antho-logy - Tumblr blog

[antho-logy]

Hi Miles,

I understand that you moved around a bit in your younger years; being born in South Australia before heading north-east to Ballina and Brisbane. Did the consistent moving around allow you to pick up new musical influences on the road or did your musical taste and style grow in a more insular way? I’ve never been to Brisbane - but I imagine as a young lad with budding interests in punk and alternative rock that it would have been hard not to be impacted by bands like The Saints and The Go-Betweens, especially if one was living in the place where both bands (and other contemporaries) first cut their teeth.

Miles: My family brought me up on a good mix of music. My grandparents were always playing classical music, real dramatic stuff. Then my mum and dad listened to heaps of 60's and 70’s bands like the Beatles, Bowie, Hendrix, Jefferson Airplane etc. Mum ran away from home when she wasn’t allowed to go see the Beatles in 64’. My brother also introduced me to loads of interesting stuff ranging from Britpop to Sebadoh to Dr Octagon. We both were into skateboarding BIGTIME and skate videos were always a rich source for music too. I’d say my time in Brisbane introduced me to more of the lesser known punk type stuff and going to see live local bands. Like you say, Brisbane has a good history with punk music and it was for sure evident in the music scene there. Go-Betweens records were always spinning at mates’ houses. I lived on Petrie Terrace in Paddington real close to the “Saints house” and every time I'd pass I would stare at it like it had magic powers or something.

Turning now to your lyrics, in particular those of a satirical nature found in songs like 'Photo Op', 'Work/Life, Gym Etc', and a newish one - that (as far I know) hasn't been released - which mentions Clive Palmer in some capacity (I've only ever seen it live and whilst pissed so my memory of what the lyrics specifically entail is hazy to say the least), do you feel you have a responsibility to include your take on sociopolitical issues in your songs? Especially in a world that is seemingly so fucked? Or is this something that just comes naturally to you - perhaps subconsciously informed by the music you listen to? (there are definitely some clear similarities between your words and that of The Fall's Mark E Smith).

Miles: I'm not sure I feel a responsibility to do so. I think it’s more of an outlet to life's frustrations and oddities. I think that with all of the world's current skullfuckery comes a certain amount of hopelessness and feeling powerless. I’ve tried writing love songs or more positive stuff but I'm not very good at it. I’m more interested in creating tension in music not good vibes. There are admittedly similarities and it's no secret I’m a huge fan of the Fall. I think I was initially drawn to MES because he was singing about stuff I was interested in, like history and taking the piss. I've been an avid reader of history books since I was a kid and have watched every bloody war film and doco out there and have always been a fan of taking the piss. I write about what I know over the top of odd sounding guitar music, which at times can be pretty Fall-esque.

Now, this question is one from a place of curiosity based on my observations, as opposed to criticism (as you know I am a big fan of The Shifters), but I have noticed that your sound and that of The Shifters has remained pretty consistent throughout your discography. Do you have any aspirations of taking the sound of The Shifters in a different direction whilst still maintaining the band's musical identity? Or have you considered taking part in the prevailing trend of Melbourne musos seemingly needing to play in a dozen bands at once? Are there other creative avenues that you think you could be expressing yourself through that are limited by The Shifters' already established sound? Again, I love the band's sound as it is, so if it never changes I think myself and fellow punters will cope.

Miles: Well I doubt we will be doing any classical rap/jazz or metal fusion records anytime soon. I think the next album will be weirder. All the new demos for it sound like they could be used in a sneaky spy film or something, which I’m diggin’. SPYTONES. It’s a hot new Melbourne genre. HA! I don’t feel the need to be in other bands really. The Shifters scratches my musical itch. We write a lot more music than what's on the records. I’m always recording music at home that only some friends and the band hear. I even did a Cher rendition a while ago! One day I might make a cassette or something of some it. Sometimes I like my home versions of songs more than when the band do them.

This is a bit of a cop out, but I remember that in our chat outside the Curtin you were saying something about the Melbourne music scene, and that it made more money for the city than the footy? Or was it all sports combined? Or have I made this up? If you remember what I'm talking about, please elaborate - 'cause while I can't really remember the conversation, I do recall it being very interesting.

