"NAVAL VICTORY OF THE GEETEE-TIANS AT KOMET"

BERLIN BESTOWED UPON US thirty-five degree heat and a disturbing hangover, but it wasn’t enough of a deterrent to keep me and my crew from sweating out every last electrolyte in the name of die musik. In my friend’s eyes, is genuine pain. It’s nearly 9pm and last nights shakes are still assaulting my nervous system. But the show must go on, because GEE TEE and SATANIC TOGAS are in town, joined by Berlin new-wave band SPLIZZ who are here to transition the scary Germans into scary Sydney mutant punk/rock. We peel ourselves off the pavement and into the line thats flung all the way down the street, surveying the freaky attendees of this rodeo and gingerly sipping from a bottle of Radler.

We slowly infiltrate the bar. I desperately avoid murderous stares from the bar staff as I fan myself with a gig flyer like a fat American Disney-adult aboard the deck of a cruise ship. The heat intensifies the further we go, and so does the fear of dying as I have premonitions of bloodshed and the Spanish armada. Destruction. The callous mouth of a flame. 

Anyway <3

I shake myself off like a dog and prick up my ears coz SPLIZZ climb aboard the stage and we all set sail into the Deutsch post-punk ocean. They start rowing with “La Vie”, where I am immediately very impressed with the dynamic between the lead singer and the bass player. His shit is so quick, and the chords used are kind of unusual and a little bit groovy, layered with the male/female vocals that blend seamlessly together like eine ziggarette und bier. This band is refreshing because they’re so cohesive and concise - it’s appregio but with German efficiency, so polished that I can see myself in the kick drum (efficiently confirming I still look like shit). “Die Angst” makes my death premonitions float away, and I thank the flanger pedal and the surfy sound it makes. I thank the guitarist. I thank god. Language barriers don’t stop me from shaking my head (in a good way) at the clever repetitive lyrics in this track - its got a hollow body and a solid brain - like a graveyard ghoul that PHD'd in molecular science. For real though, I am super interested to see what is next for spooky SPLIZZ. 

After that, I paddle the out of the basement and my strategic-band-shirt of the night is noticed by an appendage of GEETEE. 

“is that an Optic Nerve tee???”

Is the pope catholic? 

Feeling assured and special, my friends and I rehydrate and mentally prepare ourselves for the next trash rock outfit of the evening, SATANIC TOGAS. The devil emerges and so does the tsunami coz everyone is suddenly coerced into the scratchy undulations of “Digital World” - even Lucifer is lookin’ for a digital girl to give his love tonight, all right! Aw man - this drummer is stupidly good. He’s also wearing a freaky mask, and keeping that beat inhumanly fast... Ishka introduces his melodies with ad-libs designed to frighten babies, popes and my dad - “BLEGH! HAIL SATAN! ACAB!” It’s all highly nuanced. “Teenage Garbage” trashes the basement, and the devoted hi-hat possesses my feet and starts making me twist around like a happy idiot. Aw yeh. “I’m such a slob!” I’m also such a sweaty slob, because my once-dry-strategic-band-shirt is now soaked through and I am terribly self-conscious. There’s actually no time for insecurity though, because my priorities must lie in (lovingly) shoving the 8 foot tall man in front of me so I can see the dude on the upper mezzanine showcasing some genuinely seraphic hardcore dancing… As it so appears: Satanic Togas repel cops, and attract angels. 

Following another brief interval, me n’ my fellow Aussie ex-pat part with our paddy pals in a way that makes it seem like we were being sent away to war, coz here’s GEETEE, geared and ready to pick up where the others left off. Before me is Kel Mason, in another perplexing but less jilting mask. What’s behind it, I’ll never know - unless I one day become a famous, rich and hot music journalist with special mask-less identification privileges. For now, I turn to my imagination and decide he probably looks like a mashup of Hulk Hogan and Vincent Price. Some scuzzy guitar locks in with the drums for “Bad Egg” and the Germans get a little bit verrückt…

New heights are reached here coz there’s a guy who vertically crowd-surfs to the upstairs level of the venue, making me and the Germans take a break from (lovingly) shoving each other and stand in awe at the last of his limbs being pulled upwards, as if being rescued from a sinking ship. Maybe it was the climax of my hangover, but it feels like I’m in the middle of an Italian Renaissance painting - something like Sante Pernada’s Naval Victory of the Venetians at Jaffa (c. 1590s). GEETEE are the Venetians and we are the Egyptians though, coz “(I Hate) Drivin In The City” fires away like a canon and I’m swept to the very back of the basement and onto the conveniently placed couch. Hey, I don’t mind it! When I get back up, the laid back “Rock Phone”, relieves my aching feet. Its uncomplicated and sorta stripped back, but recruits a sweet bitta synth towards the end that reaffirms who tf is on stage right now - a business casual bassist VS a vocalist who threatens to rob me and light my car on fire. That, is the duality of man. The duality of GEETEE. 

