Garfield was a prophet: Mondays suck. There’s that sudden realisation that all the harm you’ve inflicted upon yourself over the weekend will suddenly and inescapably catch up to you, and turn a mere 24 hours into a lifetime of pain. Unless you’re me. Shit, Mondays are great for me. I do nothing. I wake up around 1 in the afternoon, hang out with my dogs, catch an episode of The Sopranos, and then have a 4:30 FaceTime Conference with the fellas. Technology, amirite?
But this Monday’s different, because there’s the first look screening of the debut single from Hobby Farm. Yet another side-project from a member of The Ocean Party, it’s beginning to look like The OP’s are trying to organise some sort of mass acquisition of Melbourne night-life, where the entire jangle pop ensemble stages a show at every venue in The Great Art Capital of ‘Straya. Listen mate, you’re either going to an Ocean Party show, or you’re going to the casino.
Not that it would be a bad thing – amongst Ciggie Witch, Velcro, Cool Sounds, Jordan Thompson, Snowy Nasdaq, and a couple others I’m probably forgetting, you can check out Hobby Farm, probably playing a quiet but warmly received set in the Tote front bar. They kick off with their first song “Wrong Things”. Mournful guitars warble next to bruised sax and Zac Denton duets with an unnamed woman on a nostalgia-stained sermon. He’s dressed as a professor, with a glass tumbler filled with the finest wine in the supermarket to match; he’s reminiscing, as all good lecturers do, on his woes. His brother looks on from the corner of the room, shirtless and covered in sweat from all the iron-pumping and kidney punches. The song ends, the tears well, the crowd stands, the room erupts.
And that’s what I did on Monday.
Hobby Farm’s debut album is out now on Osborne Again, in the old USB format (TECHNOLOGY!) or Name-Your-Price on Bandcamp.