Miles: I was reciting some stats to you that I read somewhere (I think it was the ABC) about the AFL grand final weekend and how live music for that weekend generated more money for Melbourne than the football did. I'm not totally sure how valid the source was though but it's pretty interesting if true.

Is the album title a reference to Tony Robinson's character in Blackadder?

Miles: It sure is. We were recording with Al Montford at his place discussing titles. We were enjoying throwing around ones similar to it like The Shifters are Bored Stiff, or The Shifters aren't Home as we just did that 7” called The Shifters Just Sat Down, then Al suggested Have a Cunning Plan, and I thought it was hilarious and we rolled with it. I LOVE Blackadder.  

As I mentioned, there are quite a few songs in your live set that are yet to be released. Naturally, I must ask when will we receive the gift of new music from The Shifters?

Miles: We have a new 7” coming out in the new year. I don’t think I can say by who yet but it’s being announced really soon. There’s also a live in France cassette coming out at some stage and we are busy writing stuff for a new LP next year!  

Also, please speak to whoever you gotta speak to about putting the 2018 demo tape on Spotify. It slaps!

Miles: Hahaha. Yes, will do. That’s another job on the to-do list. To put all the records on Spotify and generally try a bit harder in the admin department as I'm sure we are the laziest band in town when it comes to self-promotion and general organisation. We’ve a manager/minder type kind soul taking over all that side of things really soon as I'm hopeless at it all.

Cheers Miles and I look forward to whatever’s next for The Shifters.

Miles: Thanks for having me Anthony.

[antho-logy]

I have my dad to thank for introducing me to the word ‘spud’; a near-perfect noun used in the context of underwhelming performances by athletes, slippery politicians and general deadbeats – among other things. What can be done about these disappointing individuals? Terry ponders that very question on the opening track to their first small chunk of new music in over a year. A cheeky synth line opens the track, its playfulness personified by the mischievous looking character on the EP’s cover. The song harkens back to the more colourful sound of ‘Hot Heads’-era Terrence, filing off the jagged post-punk edges that defined last year’s ‘I’m Terry’, before being sanded and getting wiped with a thin layer of pop-polish. The song’s brass section rings out like fanfare, suggesting that ‘Spud’ could have a place on a Jarmusch-directed Renaissance-era film soundtrack. ‘Bizzo and Tophat’ denotes some sort of sleazy crime caper, with its allusions to Underbelly, sex and hinting that the main culprits are potentially ‘spuds’ themselves, as they hold up hotels with plastic guns. The ‘holding on and going forward’ refrain suggests that the two amateur crooks are working their way up the organised-crime hierarchy – but the tongue-in-cheek, condescending vocal delivery says otherwise, taking me back to a year 12 English studies classroom in which the literary technique of ‘dramatic irony’ was being forcibly shoved down my disinterested gullet. After a small, palate-cleansing serving of ‘Eggs’ – a brief bopper that I reckon would be best consumed in a live setting -, the EP is rounded out with ‘Drawn for Days’. This is the ‘Clean’-est the band has sounded in yonks, with the acoustic guitar and breezy melody line carrying that same near-transcendental tuneage of ‘Anything Can Happen’. Whilst the EP doesn’t answer who Terry is, we do know that this individual most likely suffers from some type of multiple personality disorder, as each of the four tracks show us a different side of the band’s music whilst still clearly representing the consciousness of a sole entity.

[antho-logy]

‘Billy’, the EP’s opening track and namesake, begins like a narcotic ‘Live at the Witch Trials’ B-side, complete with moody synth line, primordial guitar and bass riffage, and a sleazy beat. The vocals soon come in, carrying vaguely foreboding pop melodicism that gears the listener up for a bopper of a chorus, before fading out on a single synth note, luring the listener into a false sense of security and subsequently assaulting them with the first five seconds of ‘Bar Fred’. The song opens with the sort of spastic guitar noise you’d hear deep in a Contraption-era Oh Sees jam, snatching your attention and subsequently launching into peppy garage-pop verses punctuated by an adhesive guitar lead and a late-coming chorus that sounds like an extension of ‘Pink Turns to Blue’s subtly anthemic hook. The mundane is a topic that myriad artists in Melbourne seem to be tackling in their lyrics, and, in ‘Machine Communication’, Eggy chimes in to snarkily express their disdain for small talk, particularly in the workplace. Why do we feel it's necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable? The closing number, ‘Eggystential’ accepts that some things are just out of our control – a theme that compliments the extra-terrestrial synth/backup vocal combo, and contrasts with the tight 60’s garage groove. This one’s a cracker! 

