A gig might not be the first idea that comes to mind when planning an Auslan event, but in last week’s Summer Break Auslan Party in Melbourne, raising money for Deaf Basketball Australia, the entire program was built around making music more accessible to deaf people.

There are a few elements at play. Interpreters are on stage for each act, translating and performing the lyrics; the speakers are cranked for those with hearing impairments, and there’s plenty of bass. There are story slams in between the acts, told in both Australian sign language (Auslan) and the spoken word, and large numbers of interpreters in the audience.

The lineup is eclectic: four soulful solo artists with melodic acoustic and piano accompaniment, followed by hard rock and a DJ set. I corner an attendee, Alex Straub, and ask, through an Auslan interpreter, what it’s like attending a concert where you can’t hear the music.

“It’s great, I feel a connection to it that I normally wouldn’t – I can understand the lyrics and get a feel for it,” he tells me. “It lets me get a perspective on the feeling that goes with the music.”

During Cassandra Chin’s set, a new interpreter, Julia Murphy, takes the stage. While the other interpreters have been translating the performances live from what they’re hearing, Murphy is deaf and performs song lyrics she learned beforehand with the help of a second interpreter in the audience giving time cues.

“We’re all pretty excited about this one,” event organiser Ramas McRae tells me. “It’s a more fluent experience.”

The model might not work for live translation, but it’s perfect for scripted works – effectively, it’s another performer onstage.

At hearing concerts, it’s the duty of all punters to stand around awkwardly, practicing their I’m-enjoying-the-music face, because conversation is impossible. If you can speak sign language, it’s the opposite.

“Deaf people are well-known for talking at events,” someone quips during a slam. It isn’t just chatting during the speeches, though. When the volume is up, the hearing are forced to lean in, pull out their earplugs and shout into each other’s ears, but those who speak sign language can have an entirely social experience.

There’s a role reversal implicit here: as an Auslan illiterate, and unable to hear anything over the music, I’m probably the least able person in this particular room. The venue is packed with Auslan speakers, chatting furiously – but as the music gets louder, I can no longer even hear what the interpreters are saying.

When the Suburban Prophets come on, the evening kicks into gear – the hard and dark rock three-piece have turned the bass up to 11. The buzz is so strong it thrums through the air and lands in the collarbone; even the cider bottle in my hand is vibrating. This is music for the deaf: vibration piped right into the bones, bypassing the ears.

Once their set is complete, it’s a handover to equally heavy progressive house dance tunes from DJ Lukas & The Brothers, and a few deaf punters get their dance groove on. Electronic music is famously popular with deaf people; the bass beats are so heavy that hearing is almost optional, and the regular beat is easy to keep track of for dancing.

Despite the tasting-plate nature of the lineup, there is one common thread between all the performers at this event: they all, to varying extents, have a connection with the deaf community. Most speak fluent sign language; even the newest to the community, Sarah Carroll, has taken a few lessons.

It’s hard not to feel like a bit of a tourist as a hearing, non-Auslan-speaking attendee, but in a way, that’s inevitable at any event put together by a close-knit community. It’s also part of the point. One intention of the Summer Break Auslan Party is to bridge the gap between hearing and deaf communities through music, and it’s hard not to leave wanting to learn a few signs – if only just to chat with friends at the next gig.