New: NO ZU – Ui Yia Uia


If ever presented with the opportunity to catch Melbourne’s NO ZU, seize that shit. Carpe fucking diem, mate. It’s the most fun you can have with your pants on. Or off, whatever, some venues are stricter than others. The point is, if delirious unpredictability sounds like your sorta thing, you’ve got to catch this band. A babbling stream of synths, backup dancers and whistles (oh god, the whistles), NO ZU are insane.

They’ve done an admirable job of converting that to record as well. Fresh from their contribution to Cut Copy’s ‘Oceans Apart’ compilation, NO ZU have signed on with Chapter Music, and released “Ui Yia Uia”. It starts big, and just grows from there, an enormous blob of moist sound that somehow converts itself into a finale of triumphant trumpets, helium-coated chants and goopy bass. It’s cough syrup for the ears, in that it’ll get you drunker than you’ve ever felt in your life



CoverWhere were you a year ago? I’ll tell you where I was – knee deep in rejection, working an unpaid internship, and having nervous breakdowns in the best nightclubs that Kings Cross had to offer. “HOLY SHIT!”, I would scream internally, “HOW THE FUCK IS ANYBODY SUPPOSED TO LIKE THIS”, splashing a $17 craft beer down my hot pink shirt that myself and all the boyz were wearing. Salmon flavoured colour co-ordination is the name of the fucking game, amirite? How else are you supposed to let everyone know that you’re a fuckwit?

That might sound awful, but it was nowhere near as bad as what MAKING were going through. Picture this: you’ve been around for bloody yonks. You’ve released an EP, a single, and everything’s looking great. Every weekend is spent with your buds at Blackwire Records, netted between those signature bear claws, slaying the very concept of rock like you’re Braveheart, and other bands are the English. You’ve headed to your mate’s studio (word is he’s going to be doing some work with Miley Cyrus) and there’s a label that wants to put out your record. Your debut album! On vinyl! That’s the dream! Everything’s coming up Milhouse!

You sit there, waiting and waiting. Man, it’s been a while, hey – when are those records getting delivered? It’s getting kinda late, but you don’t want to take a nap, in case you miss the delivery man. You call your guy….no answer. That’s weird? You’re sitting there, and panic sets in. What’s happening? Where is your record? What the fuck? All that hard work, all that effort…for nothing. When tossing up between being an absolute slice of shit in the Cross and seeing your life’s work disappear, I’ll be too busy slipping into the grossest shirt I can find and planning the route of my hektik  night through Sydney’s drainage system to give an answer.

Thankfully, Melbourne’s TRAIT Records saw logic, and the travesty of having this album un-released. Now, MAKING’s debut is here in all it’s glory. I say glory, because that’s what it is. There isn’t a whole lot out there like this album. Not much anyway. Think of the unconventional pacing of At The Drive-In clashing with the tumultuous noise of Lightning Bolt and unnerving aggression of Shellac. Throw in some casual influence that comes from witnessing/performing amongst the incredible scene that exists in Sydney, from Tanned Christ to Yes, I’m Leaving, to Totally Unicorn, and you get MAKING.

There are so many aspects of ‘HIGHLIFE’ to admire. The drums, for example –  you’re slammed from every angle like the villains of Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds”, completely swarmed by pecking cymbals and clanging feathers. But the guitars! They are so wrung out, melodies switching and interchanging with equal nuance and menace, wringing your neck at one moment, and gently swallowing you in the next.DON’T FORGET THE BASS! The rhythm section pokes and prods surgically, manoeuvring each track here with the deadly precision of the doctor from The Human Centipede.

By far the best aspect of MAKING’s work is their calm before the storm approach. However, the difference between the cliche and the terror that MAKING exhibit is that there is always that expectation that the band will soon engage in a full-blown head crushing saga. The overall atmosphere is like being in the middle of a pool of sharks, bleeding and alone. The terror isn’t your immediate threat, but rather the waiting, that prolonged sense of doom. It’s like if that movie “Open Water” was made with a band that made one of the most interesting heavy albums of 2015 instead of a Great White. Although most deafeningly showcased on “Come To Me”, the effect is witnessed throughout the record, whether on a smaller scale with the pulsing long-distance ooze of “Amazon”, or “Dream Job”, in which shrill brutality is deployed for solely destructive purposes, an Agent Orange level of suffocating musical gas choking out the listener.