We spill back out onto the street. I wring out my shirt like a prairie wife doing her washing on the ranch. It smells like the ranch. Triumphantly, we march to a Späti and chow down on a well deserved ice-cream. I give my christian father a trigger warning before sending Whatsapp videos on the homebound U8, because I am a pious and vigilant daughter. Goodnight Dad, and “Goodnight Neanderthal” x

https://splizz.bandcamp.com/

https://satanictogas.bandcamp.com/

https://geeteeband.bandcamp.com/album/goodnight-neanderthal-2

"R.R.C AND THE BRIXTON GENIE"

ALL THE ODDS were against me attending this show, from a potential Narcos-style-Belgian-drug-bust before the Eurostar, almost missing said Eurostar, AND not actually having a ticket to a sold out gig - I should have gone home with my tail between my legs. But nah, got sucked under the water and spat out in Brixton where I persevered uphill with a FAT suitcase, ending up at the pub strategically dressed in my R.M.F.C shirt. It was around this time that an actual tail appeared to wag for my good fortune, as the Brixton Windmill dog met my eye from the roof of the pub (i swear this is true)… legend has it, the hound materialises in times of need; a South-London punk genie that grants three wishes to desperate, helpless souls like myself. And so, my long-lost Irish cousin and I were stamped, with a pint in hand and heavy hankering for some sweet and salty garage punk. Time for the entree: ISLAND OF LOVE, followed by a bitta POWERPLANT and Sydney’s own RESEARCH REACTOR CORP. for the main course. 

Me and the other punters are now stranded on the ISLAND OF LOVE, but no one seems too fussed about sending any SOS signals coz they start layin’ down some moody English guitar and shaking their long tresses around in circles. Gimme “songs of love”, not shelter! Listening to live rock and roll is good for your soul because everyone kind of turns into a dad, so there’s bound to be some issues resolved for a fair few people in the crowd. The power of music! In all seriousness, (and in defence of rock) , Island of Love are pretty fantastic.“I’ve Got the Secret”, from their most recent record fills up the room and scatters around the silver garlands hanging up on the walls - but it’s “Head Case” that grabs my attention. This track fucks with my hormones and reverts me from dad to teenager in its arrogant disposition n’ nonchalant no cares guitar. Super different to the other songs, its slowcore, its fuzzy and its super addictive. The rambly lyrics stick with me: “I met someone that met somebody on the way - I’m replaced. Thought I had to get a little off my chest, think about each other in a different way - I’m amazed” - hm! Ok. Gotta swim back to the Brixton Boat.

I double check my neck pillow is still safe behind the bar and in the process magnetise the company of another Sydneysider. We discuss dangers of dog sitting, knife wounds from wrangling marrow zucchinis and, his aunts 14-yr-old chicken called Mrs Nosey. I am having important thoughts about eggs and oversized vegetables but then see that tail again and realise its time for me to be granted my second wish. POOF! before me appears a very swag Powerplant shirt (that did not involve me heckling the main man and falsely accusing him of bearing an Irish accent) - thank you genie! I will now finally be accepted by the Ukranian/English punk scene! 

I then shield my eyes because POWERPLANT have lit up the stage. I carry my pint into the mosh over the crowd like the pope with a holy relic and set myself up for some weird and wonderful radioactive noises. The bass player makes me need to up my glasses prescription for “A Spine”, because his fingers move so fast that his left hand starts to resemble Taz from looney toones and everything gets a bit blurry. There’s nothin’ looney about the calibre of this music though, as I am blown away by the musicians before me and the heavy synthy low-fi explosion of sound that wrestles with the dance floor. Even if the frontman (Theo Zhykharyev) sounds a bit like the devil, its in the most endearing way possible and there’s a playfulness to this band that doesn’t underestimate their ability to rock!! Oh man - “Walk Around (Hang my Head)” kicks off with some jolly bells and I go crazy coz I really like this song. “You’re on your knees - come quietly!” Later progresses in to what can only be recorded here as “GAK GAK GAK” by the end of the set - a lyrical gibberish that skips around hand in hand the with the drum machine. 