[antho-logy]

“What’s the point of going?” “Well, it’s better than staying home, isn’t it?” Dad was probably right, but I seriously had to think about whether or not that was the case. Iggy Pop is possibly the one musician – nay, the one solitary thing - that Tom, Dad, and myself all see eye to eye on. There was never an inappropriate time to have a Stooges record playing in the house, from our Sunday barbecues (much to Mum’s behest) to birthday parties and everything in-between. Every time the sinister groove of ‘Down on the Street’ would rear its ugly head, all three of us would become possessed, which we would express by way of semi-involuntary muscle spasms (or, ‘dancing’) and unpredictable behaviour – much like Iggy; the wild animal howling encouragingly through Dad’s old Bose speakers. We didn’t bother getting tickets to his concert, as Tom wasn’t old enough to go and we all agreed it wouldn’t be fair for him to miss out if Dad and I decided to. So there we were, stuck at my place whilst Iggy Pop is hours away from playing a concert to a packed out Festival Hall. My brother, who was down to visit me from Adelaide with Mum and Dad, had made use of the Inner North’s bountiful record shops and picked up a copy of The Stooges’ ‘Funhouse’ for thirty-five bucks – the cheapest you’d pay for a brand new reissue. I also had a few records with me, the essentials, whilst the rest were in Adelaide to be taken over on subsequent trips. Naturally, among these essential pieces of music were The Stooges’ first three (and only worthwhile) studio albums. “I guess.” “Look, it’s just something to do. May as well bring your records and see if we can get them signed. We’ll have a better chance than the people inside. We’re gonna have a plan,” Dad said with a confident grin. Barely convinced, I went to my room to gather our records and tested two permanent markers on the similarly-textured cardboard of a pack of rolling papers, and off we went. The trip to Festival Hall, a fifteen-minute drive from my Northcote dwellings, was peppered with various emotions and predictions. “What if we just see him walking down the street? That will save us having to hang around some dingy venue for two hours,” I said, feeling resentful toward being dragged out of the comfort of the lounge room. “We aren’t gonna see him anywhere, let alone walking down the street without an entourage of fans and security,” muttered Tom, ever the optimist. Dad drove us past the front of the venue; our first bit of reconnaissance for the evening. I was jealous of the people lining up, sneering as I salivated over their vintage Stooges t-shirts and unworthy, ticket-clenching hands. Our seemingly doomed voyage hit its first speed bump; as the road we were cruising on turns into a freeway – taking us on an express route to the outer reaches of the CBD, as opposed to the preferred inner north-west. We all burst into laughter, acknowledging the futility of what we were doing and it being shoved in our face, by way of increased speed limits in the wrong direction and sparse industrial surroundings. Eventually, Dad’s faith in my (barely) superior knowledge of Melbourne’s roads landed us behind the venue, stood on a traffic island facing a rear entrance for the punters, and around the corner from the heavily-guarded stage door. What kind of sick bastard chooses finishing their cigarette over witnessing the frontal assault of ‘I Wanna Be Your Dog’s opening thirty seconds? She probably only knows Iggy for ‘Real Wild Child’, or ‘Lust for Life’, ‘cause she saw ‘Trainspotting’ once and thinks she’s hip. Jeez, apparently standing out in the cold and being forced to listen to one of the greatest songs of all time being filtered through brick walls and the condescending glare of burly security guards has made me a little judgemental. Her cigarette was crushed beneath her pudgy feet. Yeah, off you go - you’ve missed the best part anyway, peasant. “Look, he’s got the right idea,” says Dad, spotting a bald man leaning against a wall near the stage door. Like me, he was carrying a tote bag on his shoulder, complete with the unmistakable outlined edges of records giving the soft-bottomed bag some shape. Dad, feeling inspired, decided it was time to hatch our scheme to steal Iggy’s signature. The rear entrance where we we found ourselves stationed was on a two-way street, with both ends barricaded from the top-end of said street. We strolled around the corner of the building to the sectioned-off stage door, the perimeter of which allowed enough room for a black BMW to wait with the engine running in anticipation for Iggy to finish his set and be chauffeured away. Whilst in the early stages of our scheming, we noticed a member from the supporting band come out the stage door to have a cigarette. Dad suggested we give him the records to get signed and bring back to us. Even Dad, who wasn’t very familiar with the band, knew that this would be a bit of a stretch. Tom and I, being fans of the band and using the content of their lyrics as a point of reference, knew that he probably would get them signed, only to sell them on for beer and/or cheap pills. This didn’t stop me from rolling up and lighting a cigarette of my own, hoping he would catch a glimpse of me, and together we would form a bond based on our mutual devotion to Phillip Morris. Dad interrupted my little daydream by injecting some much-needed structure and logical thinking into our plan. The chauffeured-BMW had two routes to exit the premises. It could turn right onto the immediate street we had been loitering around earlier, heading towards the heart of the city, or go straight ahead down a narrow one-way lane, before turning up a surely less-populated street that ran parallel. Taking this into account, Dad decided our best shot of getting some of Iggy’s scribble was by waiting at the top end of the immediate road, where a stop sign would give us a small window to approach the vehicle and get the signatures. This was, of course, assuming that the car would turn right, and not opt to evade the hordes of adoring fans by going straight via the laneway route, which if it did, would force us to sprint to the top of the next street that ran parallel, where the lack of a stop sign and potentially less-crowded surroundings would allow the BMW to get away with ease. Our concentration was rudely interrupted by the dulcet tones of a drugged-up teenager making threats against the security after being kicked out of the venue for crashing the stage. I felt no sympathy for either parties, as the kid should have known better than to pull a stunt like that at such a heavily-guarded event, and the security for opting to share in the kid’s aggressive language as an apparent means of diffusing the situation. The three of us decided it best not to make eye-contact, and instead became temporarily fascinated with the cracks in the pavement beneath our feet. Once the young man accepted defeat by walking off with his hand forming an obscene gesture toward the guards, Tom and I got in position at the corner, corresponding with our man on the inside via phone call. The music inside Festival Hall stops and people begin to flood the streets, with most of them pooling together around the stage-door, hoping to get a glimpse of Iggy. Tom and I assumed that’s what they got, as a loud roar of cheering and applause soon floats up the street. It’s go-time. “Shit, you guys should have waited here. Every man and his dog got something signed,” said Dad, perhaps realising our chances were now even slimmer. “Don’t fucking tell us that!”, I mournfully reply into the phone, more on edge than ever. Among the punters that populated the street, a small group of tattooed and spiky-haired women stumble towards Tom and I, vocally admiring the records I was clutching so tight against my chest. One reached her hand out, asking if she can have a look. I took a generous step backwards and hold out my copy of ‘Raw Power’. “Yeah pretty cool, hey,” I said calmly, despite sensing the potentially sinister encounter Tom and I found ourselves in. As a result of the tense atmosphere, Tom and I were startled by the tinny bellowing being emitted from the phone’s speaker. “He’s going straight! Run to the street over! Go!” Without bidding farewell to our female friends, we followed Dad’s orders. Without time to catch our breath, the dark street was soon lit up by crisp LED lights that could only belong to a new BMW. As the car hastily made its way up the street in our direction, I positioned myself at a safe but visible distance, frantically waving my arms, the hands of which clenching with dear life a black Sharpie in one and cherished albums in the other. The car was soon metres away and showed no sign of stopping, so I ran further into the road and force it to stop, having no time to think about getting flattened. Tom and I sprinted up to the rear window to find a similarly-stressed Iggy declaring he can only sign one, as a truck behind the BMW carrying stage equipment repeatedly bashes its horn. I pleaded for him to at least sign both our copies of Funhouse; somehow allowing the premonition of me and my brother arguing into an adrenaline-fuelled, instinct-driven situation. A man of his word, Iggy hurriedly scribbled over my copy of the album, before speeding off into the night.