MAKING’s journey for the release of this album was a long one. Very long. But shit, don’t you reckon it was worth it? Not only does a salmon-shirt-wearing, deplorable piece of shit like me get to listen to this record, but so can everyone else. Miracles happen you guys, miracles happen. Immersive, impressive and forever brutal, MAKING’s ‘HIGHLIFE’ has scared the fucking shit out of me, and I couldn’t be happier.

‘HIGHLIFE’ will be out September 4th, on TRAIT Records. Pre-order here. They’re playing Blackwire for the album launch: September 11th with Marcus Whale, Mere Women and BV (put it together, ya numbskull)


After faaaar too long (and through no fault of their own), MAKING are finally releasing their debut album ‘Highlife’! And the first taste of it is the blacker-than-Gwyneth-Paltrow’s-soul “Come 2 Me”. The song is a broad descent into maddening, furious metal, a slow, poisonous burrowing into the centre of purely demented sound. It begins with post-punk inflected noise that wouldn’t be out of place on A Place to Bury Strangers, and segues into thundering drums and swirling, droning vocals commanding the listener to “Come to Me, Stay Awake, Show Mercy….”. Intimidation is at peak levels.

But then, with no warning, MAKING indulge in pure fury, an adrenaline hit pouncing into the vocals. The menace turns to outright madness, instruments bleeding into each other as a demonic presence forms itself. No punches are pulled as MAKING deliver THE heaviest song of the year. Experimental tones and an incomparable knowledge for how to sucker punch a motherfucker with a riff is MAKING’s bread and butter.

The irony here is that MAKING have created a song that’s about as primal as music can get, an ancient war cry delivered in a metallic, artificial tongue. But the video on display is a terrifying mix of grainy surveillance footage pulsating at an otherworldly frequency. The film has no other mission than to haunt your dreams forever. You like horror movies? You haven’t seen shit. Prepare to be sucked into this black hole of nihilism and technology, and emerge a lesser being.

New: WHITE DOG – 452A 7″

WHITE DOG’s debut 7″ is roughly 8 minutes – that’s shorter than how long it takes to eat a single Weetbix without the aid of milk. What’s more, the qualities of WHITE DOG are similar to said Weetbix sliding down your throat: suffocating, scratchy, demonic, delicious.

I heard “No Good” for the first time, and my tits blew off. Now, I’m more muscular than Randy “You’ve Got A Door, You’ve Got A Gym” Couture. Simply listening to this record will shred every inch of fat from you until you’re a lean machine.

Coincidentally, the band that turns everyone into Henry Rollins circa-early 80’s take the best from ‘Damaged’, and hurtle it into the sort of noise that the Terminator made when it was crushed by Sarah Connor in the first, and second best, film in the series.

There is so much to gouge your eyes out over this record and this band. They’re fast, they’re unrelenting, they’re brutal. Their songs are custom-made to be shouted back within an inch from the frontman’s face, flecks of spit flying between you in a disgusting, symbiotic relationship.

This 7″ is incredible. This band is incredible. WHITE DOG are the best new punk band in Sydney. Fuck yeah.


WHITE DOG have two shows coming up – tomorrow night at OAF ($5, w/Polish Club, Cody Munroe Moore etc.) and as part of the FUCK-OFF-THAT’S-GOOD second edition of SPLINTER, which goes down at the Chippo Hotel, and features Horsehunter, Housewives, Orion, GOD K, and a fuck tonne of others.

New: Black Stone From the Sun – Post Stress

Black Stone From the Sun are the peak body of Perth’s very apparent slobbering for recreating 90’s rock. On the one hand, you gotta make the joke about how Perth is, “just so far behind the times, grunge only just hit the airwaves over there”. LOL. GOOD ONE, M9, YOU’RE FUCKING KILLING IT WITH THE WIT THESE DAYS, BRUH. *hi-fives self, rides off into the sunset, damsel nuzzling around the chest, slab of VB tinnies tucked into the shoulder, all-knowing smirk creasing an otherwise godlike face*

But where the crunchy riffs of Black Stone from the Sun are concerned, you can’t help but go – well, shit mate, those 90’s bands were onto something. At the time, every record label had their dick in their hand, signing whatever band with a fuzz pedal their jizz happened to land on. That’s how a band like Stone Temple Pilots exists. Shooting star, the more you know.

Bands like Bleach-era Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, Mudhoney inform Black Stone From the Sun’s tried-and-true aesthetic. They’re not re-inventing the wheel, but, to quote the great Danaerys Targaryan, they’re going to break the wheel. Armed with disembowelling riff, a snarling bellow, and the ability to conjure more noise than a 21st set at a bush doof, Black Stone From the Sun score the official seal of “fucking legends”.

