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.

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!