Applecore Festival

(Photo: Kim Salmon.)

In its ninth year, Applecore, that wee back yard festival in February, has gotten so large they were turning be-eskied would-be punters away at the gate. For those lucky (or smart) enough to have turned up/bought tickets early, the sun shone down on this fabulous sloping Thornbury lawn as floral-dressed ladies and short-shorted boys sipped cider and Dr Tim’s beverages respectively.

The mid-arvo was hot as hell. Well positioned umbrellas and boundary trees saved the building crowd from sun-related mishaps but there was no escaping the heat on stage. New Estate seemed right at home in the high twenties and ripped out a punchy little set of their contorted rock. Local shoegazers Lowtide really captured the essence of the afternoon with extended washy jams. The Ancients brought a new, more diluted rock than pop, attitude to the thing. Laura Jean again brought along the sweet shit and before you knew it you were riding down to High Street for another sixer and a fresh bag of ice.

For mine it was Kim Salmon that set the festival alight. As the imperceptible clouds gently opened for the first of many showers, Salmon steered the crowd through an immaculate grouping of jewels; his good-natured banter winning fans and his song-strength proving one guy alone with his Telecaster can mix it with any four or five-piece in town.

New Zealand’s The Blueness delivered a watery set of grunge-tinged Dunedin deliciousness, while the crowd reaction to Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side was something of a phenomenon—like with the coming of some prophet all stood, saluted and danced. It may have been the timing, about seven hours into a sun-soaked booze session; or it could have been the rain, which was now coming down in wetting quantities; whatever it was, the mood of the party got set to ‘bring it’ and bring it these Queenslanders did.

A further soaking and associated delay sent this punter home for a hottie and a dry couch. The hardcore may have stuck it out for Screamfeeder, but this camper was happy enough to leg it.

Samson McDougall

Stephen Walker Benefit Show

Reflecting on the recent Stephen Walker Benefit Gig brings on a montage of remarkable moments elegantly framed in the deep blues of the Forum’s interior skyline. These images would surely differ from attendees to performers to organisers to Walker himself, but there was an undeniable focus of energy that night. We found ourselves in glorious surrounds to enjoy a ripper of a party put on by a selfless few to help a man who has given a part of himself to the music community for thirty years. Given that all proceeds would contribute to stem-cell treatment for Walker’s MS, there was a gravity attached to the night that transcended the flawless, often stirring performances by all comers—an assortment of local artists that have moved Walker to move his listeners throughout the years.

These sentiments were invariably shared by the performers and DJs I spoke to about the night. “It’s the Ghost, you couldn’t fuck this up,” says Breakfaster Fee B-Squared. “You couldn’t have some lame-arse shit happening, you’d have to be on your game. It was exciting, wondering who they would end up with. And to end up with genuine fans of Stephen’s like Dirty Three and Warren Ellis saying what a privilege it was—it was amazing. I think Triple R listeners really get what music is, what it can do for you and how it makes you feel. The greatest honour as a broadcaster is when somebody tells you that you’ve somehow shaped their music collection. On the night you heard that a number of times, that Stephen had been this integral part of Triple R, the soundscape that became community radio throughout Melbourne and a real alternative to all the other shit that’s out there. They wanted to give something back to him.”

“He always gave people the freedom to play and say what they needed to on the station,” says fellow on-the-night DJ and Kinky Afro host Karen Leng of Walker’s tenure as Triple R Program Manager. “There was always a philosophy and an aesthetic there and he intuitively understood what was good about Triple R, where it should sit in terms of media in Melbourne and how it should agitate and stir the pot but also be accessible to the people as well. There was such a great feeling in the room on the night. When he spoke, it was everything you get on air. You could tell how much he loves the station, how much he values the audience and how happy he was that everybody was there, it was very touching.”

Given the quality of the music on the night, highlights are difficult to pinpoint. From the first bars of Sand Pebbles’ Wild Season to the death throes of Dirty Three’s Authentic Celestial Music, the standard of delivery bordered on astonishing. Walker commented that if he had have had a microphone with him for the night he could have presented the thing as a Skull Cave instalment with twenty minute brackets. With a different guest singer for each song, each indicative of a particular element of Walker’s musical tastes, it was the Skull Cave All-Stars that truly captured the ethos of the evening—a rag-tag bunch of misfits together especially for this one-off occasion. When I suggest to band facilitator (a term he’s not entirely comfortable with) and guitar player Phil Wales that any chance to permanently alter the trajectory of a man’s life for the positive is a rare and powerful thing, he tells me that by reading the smile on Walker’s face you’d realise that we already have.

