Night Mass

St Vincent's delayed appearance has buggered up our Night Mass schedule so we power walk from Mac2 to the Odeon Theatre in hope of catching Tropical Fuck Storm — which we just miss. Instead, the main attraction turns out to be a naked female performer who is stuffing whipped cream into her vagina and fisting herself all while doing a slapstick comedy routine. How could I pass this up? I settle into a spot next to the sound desk as she produces a tin of dog food, which she proceeds to nibble and rub all over her body before throwing generously into the audience's faces. As I inch closer to the door she's produced a funnel and is filling her anus with water, which presumably, she intends to squirt over the crowd. From the hallway outside the sound of the audience's screams indicate the triumphant conclusion of her set.

Out in the hallway I line up for a mystery room which I never actually gain entry to, while a giant dinosaur with red LED eyes storms through the foyer and heads for the unsuspecting crowd outside. Meanwhile, Melbourne's High Tension kick off on the main stage and Karina Utomo's guttural scream blasts out across the Odeon. I watch with satisfaction as three teeny boppers run from the stage in the wake of her fury. "Why do I suddenly like doom metal when there's a female frontwoman?" I ask myself. High Tension are perfectly poised and brutal in their power. After a week of devastating attacks on women's safety in this country, it feels empowering and particularly cathartic to see such an honest and accurate scope of female sexuality and anger showcased at Dark Mofo — particularly after watching St Vincent absolutely shred at Mac2 tonight.

I wander outside to discover Bidencopes Lane looking like an actual scene from Bladerunner. There are misters attached to the tops of the fire escapes in the alleyways, strange messages all over the bricks and dozens of fire drums surrounded by hipsters who have cut the fingers off their mittens huddling in the dark corners. The remainder of the punters are lining up; perhaps for their own funerals. Who knows?! No one actually knows what they're lining up for at this festival, as the organisers wouldn't tell anyone, but they seem to be having some decent conversations nonetheless. "Yeah, I dunno about the vagina bit?" one woman says, in reference to the labia prints being made available tonight by performance artist Betty Grumble. Sadly, I move past too quickly to hear her friends response, heading down two flights of stairs to discover another gloriously isolated pocket of insanity. They've flown out Japanese DJ Yousuke Yukimatsu to play inside a disused candy bar inside the beautiful old 1960s Cinema One space. It's haze-fuelled, manic and terrifyingly loud.

Up at The Grand Poobah, Tears In Heaven proves to be a highlight — an interactive performance where punters are invited to strip, cry and express themselves to their own chosen 'sad karaoke track'. "Here at Tears In Heaven, we invite you to shed and spread," the voiceover coos. "C'mon, you're safe here. If you want to take off all your clothes here at Tears In Heaven we provide an opportunity to get on stage and do just that. No judgement. Cathartic stripping. Cathartic shedding. Tears In Heaven." Two be-glittered performers set the scene and act as gracious hosts to the 16 punters given access to each performance. After the first punter sings her guts out to a Dolly Parton number it actually genuinely becomes quite a beautiful thing, with more brave punters acting out their pain on stage as a munted audience cheers them on. I'm all for it.

Access to the Bang Bang Bar is through an alleyway I never knew existed, despite having lived in Hobart for the past six years, and with another step down into the bowels of a disused building we chance across two-piece Time For Dreams. Out back is the Twin Peaks-themed whiskey bar replete with Laura Palmer portrait and cardigan-clad bartender, who kind of looks like Barb from Stranger Things. At the end of the hall is a room with a jukebox, that's barely audible, and 100 people jammed in and boogying to Rock The Casbah. Heading upstairs we walk through a disturbingly convincing fake forest (someone has earned their work experience dragging a shit load of myrtle bark up these stairs) and we find my favourite accidental performance piece yet. A three-piece Baroque band are playing languidly in full white make-up and wig regalia while Gareth Liddiard stands there in conversation with the pianist, proudly sporting his Richmond Football Club jersey. To their left, a woman in blue wig and face paint is dance-jamming with a guy in gold lame pants and waving bits of myrtle in the air at him.

As I begrudgingly leave the forest room and head towards the exit the security guard asks, "Are you sure you want to leave?! There's a laser show upstairs," so I detour and do the obligatory 'stick my face in the lasers and see how trippy it looks on my skin' move. Finally, I make my way through to the exit and hit open air at the top of the fire escape, overlooking the rest of the shenanigans. The log fire-fuelled air is mixed with the smell of whiskey and leather and an opera singer is now belting out Ave Maria from the Baroque stage in perfect contrast to the death metal, hard techno and performance art going on below. Night Mass really is Dark Mofo's flagship vehicle, allowing them to fly the weirdo flag high and proud and explore vulnerability and absurdity through an overwhelmingly impressive range of mediums. It remains unapologetic, refusing to be contained by genre, gender or political preference, and for this reason I continue to find it the most genuinely entertaining, stimulating and fascinating festival in the country.