Boris in full flight (with Merzbow lurking far left).
"The Molly Fet Circuit Catches Boris at the Adelaide Festival"
Hindley Street Music Hall, Adelaide
Thursday, February 26, 2026
By Shaun C. Duncan
(with photos and intrusions by Robert Brokenmouth)
It must have been satisfying to curate an arts festival back in the bad old days when luvvies held the whip hand, when they could simply TELL the great unwashed what was good - and damn them if they didn’t agree.
Indeed, the fact that no-one showed up to see your revisionist production of “A Doll’s House”, performed by an all-female troupe of Inuit puppeteers was proof of its worth because we all know the plebs are ignorant slobs anyway.
Better yet, if the proles complained that you’re wasting taxpayers money, then you could dine out for weeks on your coveted status of being “controversial” because we all know the point of ART is to offend the sensibilities of those footing the bill for it.
[Brokenmouth interjects: my understanding was that in the earlier years of the Festival (and Fringe) the events were usually packed ... but, by the mid-80s there was definitely a "here come the Festival 'controversies'" ritual - controversies over things which wouldn't be controversial without 'The Agoniser' telling us they were controversial.]
[Shaun continues]:
I’m sure it was a good grift while it lasted, but the Global Financial Crisis of 2008 and the era of austerity changed all that: bums on seats became the order of the day and the festivals have been forced to cast their nets a little wider – not TOO wide, mind you – in search of people who will actually PAY for culture, and in this day and age there’s virtually one demographic left: middle-aged record snobs.
[Brokenmouth interjects: harumph. as far as I'm concerned, no matter how healthy you are 60 is not the new 40, and if you're over 50, you're old. As am I. Middle-aged, as far as I give a stuff, is 35-55. Record snobs come at all ages I reckon]
[Shaun continues]:
Suddenly, terminally alienated black-clad misanthropes like your humble reviewer, who hadn’t so much as glanced at a festival guide in three decades, were forced to pay attention because holy shit MAGMA were playing ADELAIDE.
Yes, there’s often a lot of crap on offer as well, but every year there’s usually one show you really don’t want to miss and, being subsidised by the tax-payer, the venue is a better one than you might otherwise expect and the tickets are still reasonably priced. Besides, it’s nice to finally see some of my tax money subsidising things I actually care about for a change: amplification, lights and smoke.
This year’s must-see is the Japanese power-trio Boris. Hardly a coup, I know, since they seem to tour every couple of years - and in recent times they’ve even included Adelaide in the itinerary – but an inspired choice none-the-less because they’re one of the few underground bands current working who understand the new musical economy and that live performance is WHERE IT’S AT.
A Boris show is always an event, though this is a band who eschews all gimmickry. Extrapolating from the basic sludge template laid out by The Melvins, they have always avoided innovation for innovation’s sake and appear to have no interest in fixing what isn’t broken. Theirs is what the great film critic Manny Farber called “termite art”, one which burrows away at the edges of things, constantly seeking more space in which to move.
Last time they were here, a little more than a year ago by my reckoning, they played a set reminiscent of early thrash as a four-piece, with regular drummer Atsuo out front on vocals and a ring-in behind the kit. They didn’t draw the numbers they deserve but it was a great show, and a testament to their remarkable productivity and ability to continually evolve into new forms.
Atsuo and Takeshi of Boris.
This time will be quite different, because a Boris show always is. Tonight’s performance is named for their 2005 release “Dronevil”, a sprawling double album which sounds much as its title would suggest (particularly when both discs are played simultaneously as prescribed) and ranks among their finest work.
But no-one familiar with them is expecting a bland reproduction of a 20-year-old album, for, although they never really leave anything behind, Boris don’t do nostalgia, and besides, this time they brought Merzbow with them.
And that IS a coup of sorts. Yes, he (for Merzbow is, despite all that racket, but one man, Masami Akita) played a show in the basement of Big Star Records 20-odd years ago - and had dust cascading from the ceiling by all accounts - but that was something of an anomaly.
Besides, this is an arts festival after all and arts festivals don’t usually book noise acts. In fact, the last time an arts festival in Adelaide did was 30 years ago when this writer, then performing under the name IRON PHALLUS unleashed a brief set for the local hoi polloi at the Festival Theatre bar, emptying the room of about 150 people in approximately ten minutes. You’d think that would’ve been the end of the matter, but times have clearly changed and, for once, we must be thankful.
[Brokenmouth interjects: harumph part two... Sunn0))) are surely the epitome of a 'noise' band, and they played Thebby at the same Adelaide Festival as Magma (there were bits of the theatre falling on the band as Sunn0))) soundchecked). They were magnificent... and I got bored by Magma. I'm waiting to be converted, Shaun!]
[Shaun responds]:
I don't think of Sunn0))) as a noise act, Robert.
[Brokenmouth interjects: stuffed if I know what constitutes a 'noise' band or an 'industrial' band, really - I never thought of Throbbing Gristle as 'industrial', and they started the term (as you know, that was their label: Industrial). I don't think of Boris as 'noise' either - never have]
[Shaun continues]:
Boris and Merzbow have been collaborating on and off for about two decades, producing eight albums and performing together sporadically. Both entities are frighteningly prolific and no doubt operate on tight schedules, so getting them both on the same stage at the same time is quite an achievement.
Doing so in Adelaide might seem insane, but with the eastern capitals slowly disintegrating into the sea, Adelaide’s not such a bad place to be these days and, with a bit of luck, maybe we can entice a few visitors over to fill the Hindley Street Music Hall. It’s a decent sized room, slap-bang in the sleaziest part of the city, which holds about 1800 to 2000 folks and usually hosts mid-tier touring bands. Anthrax are playing there in a few weeks and still haven’t sold the place out because this is Adelaide after all.
