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 Everett True

The return of Everett True | 136. The Friendsters

The return of Everett True | 136. The Friendsters
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Missed them at Happyfest. I had me a good time there, but… now? I feel like a right tart. Goddamn it. I left straight after Bent’s set to catch the bus.

Fucking bus. I should’ve walked the 9.6km back to The Gap instead. It would only’ve taken around 100 minutes. Fucktard. Not only did I miss Kitchen’s Floor – “I like the fact this music doesn’t lead anywhere. Life doesn’t fucking lead anywhere,” as a better man than myself tonight once wrote – but I also missed this.

GodDAMN! Think of me as the lonely backwards uncle you never wanted to know. I venture out-of-doors determined not to miss Bent before I leave town and then discover I’ve compounded my crime. (Crime? If loving music is a crime then lock me up and throw away the key. And other such meaningless cliches.) MotherFUCK. Er. The Friendsters create the sort of raw, untramelled, dissolute, claustrophobic, depressed, repetitive, surging, hopeful, bittersweet, dissonant, melodic, beautiful raw, beautiful cool, beautiful dispossesed, beautiful minimal, beautiful beautiful punk pop music I’ve ALWAYS loved, and I was but 50 minutes (and a resultant 10.2km walk back) aware from witnessing it in the flesh. I’ve just discovered they’re from Sydney. Fer fuck’s sake. Do you think if I get down on bended knee I might be able to convince them to come back down to Brisbane before the end of June just to play a set for me? Just me and a two-pack of kitchen roll to catch the saliva uncontrollably drooling from my ears. I mean mouth. I mean ears.

Ugh.

No chance.

Good job I make no pretence to be clued in these days.

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