I had this whole review worked out last night on the 383 back from the city. And then I went and fucken forgot it. (You want a one-liner? “The race for album of the year is over before it’s begun. Fucking incredible” – Everett True, 16 January 2013)
I was going to write, unaccustomed as I am to hyperbole…
I was going to write, fuck America and fuck Britain too man, here we have a country whose total population could probably fit into the top floor of Trump Tower and yet, time and time again, year in and year out, it continues to throw out these glorious guitar-led rock bands (a little bit of Rod Stewart from the early 70s in column A, a whole bunch of the insouciant swagger of Dr Feelgood circa Wilko Johnson in column B, a lacing of Sydney fuck-I-don’t-give-a-shit-if-I-am-fucked attitude on column C, coruscating melodies and guitar lines doing my fucking head in in column D) like the end of the world is just along the street, just past that bar, oh is it still open well how fucking sweet is that? How embarrassed are our contemporaries (I shudder to use the word peer) in Chicago and strewn like torn confetti along the east side of London that a country with a population that could easily fit within a pair of David Cameron’s ego pants can throw up so much genius noise-saturated music? I mean, this would be fucking embarrassing if anyone from the mainstream in Australia actually got their head out their defunct expense account and started paying attention to good… FUCKING AMAZING… music not this fucking anodyne Young Songwriter or “oh look another band that sounds exactly like the last 3,000 bands that were played on triple j, who all sounded exactly like the last 10,000 bands from America and the UK anyway”.
I was going to write, I mean fuck.
I was going to write, this post goes out to my son Daniel (age 3) the Original Bed Wettin’ Bad Boy.
I mean, fuck. The guitar sound of these bands is EXTRAORDINARY. So fulsome and expressive and affectionate with just a hint of sarcasm, perfectly matched to the droll deceptively deadpan straining vocals and tunes that frankly Mr Wanker ANY band that isn’t from a country with a population that could fit into any small briefcase of a record industry A&R on their way to South By Southwest should be fucking CUTTING themselves with arms dripping with piss-weak blood to share in. I mean, fuck. Australia being the size it is, Melbourne being the size it is (IT’S FUCKING IRONY, YOU DELUGE OF FUCKWITS, IRONY), is it just that there are three musicians who all play in each other’s bands, make each others records?
I was going to write, THE PRODUCER man! Deify the fucking producer, except it wouldn’t surprise me if there wasn’t one.
I was going to write… but Johnny Riggs got there first on Facebook:
Not even paying attention to what he’s singing, but the strain in his voice when he’s reaching for those notes is beautiful. Next up, I listen to the lyrics.
I never listened to The Replacements, not really. Were they this fun? Fuck man, what a great fucking band if they were.
This is the best fucking straight-up punk-laced powerpop album you’ll have heard since Royal Headache, Bitch Prefect, Twerps… hundred of others… but because it’s HERE AND NOW it’s the best fucking pop album you’ll hear this year, 2013, unless of course Bed Wettin’ Bad Boys choose to release a slew of others under different band names, all with this INCREDIBLE guitar sound and understanding of melody, and…
Just fuck man. I was going to write, just fuck man and enjoy yourselves and get wasted and listen to sweet, sweet music all life long because this fucking sweet, sweet music is going to last you all life long.
And that is the WORD.
Here’s a review of the new album by someone who can write coherently. As my man Shaun Prescott puts it:
Ready For Boredom is the best rock record I have heard for years, though. It makes me immensely happy, it makes me feel soft in the stomach, and it makes me angry when someone doesn’t feel the same way.
Rock ‘n’ roll isn’t a lifestyle anymore. It can sound like it is, but it isn’t. Everyone needs to shift gears, everyone needs to earn a crust. The world is hostile. Everyone needs to survive. Bed Wettin’ Bad Boys encapsulate the other rock ‘n roll experience in 2013. This record knows that the modern understanding of rock ‘n roll is the province of the advantageous. It’s an alternative lifestyle you can only live if you’re lucky enough to be born into wealth, or brave enough to rough it.
This group doesn’t fit that lineage. You’ll want to keep playing their record when you’re strapped to a mortgage and commuting three hours a day in the direction of a desk. They want you to feel accounted for when the rest of the world renders you meaningless. This is a record about rock’s glorious, irresistible folly, but it’s not a capitulation: it merely addresses your neuroses, their neuroses, and assures you that you’re not alone. It’s a bearhug followed by an affectionate punch in the gut.
FUCK YEAH! FUCK YEAH! FUCK YEAH!