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.

CASTLE TONES

With this, the latest in the Mistletone showcase series, you got the distinct impression that the label was just plain showing off. Any number of the dozen outfits on this bill would have lured me along to a show, but to jam them all in to one venue across two stages for about eight hours—much of which was spent consuming beer—was kinda cruel.
And the Edinburgh Castle worked a treat! I have to say that I was sceptical of the choice to begin with, especially given the not-so-distant memories of the broken lift and bottleneck disaster that was last year’s Winter Tones at Roxanne Parlour. I now appreciate the lack of promotion of this event, not that there was any shrouded secrecy surrounding the show but there was restraint shown on behalf of the organisers. This allowed for a free-flowing celebration of music without the usual toe treading and elbow charges. In reality, they could have allowed twice as many peeps through the turnstiles. The door staff showed fabulous grace under fire in enforcing the one-in, one-out policy—hats off to them.
Music-wise the diversity was key. Though it’s unlikely that everything on the bill would have been to the taste of many, there was more than enough of an assortment of sounds to ensure there was just a little something for everybody... Ambiguous enough? Seriously, it was such a great evening I’m loath to rag on anyone. For me the Twerps’ effortless entertaining, Kes Trio’s sprinkling of pixie-dust, Dick Diver’s raucous energy (though noted lack of dick diving), Lee Memorial’s arranging and beats, and Ned Collette and Wirewalker’s sonic blockade kicked goals all over the place. In saying that, any of the night’s assemblages were contenders and with acts of this calibre across the board it feels redundant to inject any level of criticism—for once, it’d only be a matter of taste.
Of the four ‘Tones’ parties I’ve attended thus-far, I’d have to say this one’s the champ. This bodes well for the future of the series as there’s been a steady improvement on each occasion. Castle Tones attested to the reality that it takes smart organisation, not just great bands, to pay dividends in punter land. In this instance, intelligent arrangement and great bands produced a memorable night.

Aleks and the Ramps
Midnight Believer
Stomp

It’s impossible not to be caught up in the tidal rhythms of the opening number 'Destroy the Universe with Jazz Hands', which typically contorts into an electro poppy feast. Typical in an Aleks and the Ramps sense, however, is as far from any traditional song writing as you’ll get. Lingering in the peripheries of so many musical genres, they’re impossible to peg down. 'Midnight Believer' is a consolidation of sorts; it acts as the best explanation of their signature complexities to date. All the while, the feel of the album barely resembles the live incarnation of Aleks and the Ramps at all.
You’re greeted by the delicious inky smells of a classy package, complete with gorgeous cover art and poster by illustrator Lily Coates—once you’ve pulled the disc out there’s not an ounce of plastic in sight. There’s a maritime peg to the arrangements that vanishes for spells but returns occasionally to remind you where you are. There’re crafty little samples in spots, clean acoustic rhythms and the banjo makes its marvellous self known throughout.
Structurally this album lends itself to improvisation and as a basis for a live show it will make fantastic root material. Gripe-wise, all that could be slandered upon 'Midnight Believer' is that it’s a little too short. With the sisterly nature of all tracks, one through ten, it’s an exciting prospect to hear it live, start through finish.
The elemental beauty of this recording lies in the crafted hidden treasures continually darting and enticing. The time taken in arranging may’ve been excessive but the detailing pays off. From moment to moment you’re never quite sure where they will take you next. By definition, this is what separates Aleks and the Ramps from anything else I’m hearing right now. There exists within this outfit the ability to pull (musical) rabbits from hats at every turn. It’s a narrative of sorts but it’s by no means ‘once upon a time... the end.’ More James Joyce than John Grisham, Midnight Believer is the literature of Melbourne music, but in no way inaccessible.
Sam McDougall

