Video: Big Dingo-Parramatta Man

Big Dingo are, like You Beauty, a band pretty obsessed with their footy. Featuring Charles Buddy Daaboul, a previous member of one of Sydney’s best bands No Art (RIP), the band are a lot more refined and down-tempo than you’d expect from a band who jut can’t stop making footy references. There’s the lovely slime and slumber of the, ‘Swim like an eel in the river, mate’ which manages to be iterated in the most interesting and heartfelt of ways that a sentence with the word eel in it could. Even though I’m a Manly supporter, ‘Parramatta Man’ is one of those beautiful tunes that manages to rub up against your shoulder in the best way possible, outside of a scrum. Also, Souths get shitkicked in the video, which is a plus. Fuck the Rabbits.

You can catch Big Dingo launching their cassette at Black Wire this Friday, 11 April, along with Lovely Head and Neck of the Woods.


Video: No Art-Forest

There is some exponentially sad news for the Sydney music scene that doesn’t involve the lockouts. One of the hardest working and often-performing bands No Art are calling it a day. No longer will they be playing their amazing sets for the enjoyment of all in attendance. I’m just fucking stoked I got to catch them a couple times before this apocalyptic day came to pass.

However, with such a tragedy comes a small toked of amazing, namely their new video for their track ‘Forest’. Coming from a gothy shoegaze band like No Art, the result is an expected trip through awesome. The song resonates with hearty, sinister power, ebbing like a Liars track performed by Kim Gordon.

The video features a bunch of tripped out shit that seems like it would appear in a Savages video directed by Yoko Ono during a phase were she’s really into the Cure and Bret Easton Ellis. But No Art got to it first. Good on ya guys!

No Art will be playing their final show at Black Wire Records (duh!) on Friday, February 14th. Making and Duck Duck Chop (!) will also be there. Make sure you get on that shit!


Gig Review: Zeahorse

artworks-000058413166-or9bxs-t500x500Friday 1st November @ Club 77

Zeahorse are the kind of band you would never take your Mum to. Their sound is unique as fuck, a brutal amalgamation of punk, hardcore, sludge and metal.They’re loud, noisy and sound as though Violent Soho’s corpse was taken through a wood-chipper operated by Kyuss. Their sound is unique as fuck, a brutal amalgamation of punk, hardcore, sludge and metal. If Eyehategod had a baby, its best mate would be Zeahorse. If Tom Morello, Henry Rollins and Geezer Butler started a band, they’d probably sound exactly like Zeahorse. Do you understand what I’m trying to say here? Zeahorse are really fucking great. And they’re at their best when they’re playing live.

Which is precisely what I found myself doing on that Friday night. Whilst my compatriots made their way to Soho Bar to dance to Lil’ Wayne and co., I headed out to Club 77. Now, if you haven’t been to Club 77 before, you’re in for a real treat. This place is about as authentic as one can go. