Drain, Shame, and Prop Record's Omnipotent Reign

Shame… 

It’s Baby’s 1st Birthday for Ashfield’s beloved Prop Records, and I’m straight skipping to the 96 to return Sydney-side and bare witness 2 dis shit. To mark this special occasion, Prop have prepared their party bags for the talent that is GIFT EXCHANGE, PIOUS FAULTS, FULLY FEUDAL, CARNATIONS, OPTIC NERVE, G2G and HERNIATED DISCS (who’s invitation musta got lost in the mail…). I’m sloshing Skepta’s Ignorance is Bliss into my frozen ears under the winter sun when I see something glimmering outside a gentrified Fitzroy bagel shop… an Italian gold bracelet that’s just tooooo big for my soft (city) paws. When I touch down in torrential Sydney, I backstroke straight to Marrickville to hug my bezzie and cash da loot at the nearby Money Lenders. Behind the trustworthy man sizing up the treasure, is a gigantic and scary sword hung dutifully on the wall. 

He tells me and Mimi that 

“Arnold Schwarzenegger used this in movie. It’s very heavy.”

 
I get 200 big ones, but it’s not enough to buy the blade. I’m too blinded by my own good luck to chew long enough on the immoral nature of this affair, but for now, I will use my apparent blessing to alleviate overpriced beers and overpriced airport freddo frogs. 

When I finally shake myself off at the bowlo entrance, PIOUS FAULTS are busy shutting people up. I’m giving my friends the “sheeeeeeeeeeeet!” eyes, because it seems that Brisvegas have lined up another three cherries and cha-chinged a hardcore adjacent jackpot. It’s kind of like if Joaquin Brewer and Caractacus Potts from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang fused into one, coz the band suddenly transforms into a beautiful tenor choir for what I think is the shiny two-part track, Worship the Surface. This sporadic injection of acapella is fresh, coz it’s unconventional but fits so well - like chilli chocolate or Faye Webster and Lil Yachty. Me and the other punters are starting to itch under this QLD spell when the main fella hops off the stage mid-song, and charges with a stiff-arm fend for the bar. He later reemerges on the small stage with a drink in his hand and an ill-chay look on his head.

Football game…?

I make haste for the bathroom to lap up some gatorade and stretch my hamstrings before second half. I am standing next to Elmo from FULLY FEUDAL when an older punter looks us dead in the eyes and asks

 “do you guys actually like this music?”

I grapple tackle her to the ground and cling on for a bit, but the ref’s whistle pulls me straight back up again because my morals have all at once returned to me. Reluctantly still, we shake hands and put our mouthguards back in. When I emerge back onto the pitch, I see Zoe oggling the caesar salad burger on her plate with engorged cartoon eyes, but unfortunately it’s too dry. There’s not enough sauce! There’s never enough sauce… 

I’m practically choking on deze dusty chips, but the sonic power of FULLY FEUDAL Heinrich manoeuvres me so I can breathe again and it’s all eets (iykyk). These guys dispense a gentle ferocity through their music, it’s hard to explain, but it just floats around the bowlo like noxious gas and guides its patrons into a pleasant stupor. Their set is unassuming and weirdly tranquil - I am tapping my feet under the table and looking around at my surroundings as the rain pelts down  and floods the city. I’m pretty sure they play Crown in a Rosebush, which is making me feel like a knight in shining armour with disparate drums and unidentified jangling sounds. I’m thinking the whole band would look really sick in medieval drip - especially the bass player. They should swap that fender for a lute. 

CARNATIONS haul us out of this squelchy smoko like we’re yellow-finned tuna and they’re an illegal fishing trawler - there’s no choice but to swim upstream… It’s my first time hearing their new stuff after my time away, they sound goth-ier and perhaps more mature - despite Marianna and Naomi’s synths perched upon their cherry red high chairs. The Cleaners From Venus cover makes us fish fully squirm, and I reckon if Mr Newell were here himself, he’d tip em’ his top hat and then tell me to fuck off. A little while later, Gi crawls up on stage and informs the crowd that Optic will be selling dexies after the show, which makes the man in a full white suit in front of me hee-haw like a donkey. OPTIC NERVE are a common odds on favourite, because statically, they are unable to fall from the ladder. They’re so in sync with each other, and surprise me with some slower paced new tracks that launder the dirty dawgs in the mosh at a more environmentally friendly setting. Leash riles me up as it’s chanted around the pitch, in between the thumps of feedback that pour out of the amp at Gi’s discretion - “One hand, on the leash, walkin’ the dog, down the street….”.  Zoe ritually applauds them with a few hard barks. Joel shoulder charges off the stage to catch the end of the Raiders game, and I see the older punter from earlier is sent to the sin bin for trying to hijack the aux to play Foreigner. Time and place lady! 

Drain…

It then comes time to cash out my dividend when G2G roll up and unleash the beast and make the last of us shake a leg. My incline walks at the gym are doing fuck all coz I start sweating through my thick purple sweater and white suit guy nearly slips over on my sweat puddle. Perhaps more importantly, it appears the divide between Drain Gang and Prop Records is finally beginning to close, as someone in the crowd tells me that G2G’s bass player shared the stage with Yung Lean the night before… You cant make dis shit up! - I wonder If she told Jonatan about the laws of attraction, or vice versa? G2G are just so effing cool, because they got dat diligaf?, where am I? who am I? effortless kinda spirit. And just when I thought I couldn’t <3 them any more, they cross the try line when drummer Danny starts belting Dirty Old Town from behind the his cymbals. My harp tattoo starts stinging like Harry Potter’s scar, and I watch as the crowd throw down their blue and maroon jerseys for green ones. Again, the sweet sorrow of Irish diaspora arrests me under the intense glow of the “Live @ The Bowlo” neon sign. 

And so, I spend my dwindling shame currency on some stale wannabe smarties from the lollie dispenser. They taste like shit, and I know this marks the early onslaught of my incoming bad karma! I say bye-bye to my Sydney friends, and wade back out into the torrents, keeping my ears pricked up for sirens. Prison cells are tooooooo small for this (country) dog!

(I do NOT condone gambling, violence or letting your moral compass get all mixed up even if you're as skint as I am)