[antho-logy]

After settling into the city-bordering venue with a pint and a cigarette – unfortunately not simultaneously due to the ever-oppressive laws against smoking in ‘outdoor dining areas’, even if the mild but consistent rainfall would discourage anyone from utilising the area for such reasons- I passive-aggressively remind my friends that The Shifters were due to play any minute. Naturally, once we got upstairs, the band were still in the early stages of soundchecking. Feeling awkward standing around with my hands in my pockets, I got my greasy mitts around another pint. Before too long, and a couple foldback-related requests, The Shifters launch into their first number. Turns out this was merely the conclusion of their soundcheck, and my chest-tapping applause had me feeling as dumb as those punters that cheered after Radiohead tuning up at Glastonbury ’17. (Just googled the incident to clarify the year it took place and turns out it’s fake news – although my embarrassment was still very real. Too gonzo?) This was the best I’d seen The Shifters. In the three months I’ve lived in Melbourne, I’ve had the pleasure of seeing them play three times. The first was at a house party on Sydney Road, a farewell to the band before they were to embark on a European tour. Apparently these Melbourne bands are all cripplingly superstitious, as they are unable to leave the city without playing a gig to see them off. The second was at the Gaso, a solid set I’m sure, despite my view being obscured – both by tall people and taller glasses of beer. And now the third, confident and energetic – even more so than usual. Staples of the set were as reliable as ever, with the riffy intro and simple ‘Son of a Gun’ drumbeat of ‘Boer Hymn’ flowing seamlessly into the biting lyricism of ‘Work/Life, Gym Etc’. I’m pretty sure they followed ‘WLGE’ with ‘Photo Op’, a tune I have noted to be similarly sneering with its lyrics in my review of their ‘Hip Blister’ split record with Parsnip. They also announced at the start of the set that they would be playing three new songs – Christmas in May – and I had a particular affinity for a number in which “On a Sunday(?)” was the hook. Maybe the reason I got so much out of The Shifters’ set was because I was relatively sober, but after a couple trips to the bar (and bathroom), Constant Mongrel’s farewell set doubled as my farewell from a mindset capable of comprehensive critical analysis. A messy memory of metallic post-punk, unrelenting in pace and ferocity. Snarling yet nihilistic vocals that I’m sure complimented whatever was happening with the lyrics. To me they were just another layer of sweet noise; a call of action to veraciously nod my head to every beat and strum. The combination of synths and sax add a level of sinister sheen to the more traditional punk instrumentation being thrashed out behind them. Upon their return to Melbourne I will definitely be going out of my way to see them whenever possible. Post-gig, I hatched a cunning plan to intercept frontman Miles after noticing he had left his group of friends and followers; alleyway-bound for some hasty urination. Waiting around the corner, I ‘coincidentally’ bump into him, and after a speedy encounter, was able to half-schedule an interview to take place at some point in the near-future – so look forward to that. The gig and my chat with Miles were definitely highlights of the evening - as it gradually sunk further and further into the depths of depravity. Before I knew it, I found myself homebound in an Uber at 6:00am, where I would soon get familiar with my dwellings for the night; the cold comfort of my bathroom floor.

[antho-logy]

