Black Mountain

Wilderness Heart
Jagjaguwar/Inertia

Why a psych-rock outfit from Vancouver deems it necessary to relocate in order to build their next release between Seattle and L.A. is beyond me. The resultant effort Wilderness Heart reeks of discarding their collective identity and reinventing themselves as a more commercially viable product. The thing reads like a recipe: fast, slow, fast, slow, fast, power-ballad to heartfelt soul-searcher, and universality-of-consciousness-themed nonsense.
Black Mountain’s 2008 LP In The Future solidified the group as a bona fide soldier in the ranks of psychedelic rock-n-roll. They were a band that felt self-assured enough to shun the mainstream in pursuit of their own creative freedoms and leftist leanings. In stark contrast, the new record sounds like they’ve gone out, bought beachside property, invested in the stock market and listened to nothing but hard-rock and 1970s fantasy-themed concept albums from their bear-skin couches.
The opening number ‘The Hair Song’ is inoffensive enough but hardly comparable to the explosion of In The Future’s opener ‘Stormy High’. Sadly the recording slides steadily downhill from there with a two, three, four combination that smacks of insincerity in its soaring-eagle clichés and unsurprising sine-wave tempo shifts. We’re granted brief reprieve from the sickening grandeur of the thing with seventh track ‘The Way To Gone’, and then callously thrown back to the OTT theatrics of the title song.
The biggest disappointment here is that I don’t get a sense this is supposed to be funny. What could make for fantastic comedy-rock-opera, complete with exploding buildings and flying angel stage props (a-la Tenacious D), is weighed down by the gravity of belief that Black Mountain bring—they deny the listener the opportunity to laugh. One can only hope this is a minor pot-hole in the street of their story as they’ve shown us much more in the past.

Shihad Killjoy Live

Northcote Social Club

Retrospective shows are risky business. At best the artists have the opportunity to reveal the class of early work, the timelessness of their art, to gift the audience a glimpse of a bygone era, and to offer up a small taste of the zeitgeists of formative years. At worst these events can lay bare the shortcomings of the artists’ early work, the un-classicness if you will. At worst they remind the audience of times they’d gladly left behind, of their own past poor judgement, and expose the depths of personal cringe we hide in our dark places. Shihad performing their 1995 album Killjoy fell somewhere in the middle range of this spectrum.
Being at university in Wellington in 1995, I lived in awe of these four lads who had seemingly ripped the lid off the heavy rock business and rocketed to the top of the music world—at least that was how we saw it. Killjoy was a watershed release for the band and it was no surprise that many of the songs stacked up in a contemporary setting. The opening bars of You Again gripped and chafed like sandpaper and the three-punch combo of the aforementioned, Gimme Gimme and The Call proved as immediate as the days they were written. From here the performance waned. Front-man Jon Toogood’s onstage antics were distracting at best and at times he was flat-out irritating. The flagrant posturing and heartfelt earnestness of the bloke made you want to puke at points and the use of backing track during slow-burner Deb’s Night Out was a particular low.
Thankfully the back end of the set revealed the best writing of the album and For What You Burn as an unexpected favourite. Guitarist Phil Knight was always the unnoticed exponent that started this thing rolling and his work this night further solidified this. We were spared the inclusion of any newer material in the encore, which concluded with the frenetic Screwtop from the band’s 1993 debut Churn. All up it was a pretty decent show but hardly enough to redeem Shihad from more recent indiscretions.

