TISM – Collected Versus (Liner Notes)

Liner Notes

In no uncertain terms, TISM were a true revelation – a revelation that exploded onto the Australian scene, mystifying all and sundry with their inexplicably catchy and masterfully crafted songs, their phenomenal live shows, and inimitable command of the media, before eventually disappearing just as abruptly as they had first appeared. In the grand scheme of things, this provocative Melbourne collective only existed for a far too brief period of time, but for more than 20 years they were one of the country’s most vital and exciting bands, an essential part of the Australian psyche, and something that could never, ever be repeated.

Ever since TISM played their final show back in November of 2004, the memories of the enigmatic group have remained firm at the forefront of any music-lover’s mind. Tales of sweaty, surging crowds, enthusiastic punters, and communal singalongs might be standard fare for any average concert, but for fans of TISM, the experience of seeing the band live could be summed up in one simple word: danger. 

Not just the kind of danger you feel in the pit of your stomach when something could potentially go awry, but the danger that accompanies the unexpected; the kind only a bomb squad technician could come close to understand. Truth be told, bomb squad technicians probably had a safer day at work than those in the front row of the ticking time bomb that was a TISM gig.

At any given moment, this masked and costumed group of men could switch from a choreographed dance routine paired with a song about T. S. Eliot to pure fucking mayhem. Within mere seconds, fans could go from catching a cardboard tile emblazoned with the current song’s title to tearing shreds off of vocalist Ron Hitler-Barassi’s costume as he jumped into the crowd, swallowed up by a pulsating group of fans, only to emerge almost entirely naked just seconds later, with a nearby roadie armed with a replacement balaclava at all times.

The overarching theme of being a TISM fan meant coming to terms with the fact that at any given moment, anything could happen. And more often than not, it did.

When TISM brought their music to the public for the first time by way of their ‘Get Fucked Concert’ in late 1983, the small, invite-only crowd surely couldn’t have foreseen that this emergent group of artists would in just over a decade be taking over the Australian music scene, pushing the envelope at every turn, and leaving everyone – no matter which side of the fence you were on – unable to turn away for fear of missing a single moment of their existence.

It was in late 1984 when the general public first got a taste of what the TISM experience was like. Bursting out of the back of a truck for a quick, 20-minute performance at Melbourne University, it left onlookers stunned, wondering what this explosive burst of energy they just witnessed was. Just what exactly was This Is Serious Mum? A band? A concept? Some sort of happening? The answer would eventually arrive, but not with any sense of convention.

By the time their debut single, 1986’s “Defecate On My Face”, was released, the TISM name was already something of legend in the local Melbourne music scene, with their live appearances gaining more and more attention at every turn. When the infamous 7”-in-a-12”-inch-sleeve single hit the shelves, it became clear that this group - comprising vocalists Humphrey B. Flaubert and Ron Hitler-Barassi, bassist Jock Cheese, guitarist Leak Van Vlalen, keyboardist Eugene de la Hot-Croix Bun and dancer/vocalists Les Miserables and Jon St. Peenis – were far more than just a nascent group of ambitious musicians, they were purveyors of pure genius.

Not only did they have a strong comprehension of what it was that made a good song, but their grasp of every surrounding facet of their work was astounding. This eccentric brilliance became evident as the group, armed with acerbic, sardonic lyrics referencing everything from Adolf Hitler, Ezra Pound, and Led Zeppelin, would straddle the line between playful and menacing, equally managing to entertain and expertly engage a crowd, whilst maintaining an element of fear and danger. Just what was going to happen next? Did the band even know? At the very least, they definitely had an inkling. The fans? They sure as hell didn’t.

Sure, the television-watching public got a taste of this sort of controlled chaos when in support of their debut album – 1988’s Great Truckin’ Songs of The Renaissance – they mystified Daryl Somers and the Hey Hey It's Saturday audience by expanding their lineup to a massive 28 members mid-song, but on stages around the country, it was far more intense. Shows could range from the comparatively tranquil as the band would hold debates, host a wedding, employ Shakespearean actors to perform behind them, and bring out fume-spewing lawnmowers, to the insane as they would roast a pig on a spit, employ multiple versions of the band across multiple stages, and – in the case of the Punter’s Club closing in 2002 – physically tear down the venue’s ceiling with no regard for anyone’s safety.

It was this sort of no-holds-barred, unbridled behaviour that even saw Nico famously refer to the group as “scum” following a support slot in 1986. Every show and every new record was an adventure, and TISM were content on ensuring that everyone was coming along for the ride.

Even the media themselves weren’t safe from the antics of the group. While usually resigned to the sidelines as they looked inwards, penning cheap words about what artistry means in the modern age, journalists, interviewers, and radio hosts would find themselves swept up into the world of TISM quicker – and more prominently – than most. Early interviews were conducted by fax, or featured responses from the band that were lifted verbatim from John Lennon’s Rolling Stone interview, before they began to make journalists conduct their talks by megaphone on a football oval, dressed in a wetsuit in the middle of an inner-city restaurant, or by meeting them in an industrial meat freezer. 

