At Taronga Zoo, where Sydney’s skyline shimmers beyond the enclosures, another kind of beast was unleashed on Saturday night—one that prowls with a slow, sultry swagger and sinks its teeth deep into the soul. The Cruel Sea, the swampy surf-rock legends of the Australian soundscape, took to the stage for their second show in a decade, proving that while time may have passed, their bite is as sharp as ever. Much like the novel The Cruel Sea, which charts the harrowing journeys of men navigating the vast and unforgiving ocean, The Cruel Sea’s performance was a voyage of its own—one filled with slow-building swells, moments of eerie calm, and thunderous, white-knuckle intensity.
Under the open sky, with Sydney’s glittering skyline reflected in the harbor like a lighthouse on a dark night, Tex Perkins and his crew took us on a ride we won’t soon forget.
They didn’t charge in with all guns blazing; instead, they eased into the night’s waters with the precision of seasonder predators, establishing a steady groove with anticipation coiled tight like a tiger ready to pounce before Perkins—every bit the weary but unbreakable captain—strode onto the deck and launched into It’s Alright (‘Cause She Loves Me’) with all the smoldering cool of a slow-burning wildfire.
Perkins’ voice, still as deep and weathered as an old sea captain’s, held the crowd in a trance, especially while the band slithered through Anybody But You, the audience howling along like a pack of hungry dingoes at sundown.
From that moment on, the crowd was all hands on deck, chanting back at the band like a call-and-response between shipmates on the high seas. Much like Nicholas Monsarrat’s novel, the set had moments of raw aggression balanced by stretches of eerie, atmospheric beauty. Danny Rumour’s signature twang and reverb soaked licks drifted in and out like mist rolling over a vast ocean, while the rhythm section of Jim Elliott and Kenny Gormly provided the unshakable ballast that kept everything afloat with an unwavering pulse.
When Perkins disappeared below deck for a few numbers, the band’s instrumental interlude felt like staring into the abyss—a deep, swirling mix of surf, blues, and dub, each note stretching into the night like a distant ship’s horn over an empty sea. These are the moments that remind you why The Cruel Sea remain in a class of their own; they don’t just play music, they conjure moods, painting vast, cinematic landscapes of heat, dust, and longing.
Then came the storms.
Black Stick arrived like a torpedo strike, its hypnotic groove and menacing lyricism sending shivers through the crowd, feeling like a primal ritual. But the real climax was still to come. It was The Honeymoon Is Over that hit with the full force of a mid-ocean tempest. The opening notes cut through the humid air like the blare of a destroyer’s alarm, and when the crowd roared the chorus back, it felt like sailors rallying against the crashing waves, refusing to sink. There’s a reason this song still slays after all these years: it’s raw, it’s real, and when played live, it feels unstoppable.
By the time they closed, it was clear we’d all been through something together—a journey not just through the band’s storied past but through the moods and landscapes they conjure so effortlessly. And just like the battle-hardened seamen in The Cruel Sea, Tex Perkins and his crew have proven once again that, even after all these years, they’re still out there riding the waves, undaunted and unstoppable like a long-lost predator reintroduced into the wild—instinct intact, muscles still rippling with power.
As we filed out beneath the warm glow of the city lights, one thing was certain: the sea may be cruel, but it is also timeless.
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Words by AW.