By make-up the All-Stars—Phil Wales, Gary Young, David Bridie, Rob Craw, Pete Lawler and assorted guests—was representative of the association between the radio station and the wider music community. “It’s one of those things that Triple R and the music community do well,” Wales says. “The relationship between the two has been acknowledged time and again. They put together an event that you’d pay for even without a cause. That it does have a cause attached to it makes it very easy for everyone to get behind it. There was an amazing spirit in the room that night. It was very evident on stage.”

With each of the All-Stars’ hand-picked cover songs, the matching of vocalist to tune accentuated the connection between Walker’s ears and the breadth of his listener base through the musicians he’s spruiked over his thirty years of broadcasting. The All-Stars’ set built through David Bridie’s rendition of Magazine’s A Song From Under The Floorboards, Black Cab’s Andrew Coates and James Lee’s version of Joy Division’s Transmission, Kerri Simpson’s chanting and prowling interpretation of Patti Smith’s Gone Again, Rob Craw’s channelling of Iggy Pop’s Johanna and The Wolfgramm Sisters’ absolute nailing of MC 900 Foot Jesus’ Killer Inside Me and Tim Buckley’s ghostly Song to the Siren. It was an all-enveloping snapshot of any given Skull Cave episode and evidence of not only Triple R’s own but the wider music community’s respect for The Ghost himself.

“With these sorts of things you tend to do one run through with the band and one with the singers and that’s it,” Wales continues. “When I said to [ bassist] Pete Lawler that the hardest thing about organising these things is working out when the fuck everybody can get into the same room at the same time, Pete said, ‘that and working out which pair of leather pants to wear’.”

“I knew the Wolfgramm Sisters would nail it. I cast a vague eye upwards during Song to the Siren and thought, well, if you’re not fuckin’ happy with that! It’s a tricky song to pull off ‘cause there’s no time to it and you listen for this winding melody to work out where the chords should fall. It sounded pretty good from where I was.”

Referring to MS as ‘a mess’ on the night, Walker also quipped that it’s a bitter joke when your surname is the one thing you can’t do. Though open about his deteriorating health, Walker has never been of the nature to focus on this aspect of his life on air and therefore the announcement of the benefit show equated to a public outing of himself as an MS sufferer. “It’s irrelevant to most people who listen on the radio,” Walker says. “It’s like saying I’ve got pink shoes on today; they may think so what? It’s been a very positive thing coming out about it, there have been great bonuses. I’ve had some great emails and I met people on the night that have just been diagnosed, people who’ve tried different things or just wanted to know about it.”

Walker admits that he was terrified by the notion of a benefit on his behalf and he hoped for the Forum to be half full to at least avoid discomfort among the paying guests and performers. “It’s only a radio show, I’m the first to say that,” he continues, “but the show does seem to mean a lot to different people. Being an Australian I was a little twitchy about how it would go. Rather than say something good about someone we’d rather put shit on them, it’s a sign of affection. I do the radio show; I get maybe five or ten emails when I get home and a handful of phone calls during the show. I’m really not aware of how many people are out there and who’s listening.

“We do it [radio] for love; I certainly do. It’s a wonderful thing and a wonderful town to do it in. It’s just been a joy to me. I never thought I’d find myself in the position I did on the night of the benefit. I joked that it was like being able to go to my own wake. There were all of these amazing people being able to say how they felt about me and me to them without the filters. It was so lovely to meet all these listeners, the friends I haven’t met before, and find that we share so much in common. If not ‘the’, it was one of the greatest nights of my life.”

