TONGUE DISSOLVER and the VERY GREEDY FOX

Over the course of the proletariat working week, arcane and rusted footy hymns reverberated around Victorian churches. The Yarra was dyed Sherrin red, and the cold stone of each player who was immortalised into a statue brushed the fingertips of those who came to worship. The ritual of procession of Granny weekend feels fuelled by fanaticism and shrouded by capital greed. My cynicism reeks of Waratahs. Kylie is tea though. Stroking chin in the backseat of the Uber while the driver is subjected to our girlish pre-drink inclination for Sabrina Carpenter. His head is in his hands as Sugar Talking pumps deoxygenated life force energy from the aux cord artery into the lungs of the whip. I tip my hat 5 stars at his 13 minutes of gallant suffering as the Nissan speeds away nefariously down Smith St. 

Kieran of Jason Boltex is taking fat swigs out of a bottle of maple syrup on the upstairs stage of the Grace Darling. They reckon its coz they’re a vegan and no one really bats an eyelid, especially me considering I just spent $14.30 on a gin and tonic so it seems like a good idea.  These guys sound fresh - breakcore bumps and bruises. Kieran meanders into maple-less crowd leaving Lincoln to carry on bass-ing all alone up there. Non-artificially sweetened electronica chunes and a little bit cloudy. Nice. I like the singing a lot. 

Outside on the curb Max is revealing fox-induced decimation to all three of his chickens: Jeremy Cluckson, Kelly Cluckson and White Bastard. We sit at the sticky table with solemn bereavement, offering condolences as he describes the marble tombstone that will soon be erected in their honour. Boochi returns from bar enquiring on the topic of conversation. We’re talking chickens, I say, Max’s chickens…

                                    “AWWwwwwwwww! HOW ARE THE DARLINGS?” 

She presses unto the widower, with giant sparkling anime eyes and genuine endearment. We all recoil so I whisper dutifully in her ear that they are all in fact dead. Her bone chilling scream magnetises the attention of the Granny acolytes propagating on the ground level of the pub, designing a sort of inadvertent one-minute of silence. The neighbouring seccy also lowers the counterfeit P-Plater driver’s license in his hand for a moment and nods respectfully in our direction. We pour one out for the girls. R.I.P.

Braids come loose for Astrid. I’ve sent their LP Blue Sky World to a hardcore-obsessed coworker and my angelic-catholic mother. They are fronting the acoustic renaissance with two axes, one with 12 strings for an even more shimmering dissonance. All of a sudden, I've seen a warm shift in the atmosphere where in which everyone has become Bob Dylan pre-motorbike accident instead of post. It’s a phenomena that appeals to me greatly, as it feels like in this Century of music, the hippies and the punks are finally shaking hands without being forced to. I’m singing da chorus der for On Your Shoulder and squinting at the stage through the loyal entourage of dancers, reminded of V.I.P.P and The Mamas And the Papas, if they were covered in gum leaves. Paganism progresses as Grace pulls out a tin whistle for A Long Day Of Bad Ideas - heaps twangy on the gats and just as sultry as the recorded version. Smiles are being shot around the place like fragments of light off a mirror as the set circles to an end like a serpent biting its tail. That’s Sydney Style - u neva want it 2 end. 

Conclude discussions of bygone work romances and the benefits of vegetarian diets and slither back in for Punko. Have you ever been faded in a bathroom stall with your best friend? Have you ever known laughter like that? Why is everything so funny in the bathroom stall? Is it the cleaning chemicals cutting through the sting of piss? Is it chirping on about some mofo you’re tryna tune in the crowd? Is it sacred? Am I chopped liver? No Girl you look hot? Should we get another $14.30 gin and tonic? Is the Pope Catholic? 

Watch the trail of smoke that winds up and around Punko from the incense they lit at the foot of the stage. My nose gets congested with curiosity and the frequencies that follow singe my ears with flames coz it’s sounding real hot. They’re playing the bass all metallic and steezy and everything starts to feel a lil Blade Runner up in the Grattic. Painted by the Moon got the whole crowd in a regulated 135bpm head-bop, sweeping up everyone’s emotional leaves with the mid-tones on dat bass. Punko got me flying like one of them birds that like shiny shit coz they keeeeep running up beats that beam thru the Nag Champa. Collect is huge. Lyrically clever and not devoid of playfulness. Paws up 4 punkswa. 

Eyelids start drooping from all the $140.30 G&T’s consumed on premises. It's getting a slightly Gatsby as the bartender does a massive shot while I rip out another page in my cheque book, chewing on the end of a gigantic unlit cigar. And the lights dim. And Kylie is exclusively spinning around on the sound system and I think everyone is really having a go with hedonism on this Granulated Saturday night. Kinda wish the Lions were here and not at the Crown coz they’d probably be in a mood generous enough to donate me some of their eight-ball. I purify the air with my Gurkha Royal Courtesan smoke, lit from the remnants of stage incense as Tongue Dizzy start setting up their gear. 

Mouths agape in lieu for mass dissolvation of tongue. A distinct buzz hums throughout the crowd as punters prepare for loss of inhibitions, a typical symptom of seeing Tongue Dissolver in the live format. Music begins and it feels like I am standing behind a moving bus billowing gas in my face with hundreds of other cars sweeping down my peripheral and Bob Dylan just came off his motorbike. I amn’t even on any drugs (fuck you crown casino chosen locus for potentially generous AFL stars). It is just how it feels to see Tongue Diz. Da floor gunna fall in for all this jumping is loosening the screws in the timber beneath our feet. I can hear it pumping even when i’m in the hilarious bathroom stall typing these notes out. Squeeze back in to crowd with one. More. 14. Dollar. 30. G. And. T. 

Booch and I are staring at each other grinning on the tram home like exactly like that ^. We are pelting down Spencer Street like it’s the final 20 seconds toward the Kebab Kingz goal posts. Lament over UK Love Island season 13. Drop falafel into every crevice of couch. Scream and moan when Lorenzo on screen. Clamber into dog bed. Twitch in sleep throughout green field dreams and blue sky worlds.