RRR. Make Contact

The Triple R performance space feels like no other band room in Melbourne. It’s a serious space, no beer swilling chit-chat and rank odours, for people serious about music to experience the best of what Melbourne has to offer. Upon entry to the room, there is weight attached to the realisation that the show will be broadcast to a listenership of thousands. Beginnings to sets are marked by nervous introductions followed by deafening silence. The musician is respected here like nowhere else in town.
Since the building opening last March subscribers have borne witness to several seasons of free live-to-air events blanketing a cross-section of superb local artists. Showcased thus-far have been not the chart-toppers and fickle monthly flavours you’ll find at the larger venues and on commercial stations, but the guts—the veritable beating heart—of the local music community. From Wagons’ sweat-drenched swagger to the smooth country craftswomanship of Suzannah Espie; garage girls Super Wild Horses to the unhinged kookfest that is Ooga Boogas; the psychotropic hypnosis of Sand Pebbles to the indescribable wig-outs of Kim Salmon &The Surrealists; the renegade lyrical flow and beat-tasia of Curse Ov Dialect to the jag and grind of TTT; the intricate weaving of Fabulous Diamonds to the electro breeze of The Emergency; the jungle rhythms of Rat Vs Possum to the sound blockades of Black Cab; the floor fillin’ styles of Dexter and Gorilla Step to the reflections of Liz Stringer and Paradise Motel. Without mentioning the international heavies (Band of Horses, Justin Townes Earle etc...), the comedy (Daniel Kitson) and community events (speed dating, Liquid Architecture), the diversity and inclusiveness is obvious—and this list barely scratches the surface of what’s occurred.
Talking to live-to-air participants it’s clear these shows not only play a vital role in reaching a wider audience, but also they open the ears of listeners up to sounds and styles they may not have otherwise experienced. ‘These let you connect with people you otherwise might not reach,’ Curse Ov Dialect’s Peso Bionic tells me. ‘We play hip-hop, so we might only get played on certain shows, whereas with the live-to-air’s hopefully a lot more people are listening in.’
‘We played prime time on The Skull Cave,’ says Chris Hollow of Sand Pebbles. ‘It was incredible. Ben [Michael X] and I grew up listening to Stephen Walker, it was one show we knew we were going to hear long, wigged-out tracks and the first place we heard our own 13-minute track Black Sun Ensemble. Any success we’ve had, Triple R has been linked [with] in some way.’
There is something poetic about subscribers being active participants, directly responsible for the perpetuation and support of the music community. Through subscribing we actually fund the creation of fantastic programming and the facilitation of these events, which in turn bring us so much pleasure. The artists clearly win here also, with much needed promotion minus the usual money grubbery and two-faced profiteering of the music industry. ‘Triple R is the business without the business,’ Black Cab’s James Lee tells me. ‘Listeners subscribe for a variety of reasons. I subscribe because I'm introduced to new music I wouldn't find anywhere else. Hearing that music played live and connecting with the musicians who play it is a unique experience. Playing live-to-air is the ultimate way to connect with an audience. It bridges the connection between artist and audience.’
‘It's an immediate way to showcase your music to a bunch of listeners who perhaps haven't trekked out to see you live yet,’ says Super Wild Horses’ Hayley McKee. ‘To be able to perform through their radio and into their cars or kitchens is a very unique opportunity.’
‘Not only does Triple R play a heap of local and independent releases,’ says fellow Super Wild Horse Amy Franz, ‘they support local gigs and really help keep the community in the know about what's going on around town. I've heard a lot of great Melbourne bands for the first time on Triple R and thought, “yeah shit I'll go check them out this weekend”.’
Amongst the live-to-air contributors, the identification with Triple R as a selfless and fervent supporter of their art is tremendous. ‘I’ve been overwhelmed by the generosity of the DJs who’ve wanted to speak to us,’ says Kieran O’Shea of Rat Vs Possum, ‘who’ve been kind enough to give us ten minutes on air to talk about what we’re doing. The more Triple R can get listeners to support them, and artists to subscribe also, it just contributes to this overall thing we have here and makes it stronger and stronger and stronger.’
James Lee shares this sentiment. ‘Triple R gives local bands a voice. Radio is about community and music is the most ancient form of communication there is. Without someone listening, it's the old falling tree in the forest conundrum; is there anyone listening? Well Triple R listens and so does its discerning audience.’
‘It's great to know that there's love between the bands and the radio stations that support their music,’ continues Amy Franz. ‘It cements that Melbourne does in fact have a solid music community who collaborate together really well. Live Broadcasts are important to show the strength and versatility of bands, radio stations, punters, everyone. They get bands out of the pub and onto the airwaves.’
There is a historical relevance to all of this with the live broadcasts surviving as a record of what’s taken place. As a partaker in live-to-air broadcasts over two decades, Kim Salmon describes this ‘footprint’ as vastly important. ‘My first one at Triple R was in 1993,’ he explains, ‘I’ve heard those tracks played on the radio since. Any station will be inclined to play something they’ve had a hand in recording, but it’s really nice that they’ve got such a great place to record and perform in, the sound is pristine. As a venue it really stacks up because it was designed to serve these functions.’
‘My drummer Adam and I were the first ones to sign the wall backstage at the new Triple R performance space,’ says Liz Stringer. ‘Or possibly second after Kim Salmon and Ron Peno because we all performed that first night there. The closest to having street cred we’ve ever been.’
‘There's something really special about Triple R documenting live shows,’ continues Hayley McKee. ‘I kinda picture this amazing glittery musical vault where all the recordings will be preserved for future music lovers. Triple R has some seriously good karma coming their way... and hopefully lots of donations too.’