Samson McDougall

Luke Legs—Interview with Luke Hindson

Luke Emmanuel Hindson’s talking voice is deceptively coarse in comparison to his alter ego Luke Legs’ smooth vocals. On the phone he demonstrates his natural story-telling talents, he has a lot to say; he talks cyclically, meandering through multiple topics in bursts of good-natured yarning. It’s no wonder he’s found himself writing country ballads. He takes time to let his stories evolve, relishes the chance to share. Hailing from a family of ten, you’d need to speak up or be forever sidelined you’d imagine. As Hindson explains, however, it was more a case of preferring to take the long way ‘round than him pursuing country music in particular.

“My favourite thing is punk bands that don’t make it so then they turn to country—that’s me pretty much,” he says. “I really like the story-telling side of country, it suits me. Some gigs I’ll show up and maybe only play one song ‘cause I’ll start telling a story and that will lead me away. I just like to get my songs across and get my stories out there through lyrics you can actually hear. Plus you can play it live anywhere, everyone likes a bit of country.”

Hindson’s debut album Why Oh Why (My Caroline), released this month, has such strong song writing and thematic cohesion it’s no surprise it’s been taken on board by Triple J and community programming alike. It wanders and wheels in equal measures—the delicacies of his lighter vocal moments are swept up in his veritable reinvention of the Whitney Houston-esque (his words, not mine) power ballad. “Different people I speak to have different favourite songs from the album,” he continues. “To me this means that either all the songs are awesome or they’re all mediocre. I think they’re all awesome [laughs]. I’m a walking, talking PR machine.

“A few years ago I was on tour with Jordie Lane doing my solo stuff and every night he blew me off the stage. It was embarrassing; I thought I was good but I was actually really shit. From then on I decided I had to start writing better songs, so I went back to the drawing board. I practised every day for a year and wrote and played for five hours a night. All I was writing about was the feeling of living in small country towns and being young and creative but not being able to express yourself because there’s not anything to do in these places. You just have beers with your mates and the same conversations, so most of these songs are about trying to get out. It’s not new, it’s been done before but it’s just kind of romantic.”

It’s this romanticism that opens Luke Legs up to the listener. These sentiments are universal, we can all relate in some way—some of us more than others. “Playing the East Brunswick Club recently I played the song ‘Why Oh Why (My Caroline)’,” he continues. “This guy came up after the show and asked me if the song was about Geelong. When I told him it was, he said that even though I didn’t mention Geelong in the words and he’d never even heard of me before he knew it was and had almost cried ‘cause it made him think about how he felt when he was growing up there.”

Hindson maintains it’s the live show that brings people back again. With arse shaking action and a random-by-nature aesthetic, the album launch is set to sell out. “I played a country fair where there was no microphone,” he says. “I had to sing through a megaphone, but they couldn’t get it onto the stage so I played on top of a fire truck, singing into the CB radio. I’m sure those people were thinking who is this guy and does he take a fire truck to every show? It can work in your favour.”

Samson McDougall

Miles Brown—The Night Terrors

Though undoubtedly psychedelic by nature, Melbourne instrumental quartet The Night Terrors defy description. Even to label them ‘instrumental’ is something of a misnomer as Miles Brown’s Theremin sings in such a profound fashion that it nudges many ‘vocalists’ (garage bands, I’m looking at you) from their precarious perches. They are a band that transcends genre, audience profile and style. They have carved their own path and, like many ‘niche’ bands from this end of their earth, European ears seem somewhat more responsive to their distinctive take on psychoactive music.

Brown’s unusual choice of instrument sits remarkably comfortably wrapped in the waves of sonic propulsion the foursome creates. To have the opportunity to experience their fusion in intimate surrounds here at home is something not to be passed up. The band’s drawing and exhaling of sound is set alight by Brown’s weird and illusory Theremin playing—it’s like he’s playing the air itself, taming the atmosphere of the room and recycling the energy into melody. It’s a rare thing to behold and, as Brown explains, not a simple concept to grasp.

“There are a lot of variables,” he says, “that’s probably why you don’t see too many people playing them in rock bands. You take two opposing electromagnetic fields or plates and move them closer together and further apart. One plate is the Theremin and the other is your body. So not only does it react to my body but to everybody else around it. It can be affected by the temperature in the room, how many other appliances are on or how the stage is lit. You can be playing an awesome venue with great sound but the stage is too close to the toilets so every time somebody walks past it affects the instrument. It can be difficult when people come in close to try and work out how it works or if someone’s really rockin' out in the front row.”