The floors are strangely sticky and they keep the lights too low between bands so it’s always hard to find your friends when you get there. Still, they have a good sound system and it’s easy to see the stage from anywhere in the venue.
Perhaps Boris were poorly served by the fact they were playing the same night as Pulp, a band who arguably peaked in the mid-‘80s as a third-rate knock-off of The Fall, but the place was still about two-thirds full of the usual mix you’d expect to see at an underground experimental shows: fat, balding middle-aged guys in their last clean dirty shirts out of the wardrobe, covid-cautious gender hackers, and suspiciously normal suburbanites who possibly found themselves at the wrong gig because it sounded vaguely interesting in the festival guide.
[Brokenmouth interjects: stop talking about me and get on with it]
Takeshi of Boris.
[Shaun continues]:
It wouldn’t be fair to offer much comment on the supports acts; I didn’t want to work myself into a cynical funk before the main act arrived, so I spent most of their respective sets smoking on the outside balcony and I heard nothing to entice me back in. I’m sure they were great though if you like dreary, pseudo-experimental pablum.
[Brokenmouth intrudes: the support acts were an interesting mix. DJ Haram I thought was dreadful. For a start, her sound was unaccountably muddy, and seemed to be coming straight from her own mixing desk on the stage - all the other acts were mixed magnificently, by the by. It seems to be her schtick to present a set all about herself reacting to shit on the internet (or whatever); I have to say that abstract-y nonsense about a conflict thousands of miles away which none of us can affect, coupled with her showing images of herself seemed to me damned patronising if not narcissistic. Despite all the busyness of her background visuals, it was for me a damned dull set.
Harry Freeman played his set from alongside the mixing desk while DJ Haram’s kit was being cleared from the stage. We thought there was a problem with the PA at first, and then realised that this dense, grubby sound (playful in its intent, no doubt) was in fact Harry Freeman at the controls. He was lit in his pit, and folks turned towards him; I deliberately ignored him and let the huge mesh wrap around me. Like being swathed in black hessian and realising you were in a huge womb. Magnificently controlled and a master-class in simplicity and less is more.]
[Shaun continues]:
The event was tightly scheduled, with minimal set-up time between bands (leaving barely time for a brief, unexpected encounter with a long-forgotten acquaintance who told me the only reason he was there was because I forced him to listen to Merzbow once 30 years ago, which was apparently a life-changing experience for the poor sod who was there, as you can well imagine, alone), before the headliners shuffled out onto stage with little fanfare.
Boris are generally unassuming to the point of egolessness in their approach (Atsuo’s modest ambitions to rockstardom usually being safely sequestered behind the drum kit) but Wata, never really one to trade on her femininity on either feminist or cutesy terms, was dressed with some sense of occasion in the sort of demure, long-sleeved dress a 1990s Goth girl might have got married in, but in crimson and with a matching fascinator. If there is a star in this show, she’s it.
Her ebowed soloing, sometimes indistinguishable from feedback but always with a keen sense of melody, is the glue which holds the set together. The backing provided by Atsuo and bassist/guitarist Takeshi is sparse and composed of simple, clean figures; repetitive but never rudimentary. The riffs are never too far off though, and when they arrive the sludge is gut-churning and it feels like the floor could give way at any minute.
Vocals, courtesy of Takeshi, are few and far between. He’s no singer but that’s not the point; the human voice here is just another texture, an instrument of punctuation like the gong behind Atsuo’s kit.
Wata of Boris.
They play five songs by my count. Two of them, making up half the set, are from “Dronevil” itself, the other three are chosen from various other points in their catalogue. The set is quite seamless though; the individual components feeling like movements in a concept album.
Throughout it all Masami Akita lurks off to one side. He doesn’t take his cues from the rest of the band but seems to respond to the music itself, working not at odds with the sound like Alan Ravenstine did with Pere Ubu, but firmly inside it like Hawkwind’s Dik Mik, rising and falling with the tidal drones and occasionally rising to the surface where it splits into a million tiny pieces of static.
Anyone who’s played this sort of music will tell you it’s not as easy as it looks. Musicians are nothing if not excitable and ego-driven and, given the freedom, it’s all too easy to get carried away with things as individual performers try to outdo one another turning everything to mush.
With the amount of talent and amplification on stage, the restraint shown is remarkable. No single sound ever dominates and, while there’s clearly ample improvisation going on, the dynamics are perfectly controlled and they never get bogged down. Nothing is done in service to a theory, nor is there any gimmickry on display; no silly Druid’s robes or naff pseudo-satanic posturing, no flatulent aggression or trite sloganeering. Nothing has been calculated as an attack on the audience; we are at the extreme end of music because we like it here.
An hour which feels like 20 minutes passes and then they’re gone with barely a word to the audience. They’re back a few minutes later for the encore – "Farewell" from 2005’s "Pink", of course, then it’s done and it’s not even that late.
It all feels strangely respectable, some might even say bourgeois, like maybe this sort of thing actually BELONGS at an arts festival.
[Brokenmouth concludes: The only thing I'll add about Boris is that a touring band is expensive, and Adelaide Festival funds allowed Boris and Merzbow the opportunity to present their musical vision in total. And for that, I'm damned grateful. If I liked Magma I'd have been pleased to see them a few years back. I was damned grateful to the Festival for seeing Sunn0))), too. And the Pop Group - all the same year.
There was a fourth band on after Boris, and I now wish we'd stayed inside to see Takkak Takkak (J. "Mo'ong" Santoso Pribadi - one half of Raja Kirik - and Japanese producer Shigeru Ishihara), because far too many lovers of extraordinary and powerful music later told me how damn good they were and now I'm jealous. More fool us, we were over-excited from seeing Boris, and gasbagging and inhaling ciggies outside.]