Triple R’s Radiothon runs from this Friday 13th August to Sunday 22nd. This year’s theme Make Contact epitomises the role of Triple R as Melbourne’s music community hub—the fusion point for musicians and music lovers. Subscribe at rrr.org.au or
9388 1027. Subscriptions can be paid up until Wednesday 22nd September for inclusion in prize draws. Reach out and make contact with the station that gives so much to our community.

Samson McDougall

Strung Out @ Hifi Bar

When David Lynch’s warped Lost Highway antihero Fred Madison is queried about not owning a video camera he responds: ‘I like to remember things my own way... How I remembered them. Not necessarily the way they happened.’ This could be said of the ‘90s. I like to remember them as formative years full of great music and much enlightenment. The trouble with all these retrospective tours of musicians desperate to squeeze the last possible buck form their dwindling (or simply washed-up) careers is that, with the total exception of Pixies and a handful of others, they risk laying bare the hollowness of the era gone by, exposing the nasty shame you harbour in you darkest places.
To look at this Strung Out performance with some form of objectivity I forced myself to list all of the positives against the negatives in attempt to create some kind of balance.
Part 1: Good bits
When singer Jason Cruz’s whining voice is drowned out by the insistent double kick drums and three chord assault, the songs are infinitely better. The rhythm section is puckered tighter than a frog’s bottom and some of the alternating Rob Ramos and Jake Kiley lead breaks are Satriani slick.
Part 2: Bad bits
People actually still think this type of music is relevant. I dunno what caves you all sloped out of but music has changed—we should move on now people. If only Californian pop-punk (it makes me gag to use those two words in a hyphenated form but it’s the only way to get the message across that this ain’t hardcore, this ain’t metal, and this most certainly is not punk) were a dead end street, an infertile and childless mule of the music biz; but alas, from pop-punk emo spawned. And now we’re stuck with sulking assembly-line teenagers clagging up the public transport and generally bringing the whole damn vibe down. And yes, I hold the likes of Strung Out personally responsible. Through their flagrant disregard for the future and apathetic response to the early warning signs, we’re stuck with this trite forever. And that really sucks.

Tame Impala

Tame Impala
Innerspeaker
Modular

There’s this white fuzz at the opening of the first track It Is Not Meant To Be that acts as a gentle teaser—the least refined moment on the album. They’re laughing on us with that, tempting us into an onslaught they will not bring. It’s a few seconds of disparity in a seamlessly sculpted work from possibly Australia’s hottest prospect right now.
Tame Impala seem to have skirted the teeth cutting period and jumped straight to the top of the pile. Their psych grooves feel impossible for their years, their songs are ready and their jams are oh so impressive. Bastards! I’d love to hang shit on this release so much it hurts. I want to hate them, I do. But alas, their debut Innerspeaker is a little ripper and I’m sure they know it.
From the restraint of the opener, listeners will realise this is a step away from their live freak outs. Some of the songs, Solitude is Bliss and the Cream-esque Desire Be Desire Go, will set alarms off in your mind—you know you know them but they’re strangely different, subdued, refrained. As a counter to the grip of their performances this record is bordering on Sunday afternoon couch time.
Instrumental beast Jeremy’s Storm is a steam train—all grinding bass and clashing cymbals, it’s a storm—but it’s so pared back in the production it’s as gentle as a guineapig. Subsequent listens reveal the intricacies and idiosyncrasies of main-man Kevin Parker, the stuff that suffers from the wash of guitar on stage. Further listening offers up new candidates for album favourites. The psychotropic Expectation comes close, but then you’re distracted by the classic lick of Runway, Houses, City, Clouds. It’s impossible to choose.
The pop sentiment these dudes are emanating scares me a little. The album amplifies the question of whether this will be a slow transition into the realm of popular music a la Silverchair? Heaven knows they’ve got the talent to take this wherever they’d like it to go. I just hope they find appeal enough in the Psychedelic realm to push on a little further, at least for one more.

