Everett True

Song of the day – 501: Nude Beach

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Nude Beach

They’re a little bit early Webb Brothers.

I still miss Chicago, and taxi drivers driving me straight into the middle of impromptu riots and abandoning me there, so this is good.

They sometimes sound like the only record they like is that mythological good Bruce Springsteen one (yes, the one minus the bombast and contorted constipated face). Living in Brisbane, where even the people on the outside wish they were the people on the inside and folk knowingly promote The Mediocre because promoting The Mediocre greases the wheel, makes me a little – just a little – nostalgic for the times when I figured it was better to succeed on everyone else’s terms not your own. (Actually, I’m not sure I ever believed that.) So yes, this is good.

For sure, it recalls Teenage Fanclub. And of course that’s to the good. (Nude Beach are actually messier and less concerned with Byrds-ian harmonies, and far more rooted in the imagery of suburban Americana… hence the Springsteen analogy.)

And their album II kept Lauren (age 1) quiet for at least 12 minutes on my lap.

A definite plus.

For the record? I have no idea whatsoever who Nude Beach are or how they came to be in my iTunes folder or why I decided to play them this inclement Sunday afternoon. The thrill of the chase. The chase of the thrill. It’s still there. For a song I was initially not too sure about, the following has sure proved to be an endearing influence:

I’d imagine Nude Beach to be the sort of band Spin Magazine still loves. You know. Tom Petty. The Replacements. A shiver away from dad rock.

Tomorrow I will doubtless be thoroughly embarrassed by this indulgence.

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