Right! All thats left are some punk lessons from RESEARCH REACTOR CORP. and my third and final wish. The band jumps up and the Bulmers has taken its full effect. It’s getting weird. “Fake Identity” rattles out over the crowd which makes me giggle and grin like a little kid (more hormone rearrangement). The amplitude was hot. My face was hot. The guy on synth was hot. Everything was hot! My genie dog was barking and so was the frontman Billy. This isn’t even non-lexical vocals, (I did my research) (sorry), this is mutant brain possession coz this man has gone full zombie and his actually eyes start popping out of his head and onto the floor. I am hoping the genie doesn’t mistake these loose eyeballs for tennis balls when “Septic Fucker” sparks up without an epilepsy warning. It’s dark and then it’s bright, and in the sparse moments of light, I think I see the creature from Frankenstein being zapped into existence. The Brits are a bit frightened at this stage coz no one really knows how to mosh properly except for the Sydney ragtags and my Irish cousin. OK OK OK! The music stops and I stomp slowly outside keeping my eyes peeled for Mary Shelley and any other unfastened organs lost to the immense pressure of Research Reactor Corp. 

We are outside chattering to R.R.C’s guitarist Ishka. He is in 100 000 bands and probably conducts orchestras on the side too. I inform him that his name sounds like the Irish word for water, otherwise spelled “uisce”. My cousin also elaborates that “uisce beatha”, the Irish word for whiskey, translates to “water of life”. We are all learning things now! I don’t even realise but my final wish comes true because in the cab home Mr Bean crawls out of my suitcase and hands me another pint. I <3 London! 

bone breaker (music video)

🂼❦ here is a music video i made (with help from Niamh and Alex) along my travels! hope u like it!! shout out to the dawgs too they were paid for their appearances in pats

“A stands for Angel Numbers"

ვვვ 777

MARRICKVILLE BOWLO - the Inner-West’s long established watering hole for both the old punters who haven’t put down their bowls since 1976, and the freaky fans of the Underground that have since made an encampment in the smoking area. Appearances aside, who are we here to see this evening? The ringleaders and somewhat designers of welding western, hardcore and punk seamlessly together - OPTIC NERVE (or as I like to imagine, Optic SERVE. Purrrrrrr). It’s their (second) album launch, and here to join them alongside the ominous mention of a special guest, are Oscar Sulich’s BOBA LEGO, Brisbane’s beloved PALE HORSEY and of course, Sydney sweethearts, CARNATIONS. 

I pull my friends onto the yellowed D.F as BOBA LEGO warms the stage - dressed equal parts strange and beautiful, Oscar summons with some rubbery synth - introducing a post-modern kingdom where he’s the King. He also becomes Prom King, because the first two tracks make me want to find an acne faced partner and start gingerly slow-dancing under the disco ball. The Marrickville heavens open, leaving not only “a thousand tears to water the ground”, but an array of confused, perplexed, but mostly titillated old punters watching on from the back of the pub. They look like extras in a film set. Who sent them here? God? Stanley Kubrick? All I know is there seems a harmonious air in here - one thats only found in a Fantasy in blue spiderman.

For act two, PALE HORSEY take the stage and I am frightened but instantaneously allured by the Bono-esque creature (Frances Acrid) who informs me that the boba zion has since vanished, and now its Lucifer that's Falling. Drums are kept tight, bass is funky, and Frances yells angry prose into the mic about overlords and small flies in tall glasses of wine - I think I heard a bark at one point too - fantastic! The best part about this act, is its theatrical quality. Pale Horsey is a snake charmer coz Frances crawls down onto the yellowed floor under the sudden trance of a saxophone - beholding his followers upon his knees as he chants parseltongue and makes the mosh manic as if under the harry potter snake spell. I search for Nagini in the pit, but find only mortals - I’ll give it a few hours for the inhuman and unearthly to show themselves.

Ok, interval. I meekly navigate my way to the smoking area to catch my breath and decompress with my friends - I am getting excited for the final act of the night, and getting drunk off gluten-free beer that I try so desperately to hide from the bowlo-membership-card-holders. My coeliac affliction harms my punk facade, so for now, I will continue to scratch off the GF sticker from the bottle like its a box of Jatz and I’m a rat in a pantry. I begin to wonder if Voldemort had any food intolerances, but then hear the first silvery weeps of Bruno’s guitar and scurry back into position. 