Mojo Juju et al

Mojo Juju and the Snake Oil Merchants
Sellin’ You Salvation

Hoodoo Emporium/MGM

This is a beautiful package. From Joe Vegas’ gorgeous artwork and digipak casing, to the ink selection and cracking cabaret country blues punk stylings, this album pretty much has it all. From the throaty openings of Catch Afire—‘I spent my last upon a tumbler of whiskey/A gin martini for a girl named Misty/She danced the cooch while I was smokin’ the hooch/And the devil stole my soul upon the moment she kissed me’—Mojo Juju’s voice steers a swingin ship through shaky waters. Her vocals boom, they tease, they chastise, but ultimately seduce the listener into a world of carnival misfits, ghosts and demons—all washed down with a bolt of whiskey and cheap cigars.
It’s the darkness and light that floats this boat so surely. As in their live act, the album fluctuates in tempo and mood dramatically from number to number—it’s unpredictable, it’s perilous. At any given moment, though bearings may seem clear, you can be thrown off on tangents that become no more predictable on repeated listening. These days it’s difficult enough to lure the listener in for a few songs or a side, this is and all or nothing deal—it must be consumed as a whole, it’s a journey and a very pleasurable one at that.
The creepy, contorted God and the Devil opens up the second side mischievously and leads nicely into the rollicker This Is My Home. Dance With You has to be the sexiest number on the record with pared back piano and Juju’s gravy rich vocals. A bit of banjo and horn blues with Sacred Heart of Mary caps off a great listen with refrain. At ten songs, you could feel a little short changed. The quality of this recording speaks for itself, however, and there is no doubt you’ll get value from spinning this one over many years to come.

Snowdroppers interview

Snowdroppers

Ah festivals, tossing new musical balls in the air for the discerning punter. We found Sydney’s Snowdroppers (according to the interweb: a person who steals women’s underwear from clotheslines) late one night on the APRA stage at Byron’s Blues Fest and were seduced by the energy of their twisted country-blues-punk performance.
In Abbotsford’s Terminus Hotel, on some kind of promotional sojourn, on-the-spot jogging front man Johnny Wishbone along with string guy Pauly K and percussionist Cougar Jones explain their blues playing tendencies grew by default rather than design. ‘Paul and I were playing in a rock band and were asked to put a few songs together for this burlesque show that our now manager was putting on—possibly the last paid show we did,’ Wishbone tells me. ‘He wanted blues songs and we all listened to lots of blues, so we jumped at the chance to play this music that we were passionate about but had no outlet for.’
‘We’re not strictly blues by any stretch,’ adds Pauly K. ‘There’s definitely pop/rock elements in there and that probably explains why.’
‘We never went into it thinking we’d be a blues band,’ Wishbone continues. ‘We would’ve broken up by now because we’d be bored shitless by twelve bar progressions. We like to think we bring a little accessibility to the blues for those who may not have heard it before.’
There is an accessibility to the Snowdroppers’ sound that comes via the sheer scope of their influences. Classic pub-rock melds with country plucking, with punk abandon and gypsy irregularity. They quote influences as diverse as surf guitar, Delta blues, Chicago swing and Australian hard rock. ‘I was always into The Beach Boys and Kinks’ kind of stuff,’ Pauly continues, ‘whereas Wishbone and Cougar have been more into bluegrass and garage rock. If you can’t do any one thing well, do a few things as best you can—it’s a hit and run strategy.’
The Snowdroppers are all too aware of the implications of venue closures on a local live music scene. Sydney’s Hopetoun Hotel closure was well documented Australia wide and though they remain optimistic that the Sydney scene is as vibrant as it ever has been, there are concerns that the governing bodies simply have no idea what the people want. ‘It’s definitely harder to get out there when the smaller venues close,’ Pauly K continues. ‘There was all this talk in Sydney about loosening up and creating more smaller venues. They laxed it but the licenses are still hard to get. The licensing people’s stance seems to be that “We don’t want to be like Melbourne, sipping chardonnay, reading a book in the corner. We’re Sydney, we like big raucous pubs with sports and Kino, we don’t wanna lose that. It’s culture.”’
‘It’s everything you can get at home, in a larger area!’ adds Wishbone.
Crossing so many genre barriers it’s not surprising their debut album Do the Stomp met mixed reviews. The Snowdroppers remain philosophical that though their vigorous live act is near impossible to capture on record, they’re happy with the outcome. ‘Didn’t Inpress shit on it?’ queries Pauly K. I plead ignorance.
‘I take it [bad reviews] really personally,’ Wishbone admits. ‘Not in a violent way. More like a burn my clothes and cry in the shower kind of way.’
‘The first [album] is always gonna be a strange one,’ continues Pauly K, ‘because it has songs you just wrote and songs you’ve been playing since day one—some you’re excited about, some feel a bit like they’re just along for the ride. We knew it would be difficult to capture the live sound, so we decided to embellish it with stuff we couldn’t do live like horns and strings. Not so much to compensate what it would be lacking, but to take it in a slightly different direction.’
‘Yeah,’ concludes Wishbone, ‘they’re different beasts.’