The Tote

The Tote’s future is unwritten

In May, a nine-day closure of Melbourne’s seminal rock’n’roll venue, Collingwood’s Tote Hotel, sent a shiver through the music community. Like a corpse, the building itself seemed to sag on its foundations—her lifeblood removed, it felt as though she could implode on herself at any moment. If the Tote’s walls could speak (and if the carpet is anything to go by, there’s a pretty good chance they can), they’d bombard us with the stories of a true champion of rock music. The calibre of international touring acts that have graced the stage—White Stripes, Guitar Wolf, McLusky, Mudhoney, The Dirtbombs, Hellacopters etc—aside, the Tote’s greatest accolade has been its role in the propulsion of Australian music. Without the Tote serving up live bands and providing a launch pad for local musicians six-nights-a-week, Melbourne’s reputation as a world-class rock’n’roll destination would be seriously jeopardised.
It’s true that the Tote’s demise would only propel another venue, of which there are plenty, to the top of the local pile. And as we’ve witnessed with the closing of Fitzroy’s Punter’s Club, New York’s C.B.G.B’s, London’s Astoria and Wellington’s Bar Bodega, the passing of a music institution, while sad, is unlikely to spell the end. Still, the Tote has served a community (maybe not your local mother’s group, but a community nonetheless) for twenty-five years now and the historical significance of what’s been going on inside her withered frame should not be underestimated.
With the current lease expiring in October, rezoning of the neighbouring TAFE site opening development possibilities, an impending resale, increasing running and security costs, and a crippling licensing debacle, you’d have to say the odds are stacked against the Tote. That said, there’s every possibility that any and all of these problems could be surmounted. A sympathetic buyer may appear and snap the place up for a relative bargain at the current asking price. A ten-year lease might become available at a reasonable rate. The outcome of rezoning could favour a noisy pub and deter residential development of the adjacent block. The headaches of licensing technicalities appear to be over, though there’s little chance the government will back-flip on the high-risk security tag the bar has been assigned.
Hedging words abound—woulds, coulds, mays and mights aplenty—but film-maker Natalie van den Dungen remains optimistic about the future of this venue. Given the harsh reality that a crumbling Tote would create a dramatic finale to her Forthcoming documentary, which was intended as a simple celebration of our home of rock, Natalie insists that her heart remains set on the subsistence of her favourite haunt. “I have film-maker friends that say ‘wow that’d be great for your film,’” she laughs. “But I tell them that I don’t care at all. I would relinquish the entire documentary for the fact that the Tote will keep going.”
And she’s not talking about some fly-by-night project here. Natalie’s film (working title: ‘Loud and Proud’; commonly referred to as ‘The Tote Documentary’) will showcase the culmination of five-year's worth of concert and interview footage. “Initially my desire was to raise some kind of awareness that this is going on right here,” she continues. “I felt like what’s going on at the Tote should be celebrated. Even with nobody in the Tote, it still emanates its own character—it’s a living, breathing organism. You can’t create that without thirty-odd years of things happening and allowing it to grow. And it’s not just the building; it’s all the people it’s attracted. If it was to end, it would be the breaking of a community. The tote is this nucleus, this central point of the music scene. It serves a collective of people who love music. It doesn’t matter if they differ in any other way, they can come together on a musical level. I just wanted to declare the Tote to the world... and then save it.”
But saving the Tote was always going to be a huge task for one woman and a camera. “I had a dilemma when it sold last year. I was thinking ‘what if it shuts down? Maybe I should make the documentary now; I need to get it out there’. But then I realised I can’t save the Tote, but I can certainly help try and drum up some support or awareness.”
To achieve this and finish the Tote project Natalie requires funding. Part of the difficulty in attracting funds is that outside of Melbourne music circles—and dedicated rock’n’roll communities elsewhere—the Tote’s profile is far from huge. It’s loud, it’s dingy and it’s the exact type of place your mother warned you about. So despite the quality of the interview and live footage Natalie’s amassed thus-far, it remains far from an investors dream.
Still, Natalie remains philosophical. “If the people I’m applying for funding from don’t fund the completion of this documentary, they’re not the right people to make this. This is something to get very excited about. I’ve got amazing footage and it’s an amazing subject—it deserves it! Nothing about the Tote feels like it’s being mass produced or spoon-fed. It’s all about the appreciation of music. In this day and age, what kinds of communities are there? There’s sporting communities, there’s online communities, but where else can people of all backgrounds get together, hang out and talk about the world? We’ve got something special here and kind of precious. Anybody who knows this place would find it hard to disagree with that.”
With so many factors weighing against the continuation of the Tote, Natalie is stuck, somewhat, in a holding pattern until the situation is resolved either way in October. From then, she promises, her obsessive documentation of the Tote will finish; though it may take her moving abroad to physically stop her. From such naive beginnings, it is now likely that this film will prove a valuable historical reference. This, Natalie claims, was never the intention. “I didn’t start this to make a good documentary. I started this because I thought it mattered and I wanted to show that to other people. It’s about an open mind and a curiosity and sharing. Without sounding childlike, sharing is such an important thing. A big part of what I’m trying to do with film is to share what I am experiencing with other people for their sake. It makes me happy when people like it. It’s like [seminal Australian comedy] ‘The Castle’... You can’t buy what we’ve got.”

