Alex Cameron – 26 November 2022 @ The Croxton Bandroom, Melbourne VIC
Alex Cameron does not play gigs.
He stages emotional interventions.
The Croxton Park Hotel felt less like a venue and more like a holding pen for damaged romantics, failed optimists, and people who know every word to songs about men who absolutely should not be trusted. By the time Cameron walked out, slicked-back hair, singlet clinging, posture somewhere between rock star and motivational speaker, the crowd was already smiling. We knew what we were here for. And we were ready to believe him.
Studmuffin96 opened the night like a handshake that lasts a second too long. Confident, absurd, slightly uncomfortable. Happy Ending followed immediately, its title doing the exact opposite of what it promised. Cameron delivered every line with theatrical sincerity, dancing like a man who learned his moves from late-night television and never questioned them.
This is the Alex Cameron magic trick. He performs desperation with so much conviction it starts to feel noble.
Country Figs and Divorce leaned hard into the character work. These songs don’t just tell stories. They inhabit people. Lonely men. Delusional men. Men who are convinced they are misunderstood geniuses and might be right, or might be deeply wrong. Cameron sang them like testimony, hips swaying, eyes locked somewhere just above the crowd, as if addressing an invisible audience that never quite showed up.
Then Candy May and Miami Memory, two songs that sound like neon reflections in a dirty mirror. Romantic on the surface, quietly devastating underneath. The band was immaculate. Tight, glossy, perfectly timed. And towering above it all, the saxophone.
Roy Molloy doesn’t just play sax. He detonates it. Every solo was met with roars that bordered on reverence. And then, inevitably, the stool review. Molloy took the mic, deadpan as ever, and delivered a forensic critique of the stool he was sitting on. Comfort. Stability. Stackability. It was ridiculous. It was genius. It was a reminder that humour is central to Cameron’s world, not a side note.
Sara Jo and Prescription Refill arrived like late-night texts you shouldn’t send but absolutely will. True Lies and The Chihuahua followed, Cameron pacing the stage like a man mid-monologue, delivering bleak truths dressed up as jokes. The audience laughed. Then went quiet. Then laughed again, slightly differently this time.
By Breakdown and Strangers Kiss, the room felt fully submerged. Dancing, yes. But also listening. Really listening. Running Outta Luck hit with its familiar resignation, and Marlon Brando landed like a thesis statement for the entire Cameron project. Masculinity as performance. Desire as myth. Loneliness dressed in bravado.
For the encore, K Hole was pure chaos. Loose, loud, ecstatic. And then Far From Born Again. A closer that felt almost spiritual in its refusal to resolve anything. Cameron stood centre stage, arms open, voice soaring and straining, fully committed to the moment and the mess of it.
There was no lesson at the end. No redemption arc. Just applause, sweat, laughter, and that strange, lingering feeling that comes from watching someone articulate the parts of yourself you usually keep hidden.
Alex Cameron doesn’t mock his characters. He understands them. He loves them. And somehow, by extension, he loves us too.
That’s why his shows feel so alive. Not because they’re slick or loud or funny, though they are all of those things. But because they tell the truth sideways.
And once you’ve seen it live, it’s very hard to look away.