Parquet Courts live at The Croxton 31/1/19 Sprinting down High St towards the Croxton, I begin to mentally kick myself for missing out on the start of ‘The Goon Sax’ set. They had been my favourite band for months, and I ached to see them just as much as the headliner. I would have liked to physically kick myself, however I knew that doing so could lead to me tripping over, given the impressive pace I was demonstrating to both myself and the surely-bewildered onlookers. I soon find myself lining up to get in, regretfully being forced to listen to the all-too-muffled angsty tune-age of the opening act being filtered through various walls and an overpopulated smokers’ refuge. Finally - after rummaging through my bag and frantically flipping through my wallet, trying to recover my near-expired learners’ permit as per the request of the seccy - I was inside. As soon as I step foot inside the sizable bandroom, I instantly get that sort of understated jolt of an adrenaline-esque high one gets upon making it to an anticipated show. The post-punky, jagged guitar leads of a song surprisingly unfamiliar to me are hopefully an indication of the band’s soon-to-be-released new material. Other highlights from my brief experience with the set include ‘Strange Light’, the band’s take on a love-lost ballad for which the drummer swaps out her sticks in favour of a microphone, and ‘Make Time 4 Love’, arguably the band’s most popular single, here played at a higher tempo than the studio recording, which has become the song’s standard stage rendition. ‘Parquet Courts’ take the stage shortly thereafter, and waste no time launching into the mid-tempo angular slog that is ‘Total Football’s introduction, before jetting lightspeed into the ferocious pace that drives the remainder of the song, and concluding with co-frontman Andrew Savage snidely snarling “and fuck Tom Brady!”. I don’t know who Tom Brady is, but I was definitely thinking “Yeah, fuck that guy”. I’m sure that in between the aforementioned intro and conclusion, A. Savage was preaching some witty socio-political commentary, but it didn’t really matter, as the audience was too busy being happily thrashed by the finely-tuned punky rhythm-section to really stop and listen to anything coming from Andrew, save for the rocket fuel that is his aggressive rapid-fire delivery throughout the song. ‘Total Football’ is followed by ‘Dust’, a fairly standard piece of post-punk that concludes with washy noise. The audience, having been given a chance to catch their breath, are soon railed by the four-punch combo that kicks off ‘Almost Had to Start a Fight’. Battered and bruised by the song’s unbelievably combative first act, the crowd then has no choice but to try and keep up with ‘In and Out of Patience’; the faster yet somehow more passive latter act to ‘AHTSAF’. After the set’s early barrage of speed and noise, the next few numbers allow me to make a leisurely stroll over to the bar for another pint of the cheap and nasty. After taking a few sips and feeling somewhat refreshed (and pissed), I passive-aggressively shove my way back to the spot in the crowd I had previously been stationed. After some brief banter with the crowd, in which he refers to my new home as ‘Melbs-vegas’, the introductory chords to ‘Master of my Craft’ rear their ugly heads - giving me a small window to whisper “holy fuck” - before catapulting into battle with the anti-capitalist commentary and lightning-fast rhythm section. Towards the song’s finale, and with the all the satisfaction of a runaway sneeze, I begin to utter an anticipated lyric to no reply, as I had jumped the gun by a bar or two. Then, seconds later, Austin Brown and the audience shout in unison “Socrates died in the fucking gutter!”. Filled with an all-too-real sense of disappointment and self-loathing, I wished a similar fate would swiftly greet me. The tail-end of the set had a few standouts, from my introduction to the bands’ music in the catchy punk rock of ‘Borrowed Time’ and charming recount ‘Berlin Got Blurry’. The latter kicks off with a twisted spaghetti-western-esque guitar lead, priming the ears of the crowd and inviting them to listen to A. Savage’s all too relatable poetry, featuring kebabs and rollie-stained yellow fingers. If you were stood outside the Croxton Bandroom on Jan 31st, you’d be forgiven for thinking the Stones were in town, because of the manic greeting Parquet Courts were met with as they took the stage, the consistent “woo”s and “yew”s throughought the duration of the set, to the shameless begging for one more song that deep down they knew wasn’t coming. In a time when the world and rock music are both seemingly in dire straits, it’s pretty cool that a band with intellectual lyricism, frequently abrasive music and a vicious live show seem to have got people’s attention and resonated with them. For any aspiring musicians out there with half a brain and something to say, the ball is in your court(s).