For more information about the Tote Documentary and a kick-arse trailer go to: www.myspace.com/thetotedoco

Sam McDougall

The Swindlers—EP
Review by Samson

If heavy-ended, raucous, honest guitar music’s your bag; the Swindlers debut EP will prove about as reliable your Grandad’s Corolla and as solid as a Volvo station wagon in a crash test. The first few bars of the opening number Oh No welcome you to a familiar corner pub, sit you down in your favourite chair, offer you a pot and say, ‘Here ya go mate, don’t look so glum. Here’s some totally Australian, swaggering, rock-n-blues for your winter worries.’ Then they slap you around a bit for being such a sook.
Once you’ve negotiated the jitter-bug of an opener and waded through the rain-sodden sandbag grooves of the mid-tracks, the seven-handed speed blur strumming of Siren will get you rabbiting all over the place till your knees buckle and eyeballs hurt. The closer Boar Down will lure you back to the flood plains before bashing your brainbox with a combo of vocal, guitar and percussion staccato that’ll force you to spin the whole thing over again just in case you missed something in all the jumping and violence. And you will have, it just gets bigger and better the more it turns. Bloody nice package too!

Pink Fits review

The Pink Fits, the Vandas, Midnight Woolf—the Tote

Holy fuck you get some line-ups at the Tote sometimes. It’s as if the planets align and some dirty little alien lasers a sweet, salty, hip-swaggering little bundle of rock-n-roll straight to Johnstone Street. I’d salivated over this particular show all afternoon, my expectations were higher than a hippy up a scaffold; and from the moment Midnight Wolf hit the stage running, I knew that I was home.
Midnight Woolf are the walking, breathing embodiment of a sweat-factory—and I mean that in the kindest possible sense. From leopard print Drummer, Rabbitfoot Annie, to howlin’ vox-box, Fuzzhound, The Woolf stamped, barked and growled their way through some fast, electric, swampy shit. There’s prickly punk stabs, there’s instrumental thrash jams, there’s covers (New Kind of Kick as a tribute to Lux a delight), and there’s beer swilling good times for all and sundry.
The Vandas broke up the rackety bookends of Midnight Woolf and Pink Fits nicely. That’s not to say these blokes weren’t clamorous, but there’s a polish to the Vandas, and such a well of obvious musicality, that is sure to lead them great places. Their brand is elegantly constructed Australian blues-rock, and the writing’s about as handsome as the duelling frontal combination of Gus Agars and Mikey Madden—they could barely keep their hands off each other. The Vandas’ approach is all-out. With no room for filler it’s a marvel they could’ve written so many impressive songs in a relatively short lifespan—such is the attention to detail.
Fresh from ‘the Gong’, the Pink Fits’ sucked the oxygen from the room with the ferocious tempo of their performance. The opening stanza consisted much new material which unfortunately suffered a poor mix. The Illawarra quartet showed grit in powering through the soupish sound without complaint though, and the mix improved markedly for the back end.
The third act from the Pink Fits was a riot of surf tunes craftily disguised as speed rock. Performing a rare extended headline show allowed the band to delve back to their roots and rip out the kind of shit you’d imagine they played in the Wollongong surf clubs of youth. This was less Hawaiian shirt and ukulele, more tattoos and V8s—the bad-ass, black surf-boarded, punk mother-fuckers from Point Break rather than Keanu Reeves and the girl… If you know what I mean?

Sam McDougall

Black Lips

By Samson McDougall

 

Atlanta rockers the Black Lips smacked Australian shores in 2007, taught us how to party and left a trail of carnage in their wake. The Meredith Music Festival show was the business that myths are made of—a vomit soaked, man-pashing, up-tempo sweat-fest. The follow-up performances at the Arty and the Tote set new precedents for touring rock bands. They came, they got drunk, they experienced the city for a week and they punched out some of the performances of the year with a range of local supports including Eddy Current Suppression Ring, The Stabs and Straightjacket Nation.

            Needless to say, touring with the Black Lips is not your average fly-by-night routine. There is a commitment amongst the foursome to thinking, and playing, outside of the square. Their resultant ethos has pushed them to the extremities of comfortable rock-n-roll destinations, including a trip to underground clubs in Israel and an emergency exit from India upon accusations of public homosexual acts.