CARNATIONS, now with added T-shirts AND a self-titled EP with Urge records, continue to make our hearts swell, and our bodies die. Life is good when Marianne and Naomi are in their matching outfits, singing matching harmonies and repping matching smiles with their doting audiences. Life is even better when I am “excited” and “enticed” by my favourite tune, “Videodrome” that’s flung out from the first moody bass line, caught soon afterwards by a cavalier yet devoted Strat, and rounded up nicely with some flighty drumming from Ben. This song is so good because its steady, but yearns to break out of its enclosure and run around in circles and so thats exactly what it does. As a result, a “sensation occurs” and I am not afraid! Class. I’m reminded this time by the likes of The Cure’s “M”, and it makes me wanna dye my hair black and escape someday, but for right now, my priorities lie in fighting Optic Nerve for the title of Carn’s NO. 1 fan.  

MONICA CANTUCCI, tonight’s special guest, then effortlessly sweeps the floor and gives the membership-card-holders of our generation something to write home about. Gi gives her the introductory commotion she deserves, as her presence is magnificent, and the whole pub is silent for her beautiful, kinky and emotive rendition of Amanda Lear’s “Alphabet”. Joyous little giggles keep escaping my mouth as she toys with the crowd during this song like a kitten taunted by a feather. She is a graceful vision in a red dress - and leaves me wanting more after Kylie’s“Padam Padam” transforms the bowlo into a nightclub. The card-holders are popping and locking and jolting - I hear it and I know! I see Joel climb back onto the kit and quickly realise the time is nigh for me to fall down the Trap Door and surrender to Gi’s elusive lyricism and inimitable stage presence. 

OPTIC NERVE cast the “Obliviate” spell or something, coz even if I’m touching wood thats burning through, I completely forget I’m in the earthly realm. The prolonged intro reheats the tension in here like a microwave lasagne coz holy moly, this set is blistering! “Bead Shop” really riles me up, and I manage to break a nail in the mosh-pit but no one cares. Have I ever seen sympathy? NO. Doesn’t matter. I am being fecked around in a human washing machine and loving every second! The dual guitars square off with a bitta playful drumming for this track before launching into Gi’s siren song - she leaps to and fro like a banshee, leaving but an ethereal breath of mist in the mirrors on the ceiling. “Ball and Claw” sees a collective and synchronistic movement of bodies as the crowd tries to keep up with militant speed drumming. My feet hurt but my eye health is 20/20. “Pendant” is also a hot pick. Its got twangy guitars and a steady roll-out of vocals that get us all hot n bothered until the drums slow it down and we all get 30 seconds to breathe - not for long though coz I start seeing 333 and 777. I’m pretty sure its a sign that from the universe that this record is gonna do some serious fat damage both to some venues electrical equipment, and to my ears when I replay it at full volume for the 10th time in a row.

The music stops and I think I have leave now. Goodbye Marrickville Bowlo (hogwarts) and hello real world! I help my friend up off the ground after a bike mishap and deftly seek the promise of hot chips to soak the geek beer - but more importantly, more and more of Angel Numbers to permeate my Tympanic Membrane. 

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. 

halloooooooo

 welcome to farmdog!!!!☺☺☺☺

Hello and welcome to my blog!!!!!

I write this first inaugural post from my balcony in Kreuzberg, Berlin.  The sun is currently having a fight with the remanence of last nights ferocious storm that almost ruined our BBQ plans - alas, refuge was sought upon another balcony of a coupla of friendly Irish expats. We sat around the table as the storm raged on - picking off neglected mouldy airbnb plates and discussing German politics, as well as the creatures that line her streets... one Irishwoman spoke of a grocer who tore an avocado apart using his hands in front of her to double-check its ripeness. Thats what I call German efficiency!!   

Ok back to the blog.

What I plan to do here is talk about music and maybe some art and maybe some anecdotes and poems...

I love music! I love going to gigs and also while I am settling here in Europe, a long way from home, maybe my pals can read this if they miss me :3 <3

So thats the suss, stay tuned for whatever the feck this turns out to be. 

CHOW - Orla!

****⭒☆☆☆☆☆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