Justin Townes Earle

Justin Townes Earle & Jason Isbell @ the Corner

Jason Isbell’s voice defies his aesthetic. Not that there’s anything wrong with the bloke to look at, but he’s kind of ordinary. You know? Like the Pixies are the most unassuming folk you’ve ever seen, or Daniel Johnstone—well not really like Daniel, he’s a bit different. More like an ethereal being has leant its voice to an average guy—quite the treat.
And as for Justin Townes Earle, whoa doggy! He’s a beast. He’s a lanky, gangly, awkward lumber of a man, but oh so fuckin cool. With a lineage like his (son of Steve, stepson of Allison Moorer, namesake of country god Townes Van Zandt) you’d expect goodness. Or maybe you’d expect pretence?
What you get with Townes Earle are wonderfully constructed country narratives. Whether you buy in to the myth of the guy (mal-adjustment due to absent famous father a fast-track to criminality and heroin addiction), the tunes are testament to a true talent.
Opener They Killed John Henry brought the freakin’ house down and set the pace for a slightly more rock and roll JTE performance. Isbell backed up beautifully and injected a marvellous vocal harmony element to the songs. It’s a brave man that employs the backing vocals of the likes of Isbell, but Earle seized control and stole the finger picking prize for the night during a stomping rendition of Halfway to Jackson, it was nothing short of jaw dropping.
As a comparison to a largely solo Blues Fest performance at Easter, this night’s show revealed a far less reserved musician and demonstrated clearly the depth and breadth of his arrangements. The level of enjoyment shown by both performers was indicative of two musicians clearly at the tops of their games. Or better still, and hopefully for our sakes, two musicians firmly on the rise.

The Dead Weather, Street Chant @ The Forum

Testament to the glut of touring artists at this time of year, The Dead Weather’s second Forum show was far from a sell out. But y’know, with Massive Attack in the park and Pixies playing somewhere near the rail yards they did OK to pull any kind of crowd at all.
Kiwi youngsters Street Chant impressed. Their grungy grooves hark back to a time I doubt any of them would’ve been much more than a glimmer in their parents’ eyes, yet they pull it off with authority and smiles. Plus the drummer’s a freakin’ dynamo. Check them out! Jack White seemed impressed.
Regardless of how ‘super’ the amalgam of musicians about the stage (QOtSA’s Dean Fertita, Raconteurs’ Jack Lawrence and The Kills’ saucy goddess Alison Mosshart), you can’t help but be a little disappointed to see Jack White on drums. I’ve got nothing against drumming or drummers (see above paragraph) but, at risk of alienating myself from about a quarter of the music fraternity in this town (after a recent crack at bass players the only friends I’ve got are a couple of maraca shakers and the odd horn blower), a musical talent such as White’s is wasted, that’s right, wasted behind a drum kit—despite the fact he can smash ‘em like a pro.
In saying that, The Dead Weather were on fire from the bludgeoning ‘Treat Me Like Your Mother’ to the salacious White/Mosshart duet of ‘Will There Be Enough Water?’ at the death. It was Van Morrison’s ‘You Just Can’t Win’ that stole it for mine, however, with White seizing the audience in his oh so gifted voice and Mosshart bashing out percussion with her hands. As a counterpoint to a lot of the ‘super’ outfits that come around, The Dead Weather certainly have the songs. It’d be truly grand to see them take this further, as some more material would thicken up what’s already a pretty darned decent show. You wonder, with everything else these four have going on, whether this one will die a side project.

