Tim Rogers

The fourth wall is a term describing the invisible barrier between a performer and their audience. Traditionally, in theatre and opera, this wall is never breached. The only reality in the room is the one which is being played out on stage. With the advent of modern theatre and the rock concert the performer will often reach their hand through the wall and the observer becomes an important participant. On the night Tim Rogers fronted a well patronised Republic Bar in Hobart this wall was broken, smashed even, not by the performer, but by the observers.

Firstly it should be noted that local song writer Adam Cousens played a decent support set. He was affable and interactive, warming the crowd up well with dedications to his "Tasmanian brothers and sisters" and songs that encouraged the drinkers to "raise up your glasses".

1920s jazz played Tim Rogers and cellist/backing singer Mel Robinson on to the stage with their respective instruments. As expected, he had the dirty rock image down to the white cowboy hat, ghost of a handlebar and a green velvet jacket that "supersedes feedback". From the outset it was obvious: some of the crowd were there just to see the hard drinking You Am I front man swagger out a bunch of favourites that they could sing along to. But the warnings were out early.

In a recent interview with The Dwarf, Rogers had said that he felt "more ferocious now about the work I do – but I am not going to be some guy with a guitar that sings about girls. I demand more of myself." While he tuned up he interrogated the crowd with his steely eyes and without introduction started the first song, Paragon Cafe. He seemed vulnerable. After the opener he said "I wasn't going to talk at all but I can tell you all want to catch up." Cheers followed. "If you want to hear Berlin Chair I'll give you your $20 back." The wall was already looking shaky.

There were momentary glimpses of the typical Rogers swagger but most of the tunes he sang poignantly. His songs are about life: drinking too much, the people he's met and girls that have broken his heart. But tonight it was the audience that broke it. Throughout the entire act large groups, as happens typically in a pub, were conversing at a high volume that compensated for the music. The world that Rogers was trying to connect everyone with was slipping like the remnants of a morning dream and frustration was showing. Apparently the "Berlin Chair" crowd was still around.

Was Rogers asking too much? It seems like he is trying to shake his pub rocks roots and mature, demanding not just more of himself but of his audience as well. Hold on: are we talking about the same guy? This is "sweatin' bullets for breakfast" Timmy Rogers. The bloke. The guy who "head butted" Missy Higgins. Hecklers heckle just to hear his charmingly offensive comebacks. But this wasn't who he wanted to be tonight. The songs he chose were personal, made all the more evocative by Robinson who shared every moment of lyrical love making and heart break with longing looks, intent furrowed brow and empathetic bow. She drank champagne from a glass and he from the bottle.

And so, as he tried to reach through the wall and was rejected he would retract and the only people that were in the room were the two on stage, singing only to and for each other. He chose ballads from the You Am I and solo back catalogues including songs from the recently released Luxury of Hysteria. Predicably Damage, Hourly Daily, Heavy Heart and You've Been So Good to Me So Far were the crowd favourites. He did end up playing Berlin Chair as a waltz and not many people sang along. He still wasn't feeling it. Toward the end he thanked everyone for coming out and then verbalised some of his pent up feeling. "Some nights it just doesn't happen. I'm sick of hearing other peoples' conversations." They played the last song and then left. The crowd raucously clamoured for more and Rogers dutifully returned to the stage to play "Hi, we're the Support Band" perhaps because he felt they were being treated like one. Then the wall came tumbling down.

Amid cheers of "We love you Timmy" a woman at the bar with the assumption that she had some insight into the man, yelled out "You don't know what you've got!" trying to give him affirmation. Roger stood stunned in disbelief at the cheek while Robinson slowly played the soundtrack to the unfolding drama. The crowd roared in support of Rogers but he just stood, staring at the woman. Finally, after what seemed an age, he addressed her in the tersest tone. "I know how lucky I am." "Well you don't act like it" she retorted unwisely, charging up the already tense atmosphere. Rogers is known for his colourful language which he can use to great effect but now he refrained and remained the Australian gentleman. Drowning in a sea of crowd support he yanked out the lead of his guitar with a ferocity that suggested he was ripping out his own lung, went off mike and sang James the Second one on one with Robinson. His antagonist left the bar and the crowd hushed suddenly realising they were missing out on what might be closure. For the first time that night, it was quiet in the Republic Bar with Rogers and Robinson perfectly audible despite the lack of amplification. With what must have been almost begrudging appreciation he stepped back up to the microphone to repeat the chorus a number of times:

Goddamn those plans
Somewhere you know that these damn things
Still just yours and mine

Everyone sang along, especially on the last three words. It wasn't just him and the cellist any more. The observers had become participants again in the musical ritual. Rogers left the stage thanking the crowd once more, though it was apparent the wall was still severely damaged. On the back of his guitar he had a sign with the word "Thanks" written on it. He didn't use it. We all left feeling unresolved.

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