Pinky Beecroft

Boy was Lisa excited. Having grown to adore Mr. Pinky Beecroft from his Machine Gun Fellatio, brief PK Spaceship fame, and blogging adventures, I was jittering to behold his latest project. From the cold buzz of the beer garden I could hear New Zealand’s Goldenhorse begin. I don’t know much about them, all I know is they are apparently the bee’s knees in NZ. They’re not bad, your usual indie-pop delicate fair, and they make lovely music to sway and drink to (water, that, is; a self-imposed alcohol embargo, working out pretty well, actually, thanks for asking).

In the interval, my gigmate and I observe the crowd gathering to watch Pinky Beecroft and the White Russians tonight; it’s a rough mix, I must say. There is I and gigmate Nikiah, terribly fashionable young things we are, hovcourse, a hairy ska-friend from uni I bumped into, happy little Dwarf photographer Tahlia and friend in the corner, and a concoction of pleasant older folks in well-fitting jeans, a group of (I can only assume?) slightly intoxicated younger lasses shouting crass but somewhat affectioned remarks towards Pinky and a cross-section of all breed of music nerd. It’s a fun little crowd, not too bombastic, certainly not prone to moshing or extreme energy expenditure. Just taking a punt on a Wednesday night gig in MelbourneTown with an old favourite.

So Pinky Beecroft, all hair and keyboard tonight, makes for a reticent figure on stage. He is clearly nervous to be embarking on a new tour, nay, career, and perhaps the less-than-vast crowd tonight has put him off. We are a friendly bunch, though; we love him and we want him to be comfortable. If you are expecting the kind of off-the-wall fluro freakout, horns-a-blazing and gyrations that made Machine Gun Fellatio great, you are way off, friend. Though this latest effort is a far cry from any MGF madness, it has brilliant qualities all to its own. The band’s tunes are often delicate, even more often catchy and hilarious. He and the band glide through tracks like Floor, Real Good Time and personal favourite, My Haircut Will Come Back Around. Pinky bashes of a cowbell and makes light of Melbourne’s oft-cynical ways.The band joins in (you’ve never seen a more diverse group of musos, I tell you) and plays poppy rockers over and under and around Pinky' dry wit. Pretty soon, its encore time and none of us can believe how quickly the gig has whizzed by. Pinky’s true to life lyricism, dealt in cynical, humorous and often heartbreaking means, poured over pop-rock melodies, makes for a delightfully frisky set. Pinky’s banter with the crowd between songs, too, established the scruffy muso as one of Australia’s more human rock stars. And never let a bad word be said about the man’s keyboard techniques!

Come back soon, Pinky. For me.

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