4 June 2025 – The Triffid, Brisbane – words and pictures by Bec Harbour
First off—who are Clown Core? Does it matter? Not really. You’re not here for a backstory; you’re here for sensory overload, chaotic genius, and possibly to question reality for a while. Clown Core are two men in clown masks, armed with a saxophone, a drum kit, an arsenal of electronic mayhem, and a commitment to unsettling visuals that span from serene landscapes to vintage tech, and even what looked suspiciously like open-heart surgery. And yes—there are clown horns. You know the ones.
The night began in an oddly tranquil way. Doors opened to the sound of crashing waves—ambient, calming, almost meditative. It lulled the crowd into a false sense of calm before the support act took the stage.
Enter: a masked DJ – DJ Driver, who silently set up a mobile phone and left. A voiceover urged the audience not to speak, or they might “disturb the DJ.” Naturally, that didn’t stop anyone. He returned moments later with a chair and a bottle of water and simply sat next to the phone. That’s when things got weird(er).
DJ Driver – The Triffid – photos by Bec Harbour
Three women—whether crowd plants or just quick volunteers—were invited on stage, each armed with glow-in-the-dark pipe cleaners. They danced, gifted him a glow stick, and distributed the pipe cleaners to the crowd. Someone near me whispered, “This is so wholesome.” DJ Driver closed with a surprisingly enthusiastic crowd surf before vanishing as quickly as he arrived. The waves returned.
Clown Core don’t play “sets” in any traditional sense. There’s no setlist. Its absurdist theatre meets jazz-metal rave. There’s improv. There’s chaos. There’s the Benny Hill theme, which I was honestly thrilled to recognise halfway through the set (one song I recognise!). But because of the lack of set list and everything merging into one glorious soundscape, this review is on the thoughts and feelings side of things.
Clown Core – The Triffid – photos by Bec Harbour
The duo appeared with no fanfare while ambient music filled the space. The crowd erupted with cheers, chants, and sheer euphoria. Clown Core, statuesque and unmoved, gave no indication they heard a thing.
Yet somehow, a connection was forged. Horns in the music were echoed by clown horns in the audience—a surreal game of musical Marco Polo. There was no talking, no banter. Communication came only through programmed voiceovers and a big LED screen that occasionally offered things like “Thank You” messages or switched from Muzak to pounding hard house style doof without warning.
Clown Core – The Triffid – photos by Bec Harbour
And then the music. Oh, the music. Wild, jazzy, brutal, elegant, unhinged. Saxophone licks worthy of jazz clubs followed by sonic assaults that could level warehouses. The musicianship is undeniable—virtuosic, even. The costumes and visuals may scream “gimmick,” but what’s underneath is something truly exceptional.
Clown Core – The Triffid – photos by Bec Harbour
After my three songs in the pit taking photos, I found myself up on the mezzanine, where a small group of awkwardly dancing fans mirrored the unpredictable rhythm of the set. It felt like the only natural way to experience something this unclassifiable. We weren’t just watching Clown Core; we were all part of the strange ecosystem they’d created.
