Please Kill Me

“Please Kill Me”

It’s the Lord’s weekend and Jesus died and rose again for the sweet, satiating melodies of Carnations, R.M.F.C and EXEK in the Babylon of Landsdowne. I go alone. I’m feeling silly after consoling my wallflower fears with some dope gifted to me in an inconspicuous foil ball the previous week, but gain a floaty sense of calm in my ascension out of downstairs Solotel country; to the tidal wave of NAS uniforms donned by my peers. 

I spot my curly headed friend amongst the pilgrims.

“Did you just have a durry?”

Fuck! It’s that bad? 

I now ruminate about the scent of smoke clinging to the threads of my shirt, while he ruminates on the state of his breath after snacking on the off-cuts of uneaten steak from his work at a butchery/restaurant. I picture him in a cold back room with chicken carcasses strung from the ceiling while he pecks at steak bits like a large carnivorous bird. We reassure each other that we smell lovely and he hops onto the stage and transforms from flightless to fleeting with the aid of a Stratocaster.

CARNATIONS come in hard and fast. Their drummer, Ben, like some ginger tempest, makes it known who is warming the stage. Attention is sequentially drawn and feet are sequentially commanded to tap and shuffle around and maybe even jump a little as the sounds of the synth pierce the sticky fight for autumn air. You cant wipe the smile off my face for this band, they are like a jovial carnival on an overcast pier; when metallic tasting rhythm contends with the brightness of their colourful harmonies… its like pigeons loitering around a saturated candy store - grunge, glitz and a gunmetal guitar. “I Die” sends lightening into the crowd - a fan favourite, as I hear affirmed around me in enthusiastic repetition, while “Money“ is performed with a ritual dance routine from Marianne. They’ve got a sound thats bound to captivate, a sound drenched in joy - recalling “so much pain, and so much memory” as in Naomi’s beloved “Pink Metal” baby - to “kiss until the battery dies”, is to pluck every last petal of Carnations. 

After an awkward interaction with a ghosted hinge date, I escape to the garish pink bathrooms - perplexed by the unidentified grey muck on the top of each and every toilet… I’d rather introduce aforementioned hinge date to my parents than have to be in that cubicle again. But I guess thats rock and roll? Beggars cant be choosers.

Speaking of, Sydney favourites Rock Music Fan Club incite a reign of perspiration unto its crowd as the mosh takes up its final, pulsating form. Now, with the added licks of saxophone from Emma, Buz Clatworthy, perched upon his throne, orders his republic to jerk around in what can only be described as the kind of jolting in a Wes Anderson flick. Its a riot, and something about this set feels timeless. I can see the emerald pub tiles, and can smell the Emu Bitter that clings to them. R.M.F.C is clean cut, fast and undeniably popular. “Access”, a personal favourite, ripples outwards from the kit like gunfire and I am shot down by sharp guitar and sharper drums. What else can I say? Its jangly and leaves a nice sweet aftertaste in my mouth. The crowd chants the “Television” chorus and I notice the guy who knocked a drink out of my hand earlier happens to be their guitarist. Cool! 

Crowds spawn and multiply for the final act of the evening - Naarm/Melbourne’s EXEK. Albert Wolski is some kind of transversal wizard. He hacks the pre-conceived aesthetic of sound and order and in the process unleashes an assortment of melodies that bring to mind the avant-garde undulations of the likes of Essendon Airport or Total Control. Albert moves around the stage like someones tied invisible strings to his body like a puppet. He’s attached to the beat like a microscopic organism on the back of a whale, with a maraca in his hand and a prophetic vision in his downcast eyes. “Unseasonable Warmth” is a track that was designed to turn slowly around on a vinyl, probably casting some kind of spell in clockwise spiral form. Eerie vocals erupt from Valya for the chorus as her trumpet is lowered and interchanged for verse.

“She's the coolest cat I’ve ever seen!” 

I splutter to my other wallflower friend. Who then finds herself watching the set from the greenroom with me and some other followers of the druidic incantation. Jesus wept! Here is where the guitarist’s sticker, “Please Kill Me”, is brought to my attention - brilliant. I want one in pink. “Weight Loss” sends shivers down the collective spine of the Landsdowne as the familiar bass line incites a responsorial chant from the crowd. I am overjoyed. What a clanger!!! The drummer, Sam Dixon, offers us his fills in neat intervals. Each instrument is somehow congruent with one another, nothing fights to be heard - every note elects itself a role within the party without objection. 

I descend back to the earthly realm satiated, cup filled and forehead anointed with another redemptive showcase of the Australian underground.