That whole “music used to sound better when I was younger” theory

OCTOBER (71-80)

Bushwalking – No Enter

It’s mesmeric, sure. It doesn’t know when to stop, and resonates with the same stoned, drowsy resonance as half the floor of the Esplanade in 2000. It reminds me of the clatter and smart din of early 80s prog rock/electronica/post-punk pioneers This Heat – without all the shouting and the skinheads waving knives in your faces. At one point, it stops and then realises its mistake. Oh no, wait. That’s another track. At one point it stops, and you feel mercilessly sad the same way you felt mercilessly sad stuck at Flinders St with no train remaining.

Smile – Cuntry Lyf

Today, we live in Australia surrounded by the haze and the heat and the dirt that can’t even be arsed to get really fucking dirty cos it’s too fucking hot, and we’re all about your Twerps and your Dick Diver and your Bitch Prefect and your shimmering molten guitars played with simmering molten fervour and your inward-turned tributes to your Velvets (the first – and weakest – track on Smile’s debut album Life Choices is called ‘Still Waiting For My Man’, for C’rrisakes) and your eucalyptus gum trees that smell just like dope resin.

Kælan Mikla – Umskiptingur

As ever, the spaces reveal more than the detritus. Theatrical and a little threatening, the bass lines laid bare and sparse, like friendship. In Iceland, they call this ‘poetry punk’ and I’d like to think it’s been influenced by my old pal Patrik Fitzgerald or the 00s E London antifolk scene, but it’s too Anne Clark (Gothic, insular, coldwave) for that. You can near taste the vehemence, the alienation.

Lorde – Royals

There’s so much I don’t want to say about this song. Let it linger. Let it last. Don’t bring me down with your clumsy metaphorical grasp of a language which never should have been given to you in the first place, the way you keep disabusing it. The way it lulls, the way it entreats. The way it beats; the way it beats. The lack of shouting, the subtle point and counterpoint. The directness of the lyrics. The fact it doesn’t remind me of Kate Bush or Unwound or Van Halen.

Tiny Migrants – Mork Talk

So faint, they’re almost not there.

It’s the familiar rattle and chug of a band grown up listening to what the grown-ups listened to. Man, that sounds patronising. (I don’t even mean grown-ups: I mean, folk not over the age of 23.) The vocals are so way down in the mix, they sound like they’re almost embarrassed to be there. I like the effect: it helps colour in the spaces, adds a pleasingly abstruse pop effect to the whole… wait, there’s the riff to ‘Teen Spirit’, barely disguised, and those faint vocals rooting for their side, all genial bonhomie and swagger but nowhere near annoyingly so cos they’re keeping the distance.

Hand Job Academy – Shark Week

Sometimes, this shit is just so righteous there’s little else to add.

The fact those clear fucktards at YouTube have seen fit to ‘ban’ such a good-natured humorous video and allow… oh I don’t know, can’t think of anything right now… racist, sexist shit like this or rape culture-promoting shit like this on their site, is a bit of an indictment of mainstream U.S. and Internet society, don’t you think? I mean, seriously: all gloves off. How is ‘The Period Song’ more offensive than ‘Asian Girlz’?

Bloods – No Fun

Just a great fuckin’ rock’n’roll song from Sydney. Sometimes, you don’t need to know any more.

Sleigh Bells – Bitter Rivals

I just like to bounce up and down, and sledgehammer my head until there’s even less sense happening in it than normal. Bed goes up. Bed goes down.

Woolf – Jane

This album came out – when? More days ago then I have memories. And you know what? 13.4 minutes. That’s all it’d have taken me to listen to the entirety of fiery angular brittle and brutal bricolage London art-punk Riot Grrrl quartet Woolf’s debut album The Right Way To Play from – when? 200 and fucken’ ‘Eye Of The Tiger’ you dozy cosy – and if you remove the thudding menace and sparky attrition of ‘Witch’ from the equation (although why the fuck you’d want to do that when it snarls and bristles like a fertile cassowary) then we’re talking nine songs in – what? FUCK OFF WITH YOUR SNIDE ASSERTIONS – 10.1 minutes. Music ain’t a race, of course – but there’s too much to say, too much grabbing the attention for these ladies to linger any longer then needed. Already the album’s finished twice as I fumble for the right words and beat myself solidly round the head with an errant collection of the works of Susan Hill. (No, don’t ask.) This is the one I’m loving more than loving itself. Right now, for sure.

Oh fuck, it’s finished already.

U.S. Girls – 28 Days

Great video, great song: acid-tinged 60s Motown female empowerment bedroom isolation. I love shit like this.

(continues overleaf)

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by Everett True

My name is Everett True. I am a music critic. This is what I do. I criticise music. The clue is in my job description – music critic. I do not consider myself a journalist, as I do not research or report hard news. I do not consider myself a commentator as I believe that everyone should be a participant. I criticise people and in return I am not surprised if other people criticise me. It is part of the whole deal of being in the public arena. I am Everett True. Believe in me and I have power like a God. Quit believing in me and I no longer exist.