The Night Terrors evoke the inner nerd in their listeners. Devotees will babble about the art and physics of the Theremin regardless of levels of understanding—it’s a geek magnet from hell and Brown is the first to embrace this. “Because the Theremin’s so unusual, it kind of stands out; it’s a door opener,” he says. “You soon find out who the nerds are. The Keyboardist from Black Mountain [Jeremy Schmidt] is the kind of guy who knows the serial numbers of instruments. I studied Theremin with Lydia Kavina who’s the grand-niece of Theremin himself, she was taught by him. We played a Theremin festival in Germany with about forty players. I met most of the European Thereminists there; it was a pretty unusual bunch of people. I played at the Sydney Opera House last year and got to jam with Lou Reed, Marc Ribot and Ichirou Agata from Melt-Banana. Lou Reed is a real gear nerd, he even has the same Theremin I have; all we talked about was Theremins. The downside is that after shows when you’re ready to go home there’ll be some dude in his forties with a ponytail wanting to talk Theremin.”

Recently back from their second European trip The Night Terrors’ year is off to a flier with support slots for Black Mountain and legendary psych pioneers Hawkwind here before their own fund-raiser to aid with another trip to Europe to play Polyhymnia—a Neo-Krautrock festival in Berlin—in March. This impetus is surprising to Brown who has been plugging away with The Night Terrors on the relative down-low for ten years now.

“It’s weird after so long,” he continues. “Initially I just wanted to see whether it would work putting a Theremin out in front of a rock band and seeing whether we could make a record. I never expected it to be released. It’s funny because for so long people were saying ya’ know, you should probably get a girl in to sing or why don’t you write a hit or why don’t you go more electro. We just consider ourselves really lucky to play with other people who make underground music and other people who appreciate what it is to stick to your guns and make it happen—otherwise we’d all end up playing garage music. I hear Hawkwind have a Theremin player too. I’m hoping for a Theremin off.”

The concept of Neo-Krautrock is hazy to Brown but the band’s interest in playing Polyhymnia was piqued by the mention of headliners Goblin. “We get compared to Goblin a lot and they are the archetypal horror movie soundtrack band,” he continues. “They say [Neo-Krautrock is] all these bands that are referencing Krautrock but combining it with modern sounds. We were trying to get a gig with a band called Circle from Finland who were touring the last time we were there and [the bookers] told us that they didn’t want us for that but that they would like us to play this festival in March. It was soon after we got back [from our last European tour] so we thought we wouldn’t be able to go but then we found out what the festival was and that they’d booked Goblin to headline, we just went ‘Oh my god’. We asked if they had any idea where and when we would play at the festival. When they told us we’d be playing right before Goblin we decided we had to go.”

With Neo-Krautrock yet to establish itself as a recognised genre here in Australia, I was curious to find where Brown considered The Night Terrors to ‘fit’ in terms of musical comparison. He told me that despite their disparity from other musical groupings, they’ve found connections with musicians across a range of genres. “We haven’t got a scene, so we’ve always tried to latch onto everyone else’s,” he says. “In Australia our sound is so niche that there are people who are into it but not that many. In Europe there are heaps of people doing unique and obscure stuff, the more obscure the better it seems. There are a lot of metal acts here in Melbourne that say they’re progressive and we’re happy to jump in with them. We’ve done tours with doom bands and electro bands. One promoter in Germany said we were like a mix between hyper-gay electro and doom and we thought ‘yeah that sounds alright’. We’ve played crust doom metal clubs where everyone’s dreadlocked and anarchy and we think they’re gonna hate us but we always seem to go down really well. Those communities in general are really open minded, they’re always cool shows.”

Samson McDougall

The Night Terrors fundraiser is at Gasometer on Thursday the 3rd of March. Supports are Tantrums, Pearls and Spacerock DJs. 8pm start, $13.

Rites of Passage: Tattoo Festival

Do the names Steve Byrne, Chad Koeplinger, Stacie Jascott or Erin Chance mean anything to you? Na, me neither. It seems these names, amongst others, mean a great deal in the tattoo community and the Rites of Passage Tattoo and Art Festival invited a couple of hundred of these peeps to show off their skills here in Melbourne.