            It’s from the American interstate on the back of their latest release 200 Million Thousand that Faster Louder caught up with gag-jerking singer-guitarist Cole Alexander. Despite the Black Lips’ relative longevity (it’s hard to believe they’ve been doing this for almost a decade), Alexander remains adamant that age is not yet slowing them down. “We’re stronger than ever, we’re still robust and fertile,” he laughs almost imperceptibly through the crackle and delay of a mobile phone from the tour bus. “It’s actually getting easier. We try and stay chill and save energy until we’re on stage. I won’t talk a lot and just try and relax on a couch. I’ve had a lot of problems with sustaining my voice but it’s gotten stronger over the years and now I can sing a lot better. Some guys work out at the gym a couple of hours a day; I just play on stage for forty-five minutes. I just save all my energy for when I’m on stage.”

The Georgian roots of the Black Lips transcend their sound with equal portions of country, blues, old-style rock and punk. Still, Alexander recalls, it was no easy feat to break free of the Southern mindset and actually get their material noticed. “From a musical standpoint it [Georgia] was rich in resources like blues and country music. But as far as an industry for what we were doing, it was kind of tough. It felt like if we had’ve been in New York in the early 2000s and picked up on the whole rock thing there, we could’ve got big. We needed an outlet and once we started getting out of Georgia we started meeting with some success.”

There exists a nostalgic grainy finish to the Black Lips’ recordings that’s reflective of their adoption of analogue techniques. 200 Million Thousand pushes this ideology to the extreme with the newly released CDs being recorded directly from an original vinyl press. So is vinyl likely to (re-) take the World by storm? Is it the way of the future, or simply a grasp at the past? “There’s definitely been an increase in our vinyl sales,” Alexander continues, “but a lot of kids still download our stuff for free. I’ve always loved vinyl personally; if you listen close to the new CD you’ll hear a little crackle.”

“As soon as I started buying vinyl records I was hooked. It really wasn’t the sound quality that was the issue. In high-school I wanted to hear Grandmaster Flash and I couldn’t find the CD anywhere, so I went to this friend’s uncle who was a DJ or whatever and I could buy hip-hop records from him. I’ve always liked vinyl for the fact that you can find the stuff that’s not on CD or on the radio. I think eventually the CD will become extinct; we’ll be left with digital and vinyl.”

To be swept up in a Black Lips live experience is to be beaten about the brains with some unstoppably enticing tunes and an insatiable urge to get rotten. After all, if the kids on stage are in a frenzy then why not? Alexander explains that while the raucous nature of their reception in Australia was outstanding, the Black Lips harbour a similar response wherever they go. “We had a great time in Australia and it’s always good for us to go to rock towns and rock cities where people are really enthusiastic about rock-n-roll music. In saying that it’s pretty hard to differentiate as to whether it was much different or any better than anywhere else. The reaction is kind of similar all over the World. Even in India where it’s stricter, we played this one show where everyone went crazy and let everything go. There exists this kind of Universal rambunctious-ness.” Indeed.

            

OW, MY FREAKIN’ EARS!

 

You wait for it all year, wiling away those long winter months, coat clad, scarf necked and boot shod into bleak Melbourne nights. You all congregate in the same scraggy haunts on Wednesdays, scouring the music papers for news of summer concert and festival delights to warm you heart in sweet anticipation, all the while keeping up with treats on offer around your inner-suburban winter traps.

            Then it’s upon you. Last year kicked off a little earlier than usual with Flip-Out at the Corner—with the highest quality, wall-to-wall calibre of acts and no filler, we can only hope that that one comes back! Then everything changes. Life becomes such a frenzied mess of over-indulgence and aural abuse that your every day existence is shoved into a ditch until the heat comes off. Jobs are forgotten and lost, significant others alike. You are reduced to a warm tinnie gripping, singlet wearing, stinking, and greasy-skinned credit card disaster. But who can blame you? It gets better every year and you’re not getting any younger that’s for sure.

            Meredith looms large with the promise of new talent and mad hallucinatory gaffer-tape Dictaphoned tent conversations to mark the end of the working year. You tramp out of the Supernatural swamp area with mud-invaded orifices and little recollection of anything but The Bronx’s set and some dude breaking his shoulder during the nudie run. Oh, and the rain… always back to the rain.

New Year hits hard with promise of more camping madness—you’d think you would’ve learnt your lesson last year, or at least have enough emotional scabbage from the Meredith washout to convince you it’s a terrible idea. Thankfully you’re better prepared this time as pastel-clad teens vomit red cordial and dry-root amongst the sheep shit crusted pasture of the obnoxiously overpopulated (and priced) festival grounds. It makes you feel a bit tired but thankfully your sweet camp-site allows you the luxury of retiring early and leaving them all to it.

