A few weeks back, I was walking past my boss’ office on my way to assault a plate of nachos, when all of a sudden, I heard the kind of song that forces you to let a plate of Doritos slathered in mild salsa go to the dogs. It was this indie rock track that belied all the other shit I’d heard recently, led by a voice that would be enough for Angel Olsen to up and leave it all behind.
It was a brilliant, exuberant and cathartic release, a real chiropractic sort of song in that when your neck snaps 180 degrees to discover more about it, you end up fixing that spinal fracture you’ve held since last year’s footy season. A few bars in, I was hooked.
“Mate, what the fuck is this?”, I exclaimed, whilst holding a serrated blade to his throat. “It’s Middle Kids! It’s the fucking Middle Kids!”, he cried, eyes rolling around his head in a panic. I pressed the knife a little closer, the threat demanding more. “I can’t give it to you yet, it’s not meant to be officially released for another couple of weeks!”. Blood trickled from the wound I was slowly sealing into his flesh. Normally, I’d just add the body to my tally of foes that had crossed me in the past. But with those vocals soaring above me – I don’t know. Ya can’t commit a cold-blooded murder in the middle of such a beautiful song. Ya just can’t.
Cold steel clanged to the ground of the cubicle. “When this finally hits the Internet….you let me know”. And with that, my obsession with Middle Kids, as well as a termination notice from my old work, had begun.