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 Everett True

Song of the day – 400: Udays Tiger

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Udays Tiger poster

Fucking Udays Tiger man.

They understand dynamics. I mean, the mums down Hilder Road State School understand dynamics, they’ll throw in a story about how they wish they could fit up collars to kids so they can administer electric shocks, right in between talking about how late chess is running tonight, but they don’t play abrasive, scratchy, garage-punk … least not far as I know (because if they do, I sure as shit want to see that). They ain’t digging the Eddy Current Suppression Ring groove. They don’t get febrile with their fret-boards. They don’t scowl and squall and act with borderline restraint. Wait, yes. Of course they do.

Skinny as.

I am aware that if I wasn’t a sleep-deprived cranky crinkly motherfucker who has to kip on his unwashed carpeted office floor for respite – man it hurts my chest bad – I would probably be enjoying the fuck out of these bands rockin’ the Pony and Tone and Woodlands. Fuck probably. I know I would. But man wouldn’t that be like fucking the belly out of lame-ass nostalgia showing up at shows like that and pretending everyone’s not openly scorning me behind pints, laughing at my decrepit old man gait and lack of skinny T. Even fucken’ triple j unearthed are more ahead of the curve than me these days. Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all. I once got drunk with a member of Scarce. Fuzz, distortion and too much sexual repression.

From Melbourne, via Brisbane. Isn’t everyone?

This song is better. It sounds like they’re a two-piece. Squeal like stuck motherfuckers. Sometimes it’s enough to get fucked and scream.

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