Not wanting to be left lagging when the lunacy is over, there’s the local stuff to keep up with as well. Unfortunately the regular venues won’t relent with killer bills. After all, was it not the Drones at the Forum and Eddy Current at the Corner that topped last year’s best-of-gig lists? All the while you’re hammered by sideshows. You visit the Forum, the Palace, the HiFi the Corner. There’s a nasty Christmas comedown thrown in there for measure—much to the vexation of family members.

You are treated to all the worldly marvels of the first Australian leg of All Tomorrow’s Parties (if the rumours are true then we’ll be graced again next year), where fans of proper music can escape the bubble-wrapped fanfare of tweenie-fests and appropriately appreciate profound performances from the cream of local and international produce. You catch Dirty Three doing Ocean Songs; elsewhere, Fantomas perform The Director’s Cut and Public Enemy prove It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold us (them) Back—you could hardly fathom last year’s Sonic Youth does Daydream Nation—the Don’t Look Back series ensures a marvellous time for thirty-somethings loath to let go of their dissipating youth.

            The kids build towards the Big day Out where you all sweat in the stifling racecourse car park and punish yourselves for being Australian. We grown-ups steal into the V.I.P. area where at least the expulsion of a weak bladder seldom results in a half-hour ordeal. Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays throw up more gigs; frenetic sideshows erupt like pox all over the arse of your week—it’s the silly season after all—and then there’s the weekends. Thankfully you get a breather (of sorts) at Neil Young at The Bowl and then maybe catch Leonard Cohen sulking; it feels as though the dust may settle a little.

            Then February arrives with Summer Tones—finally they’ve got this one right—by fuck, the line-up’s astonishing! St Jerome’s—skinny jeans and Oakley Frogskins; Soundwave— inclined to angular black fringes and scowling; Alice in Chains at the Palais—joy for the creaking bones and backs of the slightly more antiquated; Nine Inch Nails—machine noise and body-paint; and finally the backmarker, Golden Plains, to signal the end of it all—though with the class of the bill this year it’s going to be chaos until we drop mid-March. That’s of course if you consider the Blues and Roots, V and Splendour festivals to be of a dissimilar ilk to their summer compadres—outsiders thrown at us during the off season to remind us of what has been and what’s to come around again—hardly the same. And that’s only the weeping scab on the surface of it all; of course there’s the unyielding continuum of local established and developing talent you’ve been neglecting in the speed blur.

            Eventually you’ll find yourself trudging out in a Victorian Southerly on your way to: the Tote, the East, the Northcote, the Birmingham, the Corner, the Espy, the Evelyn, the Empress, the Edinburgh Castle, the Toff, Old Bar, Pony, Ya Yas, or any of the countless other champions of the Melbourne music world—all the gems… Perhaps the Gem? You’ll arrive again at one of the dark, smelly, wondrously beer-soaked jewels in the crown of this fair city and breathe it all in, stop for a pot and scour the music pages for news of up-coming local delights and forthcoming summer festival pleasures. You’ll remember then that it’s not so bad amidst the sleepy chill of the back end of the year—rather pleasant, in fact, to be holed-up in a dark room on a dreary eve with some swampy guitar noise for company. And as the bands roll on through you’ll realise just how lucky you are to live in a town where it’s there for the taking week after week, year-round. In a corner you’ll vow to march on for the cause; because, undoubtedly, if these gifts are not perpetually embraced then they will surely be lost. Use it or lose it as they say… Amen to that.

 

Samson McD

Australia is the hottest place on Earth today and Melbourne is the hottest town in Australia!

Today is likely to be among the hottest on record in Victoria, and the effects of the heatwave are adding up across the state.

THE weather bureau tells Lou Bennett it's 44 degrees. But he trusts better his own thermometer, rigged up on the back verandah. It says 52.

Fire crews scramble to contain Bunyip Park blaze

Increasing wind fans flames as fire pushes towards towns.  

• Warning for fire-lighters
 
• In the line of fire
• Fury over arsonist
 
• Death trap
 
• Fire updates

GOAT HUSBANDRY

T'was a sad day at sunny Waimarama yesterday.

Dave had to part with his much beloved goats; Mr Pickles, Mischief and Glenda the nanny. Though Glenda made it clear that she was very unhappy to be forced from her half-pipe home (due to recent events I'd be happy to see the damn skateboard ramp razed to the ground for its insubordination and abuse of my elbow), my parents are now goatless and none the happier for it let me tell you. Goodbye my bleating, cloven-hoofed friends. You will be missed by all, good luck and best wishes...