Video: Green Buzzard – Zoo Fly

I Oh You Records just announced their new signing, and it’s a farkin’ doozy. Green Buzzard, Sydney hoons born-n-bred, who have got an obvious affinity for Britpop melodies and GBV-esque shredding. Also, Huw from Bachelor Pad is in this band, so there was a 99% guarantee that it was going to turn out top bloody notch.

Green Buzzard just dropped their debut single and a video to boot, a hazy, smoke infused jam that’s got a riff fit for King Malkmus. It’s a bit cleaner than the 90’s trademark indie icons that they have evidently been chewing on for the last few years of their lives, but if anything, that makes “Zoo Fly” even more palatable. The melodies are still there, and the tighter production just allows for this beaut of a tune to soak into your skin.

You are a sponge. Green Buzzard is liquid goodness. Let it happen, baby. Let it happen.

New: Bachelor Pad – Ever Get the Feeling

You’re sloppy. It’s 2am, you’ve been rejected by every girl in town, and those pingas didn’t work. You tried to get into Bar Century, but the line was too long, and you didn’t make it to the front door before lockout. Dejected, you trundle to the Hungry Jacks next door. You know what’ll cheer you up? A Stunner Deal. A big, greasy, Stunner Deal.

The tired, sad lady behind the counter trundles out with your meal. Only instead of chips, you’ve got a synth line that buries itself into your ear with the intensity of that tracker that Hugo Weaving feeds to Keanu Reeves in the first 20 minutes of The Matrix. Instead of a Coke, you’ve got a simple fuzzy guitar line more warm and comforting than a blanket made from bald eagle fur. And instead of a Whopper, you’ve got Huw’s problems being unleashes upon you, serenading you with depression.

“Whathafuqisthiz?” you manage to vomit.

“You ordered the Stunner Deal. We got you Bachelor Pad. This is an extended metaphor”


New: Stations – Master/Disciple

Fuck, this is terrifying. I imagine my reaction to this is similar to a hermit who hasn’t had any interaction with the outside world for 50 years, and then is subjected to a SAW movie marathon. Absolutely gut-bustingly terrifying in the best possible sense. It’s starts loudly and terrifically, as instruments slather over each other at a pace that would make Black Flag devotees would call “too fast”. It then divulges into B-movie gore, before swivelling it’s seat into an even more horrifying bludgeon. Each chorus takes things to a new level, a scintillating torture of synths interating with some of the most furious punk rock that’s been heard in some time. For those that feel they’ve become bored with current music, have a go at this – Stations will not disappoint, but rather, rip your fucking ears off, and chew them like ribbed, concaving beef jerky.

New: Batpiss – Spiritually Challenged

Oi get a load of this. Nah, it’s good for ya. Better for the soul than chain-smoking JPS Gold and chowing down on three day old snags. It’s fucking Batpiss mate…they’re named after the excrement shot forth from one of the most deplorable creatures in the animal kingdom. You know, the one that Ozzy Osborne decapitated back in the day. Listening to this band will only make you see the light in this otherwise damned world.

After releasing one of the best heavy records of recent memory in 2013, which included the incredible “Loose Screws”, Batpiss have returned with a song that will king hit you into a headbanging monstrosity. Everything your mum warned you against is present in “Spiritually Challenged” – snarling shouts that will rip the skin off your face, riffs that sear the nature of heavy metal into your puny skull, and an overall atmosphere for gleeful doom that swells and broils for an all too short three and a half minutes. Fuck, get ready for that new LP – if you haven’t steeled yourself in advance, there’s a good chance this will happen .

Also, Batpiss gonna be playing Frankies on July 5. If you’ve had a shit weekend, you know that a 45 minute set from one of the loudest and most punishing bands in ‘Straya will sort you out.

New: Heads of Charm – Enough Is Enough


Fucking hell. As soon as those stomping drum beats begin, you know your bowels are gonna be emptied by this song. Cue the guttural bass floggings, and the leaking begins. Hit that crescendo, and there is not a single organ in your body that isn’t quivering in excited fear. Heads of Charm might make for the best detox program yet.

Simplistically existential, Heads of Charms have FINALLY fucking returned with their signature style of making you shit yourself in excitement. “Enough Is Enough”, besides being pants-soilingly good, is the only example of an Aussie band who seems to have actually listened to the teachings of Falco from McLusky and Future of the Left. The result is something as dark, twisted and oozing with as much polished violence as the droogs from A Clockwork Orange.

The pounding force of “Enough is Enough” is a form of beckoning, and fuck me if I’m not heading along to see how they got so fucking good in the first place.