Sam McDougall

The Nation Blue

The Nation Blue, Zond & Late Arvo Sons @ the Tote
It happens at least a couple of times a year, the good people at the Tote come up with a bill so well considered that you just know it’s gonna be a banger of a night. This one will be filed as a hum-dinger.
If you’ve caught any of my previous Late Arvo Sons summations it’ll be pretty well clear that I’m a fan. They once again set a new bar for themselves on this occasion with a crisp sound mix and sparked energy levels. With typical Australian surf-pub-garage rock style, guitarist Kent Thomas’ melodies came right off the page. Mark Lording’s vocals growled out from the pit of his gut and the rhythm section of Brett Frost (bass) and Stuart Reynolds (drums) banged out their firmest performance to date.
My new favourite band is Zond. These girls and guys have taken a car crash, injected melody, put it in a blender and unleashed it on our ears. Zond take rock (or post-rock, or noise, or something) to the edge of extreme and then over the brink. They are a must see, but remember your earplugs kids. They ripped my ears new arseholes!
Having caught The Nation Blue at the Spectrum Bar in a previous life in Sydney, I hooked in to guitarist and screamer Tom Lyngcoln’s on-stage psychosis and have never been quite able to shake the memory. Things aren’t much different this night and his fury twists and builds through a set of frustrated forays into the darkest realities of the Australian condition—colonialism, land theft and suburban boganics.
The hand blistering guitar spasms of 2007’s Exile seized charge of the room from the get go. Idiot from 2004’s ‘Damnation’ conjured the strongest crowd response, but it was the title track from said album that drove the nails the deepest—slowed to a crawl with venom. Matt Weston’s bass jags and Dan McKay’s drum fills were set tighter than a cat’s arse as these three brought a taste of proper hardcore back to town.

Slayer

At the top of my Christmas list is a Megadeth sweatband. Perfect for tennis, shopping and in the garden, the Megadeth wristband will take care of all your sweat requirements. I’d pretty much only gone along to see Californian thrash metal gods Slayer, but Megadeth were a hairy surprise. Apparently their moniker is a deliberate misspelling of a term used to describe a million simultaneous deaths in the event of thermonuclear war—cool. Despite sound mix problems driving them from the stage for a spell, they seemed to thrive on the energetic crowd response and played on... and on... and on.
A white curtain dropped to reveal Slayer, full-flight, and the hugest pile of Marshalls you’ve ever seen. Only thing was, it was difficult to make out the song as Tom Araya wasn’t singing. Then he whimpered, “So my voice isn’t holding up too well so I’m not gonna be doing much singing tonight”. And the crowd goes devil-horned whack crazy not really grasping the concept that he meant he wasn’t gonna be singing much this night.
They rip through classics War Ensemble, Chemical Warfare and Expendable Youth and some newies—God Hates Us All a particular highlight—in largely instrumental fashion, but frankly, without Araya’s weapon of a voice, it all lacked punch. And I never wanted to say that. I barely even thought it was possible to use the words ‘Slayer’ and ‘lacked punch’ in the same sentence, but sadly it was true.
As a side-effect, Dave Lombardo’s machinegun drum fills stood out like dogs’ balls and you got a real appreciation for the tight fury of the guitars. It was never going to be enough to pull it off, however, and though Araya made honest attempt to growl out Hell Awaits and bits and pieces of South of Heaven and Angel of Death, the invitation for open mic karaoke towards the death was a bit on the nose. Having been so freakin’ excited for so long to finally see these guys, I have to question whether a call should have been made to cancel the show.

Late Arvo Sons album review

Letters From Another Alphabet
Up Yours Records

These guys have been gigging around a heap over the last year or so and it’s been a treat to see them build on a little cache of great songs—canning some, keeping others, growing, polishing. Better still, Late Arvo Sons have had the common decency and sense to get an album out quick-sticks and keep the momentum up. Sure, to do so they’ve virtually had to do it themselves but, with the help of a few friends and plenty of heart, they’ve punched out a ripper of debut.

