“Oh, you’re from Sydney! You must go to the beach all the time!” Fuck no. I hate the fucking beach. If I wanted to get sunburnt, I’d go to fucking volcano, and dip my naked torso beneath the frothing lava. If I wanted to fill up my arsecrack with sand, I’d head to an S&M club in Jamaica. And if I wanted to fight tooth and nail for a square metre plot of land to hang out in a crowded wasteland of hopelessness with other fat, pale lards, I’d go to a Chet Faker show.
I feel like Rebel Tears understand where I’m coming from. Fuck the beach, let’s listen to depressed drum machines and morbid monologues.