[antho-logy]

I feel that this comparison is sure to roll some eyes - but Melbourne’s current music scene has clearly taken generous helpings of influence from the Flying Nun/Dunedin scene that rocked (and roll’d) New Zealand throughout the 80s. Bands like The Stroppies slot in nicely with the slightly refined, songwriting-forward sound of The Bats and Vehicle-era Clean, with the odd nod to the punk-y, lo-fi sound synonymous with earlier Flying Nun releases sprinkled throughout. In fact, despite the hand-clapped intro, ‘Whoosh!’s first track, ‘Nothing At All’, carries a similar motorik beat to Vehicle’s opener ‘Drawing to a Whole’. The song’s sweetly sung vocal melody is also catchier than a case of crabs. ‘Present Tense’ cutely dawdles past with its quirky guitar leads and passive chug of a beat. ‘First Time Favourites’ follows, a song that initially resembles the signature ramshackle, keyboard-driven pop of early Clean recordings, but it quickly becomes apparent that the resemblance is fleeting, as the slight melancholia of the song’s melody has more in common with something off The Bats’ ‘Daddy’s Highway’. Other highlights include ‘Cellophane Car’, which comes across as almost childlike with its optimistic melody during the verses and dreamy keys/guitar playing during the instrumental bridges, and ‘Entropy’, a song that features a slightly more down-trodden, sinister tone that separates the track from its predominately twee-pop album-mates. ‘Whoosh!’ is a mature album, but is also kinda cute - from its cute and playful title, to its cute melodies and cutely sung vocals - kind of like if ‘The Clean’ at their most aggressive and punky recorded an album in a toy factory.

[antho-logy]

‘Do It Better Again’s opening statement comes in the form of a drumbeat that immediately sparks tension and urgency. The guitar riff that follows, bouncing over the beat, is as perky as it is sinister. Soon we have the introduction of a second guitar, shrieking out dissonant and bendy leads, somehow interlocking with the initial riff – kind of like if Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd were on a barbiturate-fuelled bender whilst tracking their guitars for Marquee Moon (which they very well may have been). The vocals are an 80/20 mix between Colin Newman’s restrained yet expressive shout, and Mark E. Smith’s patriotic howl. As the song’s four minutes speed past, I barely get time to catch my breath before being slapped with some ‘Meat Sweat’, who’s thrashy guitar noise is complimented by the humorously seething lyrics – “meathead, what a head, get bent” indeed! The shape-shifting ‘Never Say Never Again’ is the opposite to a Bond villain - unpredictable, from pinballing shifts in the drums to synth-forward jams fighting with increasingly claustrophobic guitar leads for the spotlight. ‘Wishbone’ is a jarringly passive moment on the album - although it holds a foreboding cloud above its oasis of an instrumental. ‘Videodrome’ and ‘Clean and Strong’ are Gonzo’s interpretation of a dystopian world, via the reference to the sci-fi film of the same name and vocals that sound like the machines finally taking over, respectively. I don’t really want the machines to take over, personally, but perhaps the world would be a better place if Gonzo did.

[antho-logy]

‘Hip Blister’ showcases two of Melbourne’s finest pop acts: Anti-Fade-ees, Parsnip, and your favourite lowdown lo-fiers, ‘The Shifters’. Parsnip’s half of the record is whimsical and floaty, but is grounded by some off-kilter melodies and some comically scolding lyrics (see, ‘Hip Blister’). ‘Dailybreader’ brings some of the 60’s sunny psych that I anticipated to hear from the band, especially after seeing the cover art for their debut S/T 7”. The song kinda makes me imagine a cult-like commune all dressed in the same bright coloured clothes, holding hands and singing the song together in a circle. The Shifters introduce themselves on the record by presenting a cynical take on social-media fuelled narcissism with ‘Photo Op’ – a sort of sister song to the similarly biting ‘Work/Life, Gym Etc’, taken from their 2018 debut LP. The lyrics are funny, ‘cause everyone knows someone like frontman Miles is describing - but what can you say to them? The answer is nothing - let him do the talking. The next track, ‘Conscript’, sacrifices relatability for more political leanings, and has the decency to warn you about the contextual shift by proclaiming “Ok, it’s January 1966”. It’s gloomy and sinister, probably a lot like the military situation being detailed in the lyrics. The pairing of the bands makes for a cohesive listen, as they share the same poppy tendencies and wry quipping being filtered thru a lo-fi lens. I like it a lot, but it’s a shame they missed the opportunity to name the record ‘ParSHnIFT’.