Martin Martini and the Bone Palace Orchestra

Mr Martini is so far underground, living diversely in the crypts of Melbourne cathedrals and the plumbing of the colony, he threatens to undermine the town and knock all the buildings over, a gig at a time. Mr Martini compels us to listen a little closer to our own voices. He speaks a tongue that cuts through crud like a plough. He is said to arrange his manic toy acolytes in basement recitals and bludgeon them to bliss and recklessness. These dark assemblies of carnival magic then set about en masse into the suburbs, they walk amongst us, and one of them may be your neighbor.

Martini ‘bawls out at your guts’ as the Australian brogue classic demands. With a style distinctly his and his menagerie’s, he plays the ringmaster to a black night of the burlesque soul. He is not afraid to shout, to sing, to spruike to the beat of drums, play or even stand on a chair to do this. He is a gruff street sleeper of the music scene. Mr Martini and his band are martialing tellers of stories to the power of megaphone. He uses any means at his disposal to put his proposals. Loudhailers, tap-dancing, keyboards, cheap wine and soliloquy. Imagine a band of side-show bastard children, improvising and loitering with intent and skill deep in the bowels of the Sydney Opera House, in a vault long forgotten even by Utzon, picture this ratbag occupation of musical talent holding a perverse court there, and there you have a visitation from MM & the BPO.