It’s a curious concept, that of the Tattoo convention. Perhaps not so curious for industry types, who reap the obvious advantages of network development and exchange of ideas, but for the general public it’s a struggle to understand the benefits beyond the collection of tattoos from artists otherwise inaccessible. By attempting to entice the populous through other means—a mix of tattooing with visual art and live artistic performances—this festival’s aim was to bring tattooing out of the dark and to the people in non-threatening and entertaining surrounds. The trouble with this theory is that tattoo art is so far removed from the underground these days that it’s hardly the eye-popping exposé of days gone by.

The crowd (a mix of hipster types, hippy types, biker types, extreme motocross types and fringe-dwelling types) is sparse on Friday but fills out somewhat over the course of the weekend. Wandering through the open spaces of the Royal Exhibition Building it feels over catered, as if these sorry souls may have travelled from far and wide for naught, though most of the tattooists are working, in fact many are booked solid for the entire weekend.

Outside of the dozens of artists spruiking the en-vogue, bold ‘traditional’ North American fashions (swallows, pin-ups, swords etc), there are treasures to be found in the nooks of the building. If you look hard there are many distinctive variants on the popular styles ranging from floor-working Japanese artists to loin-clothed Mentawi Islander’s tapping out their traditional designs, true-to-life portraiture to German Minimalist ‘naive’ style technicians (scribbles and scrawls). To take time and really absorb all of what is going on here is rather mesmerising, though the over-representation of the bold North American imagery could leave the impression of it being all a little bit same-same—few appear to be really challenging the boundaries.

On the live stages musicians battle with poor sound quality (though to be fair it improves slightly as the weekend progresses), fashion shows roll out, talkers talk, competitions are drawn and carnival types jostle and cajole. There’s a visual art exhibition tucked away in one corner and lashings of merch tables but somehow it feels just a little slapdash. It’s sad to see the quality of Spencer P. Jones, Jess McAvoy or Sydney’s Snowdroppers perform largely unnoticed and you can’t help but feel this festival truly missed the mark in terms of mass public appeal. Fetishist Madame Lash pulls a decent crowd and Lucky Diamond Rich (arguably the most tattooed man in the world) impresses with his machete juggling and unicycle gags but really, with a sixty-dollar-a-day price tag the numbers just aren’t there and those who are seem focused on gathering ink.

Walking off into Carlton Gardens I wonder whether it’s been an enjoyable experience and I figure for the most part it has. Having browsed the stalls, garnered a nice piece of ink for myself and drank beer with members of Melbourne’s tattoo elite, I reckon I’ve done okay. Still, a question needles me (boom boom): Is the Rites of Passage ‘Festival’ more a convention under the guise of a celebration? A small distinction perhaps, but an important one for the paying public.

Samson McDougall

Interpol

Interpol
Cooperative/Shock

Paul Banks’ atonal vocal style could be considered a limiting factor by a lesser outfit. In many ways it defines Interpol’s sound; you know it’s them as soon as he opens his mouth, it’s unmistakable. It also polarises listeners. For some the vocal is enough to discard their music as repetitive or drab, for others it acts as an entry point to something much larger, a temptation, a lure. Those that dare to immerse themselves in this, their fourth full-length release, will find apt reward in the riches within.
As per every release thus-far, it does take effort. At first glance the opening stanza is harmless enough, atypical of Interpol’s slow-twisting album openings. It leads you along a familiar path, takes you in its arms and pushes you off a cliff into the plummeting tumult that is fourth track ‘Lights’. You forget how you got to this point, revisit the beginning and discover a fiercely brewing cloud; it circles and contorts but you barely noticed.
There is a subtlety to this recording that may well be indicative of the band shedding the major label and going it alone. In the spirit of Radiohead’s In Rainbows (an enormous call I know, but one I’ll stand by wholeheartedly), Interpol manage to pay tribute to their past selves while taking an enormous step beyond anything they’ve produced to date. A simplified and less grandiose approach really lets the listener get a purchase on the thing and explore the individual elements of each song.
With the exception of ‘Barricade’, which could’ve been lifted from either of the band’s previous two releases, this album demonstrates a abandoning of both pretence and circumspection. Through this paring back they grant us entry to the world they create and allow us to experience all of its darkest places.

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