The return of Everett True | 129. Kitchen’s Floor
Just a slice of malignant, malodorous, malnutritous magnificence to start the day.
We’re going to be leaving Brisbane in a couple of months time, and there’s plenty I’ll miss. For now, I want to focus on the noise. Matt Kennedy’s been a constant, a reminder that not everyone is a smug happy pool-owner or inane stoned-out scenester collecting musicians the ways others collect grazes or a back-stabbing two-faced industry bastard. I dunno. (Shrugs.) Maybe he is. I don’t know him that well. But his music would seem to indicate otherwise. All the frayed power leads and discarded brown paper bags. The random collection of leads. The desolate binges. It doesn’t lead to anywhere. Not a safe career stuck pushing paper around and ticking boxes and teaching students to be just as middle-management as they are, in a uni. Not a pointless musical ‘career’ spent meticulously copying the sounds of 20 years ago. Not a wife or husband and kids and a weekly trip to Bunnings and an bi-annual to Europe. I dunno. (Shrugs.) Maybe it does. Like I say, I don’t know him that well. But his music would seem to indicate otherwise.
This is my annual-ism.
“I’ve seen your repulsion/And it looks good on you.”
‘Resident Dregs’ is even scummier than the title suggests. It’s nasty. It’s full of disgust – both internal and external. It’s full of the sort of dirt others like to slum in for a bit and then run back to their fucking bearded boyfriends and rich mummies and safe uni jobs, hangover or no. Hardly matters. They have a safety net. An off-switch. I like the fact this music doesn’t lead anywhere. Life doesn’t fucking lead anywhere.
Why should it?
Perhaps Matt is fed up with his surroundings and lifestyle and ‘Resident Dregs’ is an ode to his own self-disgust rather than a commentary of society at large.