It might not have been conventional, but just when the fuck would TISM ever care about convention when there’s a memorable experience to be had?

By the time the mid-’90s came around, TISM were already two full-length albums into their career, and had even managed to both win the ARIA Award for Best Independent Release for “I'm Interested In Apathy”, and raise the ire of artist Ken Done to the point where their Australia The Lucky Cunt EP had to be torn from shelves by police thanks to its cover art. But in 1995, the group found themselves going from the status of ‘perennial cult favourites’ to mainstream success and national radio play.

A general dissatisfaction with the prevailing sound of the era had seen TISM embrace their desire to ultimately not pander to the masses by playing guitar music amidst the grunge explosion. As a result, this musical pivot saw the outfit unveil their new sound, one rooted in the synth-heavy alternative dance scene, and one that again found the group becoming square pegs in the round hole of the Australian music scene. The product of this stylistic shift was 1995’s Machiavelli And The Four Seasons, a record which would see the group reach their commercial peak thanks to its litany of singles, including “Jung Talent Time”, “Garbage”, “Greg! The Stop Sign!!”, and their most pervasive hit, “(He’ll Never Be An) Ol’ Man River”.

To some, it felt as though TISM had managed to crack the code of musical success by altering their sound to appeal to the appetite of music consumers everywhere. To others, it felt like the almost ubiquitous labelling of the group as a ‘novelty band’ felt appropriate. But ultimately to diehard supporters, it felt like validation. How else but by utilising an inimitable combination of talent, charisma, and outward indifference could a band such as TISM rise through the ranks, go Gold with an album that didn’t even list their name on the cover, and seemingly turn the national music scene on its head? 

Maybe they had just pulled the most elaborate ruse of all-time? After all, Ron Hitler-Barassi had once opined that “the greatest satirical statement that we could have made on the Australian rock industry is to actually become moderately successful within it”. Truly, TISM had made their presence felt to the masses, and using little more than their faithful approach of wondering how far they could push the envelope, they had found a level of success that eluded most.

While many bands might find themselves somewhat handicapped by the sudden spotlight of publicity, placings in triple j’s annual Hottest 100 countdown, and (another) ARIA Award, TISM were in no way content to let this popularity ruin what they had worked so hard on for so many years. As new faces peppered their live shows, and as record sales rose thanks to their almost ubiquitous presence, the band forged onwards, content to never once deviate from their modus operandi of ensuring that whatever the public got from TISM was something which they would remember forever.

If anything, it allowed the group a greater platform in which to showcase both their music and their live shows. An unending amount of national tour dates – including headline shows, festival slots, and gigs with fellow subversive outfits – let TISM to be seen by as many fans as possible, numerous TV appearances allowed the group to beam their antics into households across the country, and widespread radio play meant that their audience was destined to grow exponentially. TISM remained at the top of their game, and it felt like this could never change.

It feels fitting for a band such as TISM to end with a whimper rather than a bang. While final record The White Albun had arrived in the middle of 2004 (propelled to moderate online success thanks to the video for “Everyone Else Has Had More Sex Than Me”), a last tour culminated in the band’s appearance at the long-running dance festival, Earthcore. How appropriate that the last time a group such as TISM – who had spent years curating an image that often felt adversarial rather than harmonious – would perform live would be in front of a crowd who almost seemed like the antithesis of their fanbase? How could this be the end? Surely a fitting farewell was forthcoming? Sadly, this was it, with naught but silence permeating the following years, and leaving fans to wonder whether their hazy recollections of gigs, half-remembered stories of masked encounters, and shared experiences of hearing and loving the music itself would ever again come close to the real thing.

In the years since their untimely split though, TISM have been remembered equally as both one of the most dangerous and exciting aspects of Australian music history, and some sort of intriguing curio that seemed to succeed in spite of itself. The truth was far closer to the former, with TISM existing as a group of talented artists, determined to push themselves to the limit in the interest of creating a memorable time. While critics might have occasionally derided them for their satirical lyrics and humorous approach as opposed to something more conventional, TISM remained defiant, letting their success speak for itself as they continued to take the piss out of everyone – themselves included.

At their core though, TISM were an enigmatic, idiosyncratic, and unpredictable band; true wildcards of the Australian music scene. For just over 20 years, they remained the most exhilarating band to hit Australian stages, dancing precariously on the edge of self-destruction as they provided experiences that spanned pure musical ecstasy and sheer danger, leaving fans to wonder at every turn just what the hell they had seen or heard. 

TISM were, and remain to this very day, one of the most essential artists to ever exist within the realm of Australian music, and there will never again be anything like them.

Tyler Jenke - Rolling Stone Australia