When Melbourne musician Angie McMahon launched into her live cover of Lana Del Rey’s Born To Die – filming herself on her home piano on Saturday night – the comments underneath lit up with that brand of fandom hyperbole that expresses joy as a death wish.
“I’m dying,” said one. “We are all dead,” said another. “Call an ambulance,” said a third, before Sydney artist Alex the Astronaut chimed in: “Everyone stop it plz stay alive.”
At a live gig, McMahon’s voice can electrify a room. But on Instagram this weekend – her hair a messy plait down one side of a crinkled T-shirt, phone camera propped on top of her upright, her face cropped so closely it felt like Facetiming a friend – the performance felt personal, and even more intense.
More than 2,000 people had tuned in to watch her set; 2,000 people who had mostly been inside for at least a week now, following a global catastrophe as it unfolded in a scroll of increasingly frightening headlines on our phones.
These last few days had been particularly bad. Confined to our homes with all plans cancelled, borders closed and services stalled, there was little else to distract us from an unfathomable crisis that was getting more dystopic by the day.
But for those who tuned in to Isolaid this weekend – a two day Australian music festival which ran via Instagram’s live story feature – there was solace to be found. We were all there in the same place, going through the same thing, despite being alone. I didn’t expect to be so caught up in it. I didn’t expect to feel such relief.
Organised by indie record label Our Golden Friend to raise funds and awareness for industry non-profit Support Act, Isolaid featured 80 acts playing 20-minute sets, livestreaming from their bedrooms, their home farms, the bedraggled living rooms of their inner-city share houses. After each set, the performer would throw to the next – and we would scrabble for the right account to tune into.
Most artists pulled a crowd of around 4-600, including a bunch of other musicians, managers, label folk and promoters who were lighting up the comments with love hearts and applause emojis. The live performance industry was one of the first to be decimated by coronavirus: according to the user-generated data compiled by I Lost My Gig, cancelled gigs have cost them more than $280m already.
Perhaps that’s why Isolaid felt like the first laugh after a big cry. The energy was fun, hilarious and occasionally chaotic. Musicians stopped songs to read the comments, and brought dogs in to distract us while they tuned. Denise Le Menice gave a brilliant set from WA, filling in for Moaning Lisa who had to cancel last-minute. “Thanks for clapping – not that I can hear!” she laughed manically, before trying to auction off a signed roll of toilet paper for $20, drink in hand. “Cheers to the coronavirus, you little fucking dickhead!”
Just like at every other music festival, I ran into friends, discovered a bunch of new bands, saved the schedule as my screen lock and got FOMO each time I had to miss a set. Unlike every other music festival, I was wearing pyjamas and eating from crockery. I propped my screen up on the kitchen counter to watch a few sets as I cooked a salmon steak. Each performance was ephemeral, one-time-only; Instagram stories delete themselves after 24 hours. “Take care of each other,” musicians told us, over and over again. “Stay home. Stay away from people. Stay sane.”
And they were there for each other too. “I’m so nervous,” said Eilish Gilligan, before premiering a yet-to-be-recorded song written with Japanese Wallpaper and Alex Lahey.
“OMG YES EILISH,” wrote Lahey in the comments. “10/10,” commented Ball Park Music. “We stan Eilish more than anything else in this whole world,” said Cry Club.
“This is the most connected I have felt in many, many days,” McMahon told us from her living room.
Each “stage” was set differently. Hannah Blackburn played alone in her bedroom before inviting her band in: David Western came in via a ladder through the window, carrying three beers and a banjo and followed by drummer Jess Ellwood, who was handed a jar full of cash to use as percussion.
Grace Turner’s floor was strewn with roses and moodily dappled with vintage lamps; Alice Skye moved her camera from a Casio in the grass on her family farm to the upright in her living room. Zoe Fox’s hysterical set, filmed by Melbourne artist Didirri, featured costumed extras and Instagram filters that turned her into a surprise pickle. It ended with a cross to the next artist, Ro, who performed from the next room – before another cross to Didirri’s set. His cover of Times They Are a Changin’ was both impossibly hokey and weirdly perfect. This share house was having the best time.
Liv Cartledge, Clews and June Jones gave us lo-fi sets with stunning vocals; Lupa J and Harvey Sutherland made big parties in home studios; Rat Hammock and Good Morning had full bands, sensibly spaced out. Housemates applauded in the background. There were a great many dogs. Emma Russack’s mum played piano behind her, and Cry Club offered a stripped back version of their social distance anthem: Don’t Fucking Touch Me.
On Sunday night Julia Jacklin sang the most prescient lines of the weekend: “You’ll go outside, enjoy the sun / soon you’ll feel fine to see everyone” (Comfort); “You can love somebody without using your hands” (Head Alone); and, “I know I’ve locked myself in my room / I’ll open up the door and try to love again soon” (Pressure to Party). Her set was watched by more than 2,700.
Around the same number had tuned into Stella Donnelly the night before. Donnelly is staying with her partner and his dad and dog, away from her own family in Western Australia, whose borders have just closed. “My mum’s still a punk, and you’re still shit,” she drawled in a verse from Seasons Greeting – before breaking from the song to speak directly to the camera: “Miss you, Mum.”
It’s hard to tell whether this could happen again; until musicians find a way to make money from performing for us, I’m not even sure it should. But this weekend, it was exactly what I needed: music, joy and company in an isolated time.
