Live Review: Kim Boekbinder, Brendan Maclean - Evelyn Hotel

With the onset of winter drizzle coating the streets outside, it's no wonder Brendan Maclean opts for the red. Glass in tow, Maclean's emotive performance displays a raw intensity fitting for the mellow, candlelit crowd. Woven into his compelling set is jaunty raillery, namely referring to his ukulele as Murphy Brown while singing of ill-fated love for ballerinas. One-liners before each song ignite laughter, most notably “…after you break up, one of you has to move to Spain”, and “this is a song I wrote when I realised I had a receding hairline.”

With shades of bright pink and white hair, Kim Boekbinder is poised in a galactic body suit while her band mates trickle onstage. Wide-eyed and expectant, her fans slowly gravitate towards the front, clapping and chanting “she's the impossible girl” before landing on the floor with their knees against their chests. The whole spectacle is quite bizarre, but fascinating, as if she's channeling an unearthly presence that's given rise to a devoted movement. In saying that, her tale is definitely one of intrigue. With the help of said fan base, the New Yorker set out to raise $20,000 in a bid to work with legendary Boston producer Sean Slade (Radiohead, Dresden Dolls) for her debut album. Needless to say, the campaign was a success.

Performing under the same name as her record The Impossible Girl, Boekbinder renders her bewitching alter ego with gusto, singing of Rainbows And Unicorns and Dream Life. In addition to her dreamy acoustics, she heaves another apparatus onstage and beams, “This is my brand new synthesiser. Her name is Cynthia!” With the arrival of Cynthia, the quirky show reaches new heights as Boekbinder experiments with rattling chains in-between vocals and a squeaking toy dinosaur, all the while utilising the synth to play back vocals at every opportunity. Despite original expectations, the set is definitely not confined to hazy acoustics, instead seasoned with cabaret, pop and rock.

Our sequined lady shimmies back onstage after a brief hiatus to reveal one hell of a costume with pink glittery streamers and feathers to boot. As if she's not charming enough, she baits the crowd by offering her own homemade Anzac biscuits in exchange for dancing. The crowd joyously dance and munch away before cajoling Boekbinder for the inevitable encore, to which she emerges mid-room with her ukulele. Sans-mic, Boekbinder performs an enchanting folk number that ends with a kiss to her man, but an imprint on us all.