The biggest difference between Late Arvo Sons’ garage pub-thrash and so many others in town is that vocalist Mark Lording can actually sing. Think about it. There’s nothing flashy here, just honest Australian rock tunes, recorded live and mixed by Melbourne DIY guru and genius type Mikey Young (ECSR, Ooga Boogas etc...). Lording’s vocals steady the raucousness of the band, and while he’s no Frank Sinatra or Antony Hegarty, his simple lyrics sung with authentic gravel add integrity to the sound—he actually brings it from his internals and it shows.

Delicate moments fit with quicker surf tunes and classic pub rock well. What’s come to be the signature opener ‘Skin’ is about as catchy as it gets with call and response style screeching between Lording and guitarist Kent Thomas. Instrumental ‘Buckley’s Hope’ opens things out a bit, meandering ‘Make the Drop’ allows them to cut loose, while the up-tempo closer ‘Northern Nightmare’ steals it.

If Late Arvo Sons’ diversification thus-far is anything to go by, we can expect much bigger things for these four in the future. Tristan Ceddia’s pastel sharky artwork is living proof that a no-budget record need not be packaged shabbily, and the songs here lay testament to the band’s undeniable song writing and aesthetic appreciation. While some bucks and flash recording gear may well thicken up the sound a bit for the next one, Letters From Another Alphabet is a worthwhile sample of solid unsung, unsigned local goodness.

FLIP OUT 2009

Finally it rolled around, the second annual Flip Out Music Festival, to herald the beginnings of all things festive and the return of that inner-idiot you left behind somewhere around Easter.
Repairs kicked things off with apocalypse keys and thunder percussion. It’d be easy to conceive that at the time of judgement, when the good people are diverted towards the light accompanied by some naff ABBA soundtrack, the bad people will be mustered into a hot and dark spiralling corridor with Repairs grinding out a death march.
The Twerps lightened things up, as they have a fabulous tendency to do, and kicked out some of the finest good-time music of the day. Their sound was bigger on this occasion than I’ve heard before, and some of the roomier numbers were downright goose-bump inducing.
Teen Archer was a contender for the spirit award. Their cover of God’s 1987 smash My Pal proved the highlight, especially given the tech difficulty which resulted in an extremely lengthened version—I could listen to that lick forever.
Dick Diver are the kings and queen of smooth. Every move is pure apple juice. A nice sax cameo enriched their groove while forays into keys added colour to some fine pop rockery and a reprieve from the onslaught.
Tassie’s The Native Cats were the surprise of the day. This two-piece mixed it with any of the larger outfits in both sonic thrust and aesthetic. Peter Escott is one charismatic and captivating fella. His vocals shifted through poetry and rhyming staccato, while Julian Teakle’s bass walked a marathon.
James Arthur’s Manhunt lived up to the hype I’d perpetuated in my brain. A proud ginger, Arthur’s command of American riffery and feedback is astounding. Their dusty desert storm grew and twisted to frenzy. With the beer taking hold (on both myself and the singer), this set proved a turning point of sorts. Everything ramped up a couple of notches and things started to get crazy.
Slug Guts pulled out their A-game and I was glued. Where I found the barking a little tiresome on the album, it captivated on stage and their song structures are unquestionable.
The Disbelievers pulled out some fairly straight but flat-out booty shaking rock-n-roll. My only question of their music would be a slight lack of lead melody, a little more would take great songs to fantastic.
This is where things get a little bit hazy, but it’s safe to say that Goodnight Loving jangled it up a bit with some super-light country pop goodness. Then the Ooga Boogas (on this occasion renamed The Doors due to possible legal problems surrounding their regular moniker) brought the party to the people with atypical good grace and tongue-in-cheek crotch gyration.
From hazy to absolutely hammered, all I can say about Wisconsinite Pink Reason’s set is that it dawdled into a crawl into a trot and around again. There’s an unhinged-ness about this guy that perfectly matched my own (and a fair few other’s I’m sure) state of inebriation at this point.
Super Wild Horses were the only recall from last year’s line up and their progression from then to now is almost unbelievable. Naked on the Vague and Royal Headache were a blur and I’d be making shit up to say I remember a sausage of either of them. But such is the nature of this festival—beer and great music and sausages and beer—you’d have been hard pressed to wipe smiles from dials all day. Once again a scene-less festival about music for people who love it, let’s hope it’s back again next year!

Black Cab, Sun Blindness and Sand Pebbles @ the ESPY

This had to be one of the better bills of the winter, possibly the year. We north-siders tend to save our southward jaunts for something pretty special and with four or so hours of psychedelic brain massage on offer, no stinking river was stopping me.
The Sun Blindness served up roomy cotton-wool wrapped psych-pop with flair. I don’t know whether vocalist Tor Larsen’s had his pipes cleaned or if he could always sing this good. Could be that in his largely secondary vocalist role with Sand Pebbles he’s slipped under the radar a bit, but it was great to hear him giving it a belt. The vibe these guys emanate is hot sauce. I’ve got no idea how both Larsen and drummer Wes Holland managed to back up with the Sand Pebbles straight afterwards—something to do with the vitality of youth I guess.
Dropping straight into the endorphin inducing Wild Season, Sand Pebbles had the Gershwin room in a stupor. And the way these guys ducked and weaved through the most gentle and addictive grooves, grinning like mother fuckers while pumping energy into the crowd was a marvel. Between Andrew Tanner’s smooth, measured croons and Larsen’s sweet, almost feminine intonations, they possessed the vocal weaponry to counter the tantalising barrage of right-handed guitar—though Ben Michael X’s ray-gun string tweaks were fierce.
The latest offering from Black Cab ‘Call Signs’ is a tempestuous triumph. A lesser outfit would’ve struggled to recapture an audience swooning form the eminence of the openers, but Black Cab commanded the room like Charlton Heston at a gun rally. The single Black Angel granted a sliver of light to a performance of such gruelling intensity that it sucked the oxygen from the room, yet revitalised simultaneously. Andrew Coates’ voice appeared and vanished like a spectre, while James Lee’s guitar licks snapped with spring freshness and danced about the place.
This show was of the type that makes gig-going not only a pleasure, but a necessity. A true event with zero pretence, I’m closing my eyes to take myself back.

The Twerps, Scott and Charlene’s Wedding @ the Empress

There’s something about Scott and Charlene’s Wedding’s sound that drags you back to the addled early eighties. It’s as if each song opens with up-beat optimism but steadily descends into hopelessness—occasionally madness. Their tunes are real, they’re immediate, and they’re desolate; yet simultaneously rocking. The angles are obtuse, the guitars are almost deliberately wrong footed, the vocals grate; but the combination excites. With Jarrod Quarrel’s contributions to both S&C’sW and St Helens, it’s difficult not to draw comparisons between the bands. His influence on the bass in this incarnation, though, lends weight to an enticing but determinedly flat sound and is well worth a listen in itself.
Last year the Twerps surprised with a far poppier sound than I would’ve expected. In the intervening months their growth as a unit has been astounding to this point. They strum and thump out surf licks without breaking a sweat, then push on through to barraging guitar walls and delicate balladry with ease. I tend to reject the ‘geek-rock’ label they’ve been granted; there’s something so fine-tuned-cool about these kids that no matter the levels of self-deprecation, confidence oozes from their very beings.
Central to any band’s progression is the ability and nerve to bust out the new material at the risk of ticking off a growing fan base. We’ve seen it with Eddy Current Suppression Ring’s rapid ascent and equally the Drones’—the implementation of fresh writing has been crucial to the continuing freshness of sound. Despite the Twerps’ obvious disappointment over Friday night’s performance, they should take heart from the fact that the packed room stayed firm and that any imperfections in their set were barely perceived by most. Truth be told, the Twerps’ songs are instantly recognisable after as little as one listen—surely to test the shiny new stuff is worth a punt and will be worth the pay off next time.
The biggest threat the Twerps are facing right now is not getting an album out before the warmer months. These are serious summer-time tunes and it’d be a fair coup to strategically release something in the springtime. While this performance lacked a bit of the spark of previous outings, with a little persistence, and any luck, these four will be sound-tracking our next summer.