Live Review: Mac DeMarco, Kirin J Callinan, Marty Frawley Band

Wandering into the Forum, instant respite from the heat is found in Marty Frawley Band (and the kickass air conditioning system). Seated on an office chair with wheels, Frawley and band deliver an easy set full of highly listenable indie-pop gems to an already sizeable crowd. The set is short and sharp, and over all too quickly.

Neighbours to the left try to describe Kirin J Callinan, who is next up. They pause, then stumble out "he's a bit, errrrr, eccentric, a bit naughty". Having never seen him live before and knowing little about him other than from viral singles, it is difficult to know what to expect. Revered by many of his peers, reviled by many members of the public, Callinan is at the very least a talking point. He arrives on stage dressed as what can only be described as a denim cowboy. SAD (Song About Drugs) is a booming anthem of sorts and suddenly everything that had previously come across as baffling on listening at home makes sense in a live setting. His voice is husky and powerful, and he is impossible to tear your eyes away from. Living Each Day smacks of Bruce Springsteen if The Boss had a piano accordion. "If you don't like my music that's ok, too, we share some common ground," he cracks. Landslide is incredibly beautiful, played solo by Callinan. The vulnerability lacking in the hyper-masculine caricature that is presented on casual listening is evident in Callinan's live shows and is ultimately what makes it. He closes with the song that launched a thousand memes, Big Enough, and the crowd lose their shit. Callinan takes on Barnesy's vocal duties and does a pearler of a job. Walking away from the set, there is a big 'now I get it' moment, for this writer at least.

A large group of people begin to stream across the stage, and sit around a table topped with roses and covered with a red-and-white checked tablecloth. This is the bistro, set up at each Mac DeMarco show to ensure that friends and family of the band are guaranteed the best seats in the house. The terminally delightful singer arrives on stage to AC/DC's Hell's Bells and reminds the audience to "keep it respectful, keep it peaceful, smile on your neighbour". Opener On The Level is mellow and dreamy, the capacity crowd sways and plumes of smoke from smuggled in joints cloud overhead. Salad Days is an early singalong in a set full of them.

DeMarco throws in a good amount of daggy-dad dancing, before adding, "If you feel feisty, perhaps we can shake our bootys for the next one?" and giving an enthusiastic demonstration of the booty shaking he's suggesting. Few artists seem to enjoy the live experience as much as he. DeMarco delights in commanding his audience whether it is to scream, open a pit or, as he demands during This Old Dog, "Let me see those fucking cellphone flashlights," before dropping the house lights to enjoy the full effect of hundreds of these held aloft.

My Old Man, a reflection on growing older and the price of fun, is stellar. At times it is hard to reconcile the bawdy joker on the stage with the songwriter of all of these soul-filled songs. No one writes a love song quite like DeMarco, but no one can make you reflect as hard, either. In Ode To Viceroy, a slacker ode to DeMarco's preferred brand of cigarettes, he exhales, "Ahhhhh honey, I'll smoke ya 'til I'm dyin'".

Moonlight On The River is a sprawling sonic epic, building until it is impossible not to drown in swirling guitar tones and sparkly flashes of keys. Roses from the 'bistro' are thrown into the audience and the band jam along without DeMarco, who eventually reappears on the back of Callinan. Anyone who may have been lulled off into a blissful stupor is stunned back to life as DeMarco unleashes an ear-piercing scream.

From here, things just get weird. Marty Frawley returns to the stage wearing his shirt on his head and rambling, "I drank the whole rider and I've got heaps of drugs." Callinan reappears to declare Melbourne as his "fifth or sixth favourite city in this country" and he and DeMarco peel off their shirts. Still Together comes with a bonus shoey, but is cut short. What happens next is a cacophony of covers. As for Joe McMurray's take on Under The Bridge, well, as a singer he makes a great drummer, although the crowd eats it up. By the time we leave the venue, DeMarco is screaming I'm Henry VIII, I Am as loud and fast as possible, and commanding a circle pit.

It's a bummer to end a spectacular setlist with mediocre covers, but the majority of the audience don't seem mind. The time taken up by this would have been better spent on more of DeMarco's own work, but it wouldn't be a DeMarco gig if the goofball didn't rise above the artist here and there.