, you think to yourself. Your friend nods sternly in agreement, swiftly followed by the international sign of "another beer?"
No sooner than that next beer touches your lips, Kid Koala steps up to the mic proper. You're expecting a little introduction but instead, he starts to sing in a distinctive Montreal drawl: I've been alone with you inside my mind
And in my dreams I've kissed your lips a thousand times
I sometimes see you pass outside my door
Hello, is it me you're looking for? Now then: All Night Long, Dancing On The Ceiling, you can live with those. But "Hello"? like, er, hello? Your thoughts trail off as Eric explains that he's just recorded that live onto wax, with a very old piece of technology which is essentially a vinyl Dictaphone, used by company secretaries in the 1950s. You've never heard of that before, you think to yourself, but before the fresh vinyl has even had time to set, Eric has thrown it in the direction of the turntable and is scratching it for all it is worth. With this first deft juxtaposition you start to realise that this is the heart of the Kid Koala ethos, a refreshing attitude that is not afraid to combine the cool and the uncool, like turntable kung fu with the cheesiest of Lionel Richie ballads.
And then in a way, the details don't matter. Everything flows into the next. Kid Koala is just so unashamedly happy to be on stage, so brimming with energy and stage presence, that you can't help but get a little carried away with the whole thing. Seeing the way he casually throws his records into boxes after the briefest of plays is akin to the sensation of watching Neo discard a spent weapon in the lobby for the first time. There's none of this messing around, listening carefully with headphones DJ type stuff either; it's like Eric and P-Love are just sensing their way through the whole thing. The music they're making is as much about the use of touch and sight as it is about hearing, and somehow that's how the romanticism fits in so neatly with the whole thing. It's all so tactile. In fact, Kid Koala described the idea behind this tour was to set up the perfect first date, and watching him serve up such prime cuts in front of your table is definitely a great way to break the ice.
But it's not all about the scratching. In fact, to call it merely scratching just doesn't illustrate the richness of the experience. Kid Koala makes genuine original music with his, ahem, decknique. He makes lurching yet delicate melodies, lowering and raising the pitch by slowing and speeding up records which don't have any melodies. He slows the whole thing to a subterranean sonar pulse, and then releases the tune/sample/drumbeat while he slides into another tune/sample/drumbeat without pausing for breath, while you are holding yours. He's like some jazz great from the 1930s, reincarnated in the 70s and made to watch way way too much Sesame Street.
The point is he uses his record decks as a musical instrument, and one that possesses both the subtlety of a string section and the bombast of brass. With P-Love joining in, they're less of a duo, more of an orchestra.
All this to marvel at, and then he'll wheel out the overhead projector, taking you through a few pages of his distinctive doodles, and the suitably quirky videos put together by his cousin, Monkmus, telling you his stories of freelancing song-writing robots and lonely waitresses. He is, quite simply, brilliant. And you should go and see him if you possibly can. Unless experiencing pure unadulterated and blissful joy at the hands of a musical genius just isn't your thing.
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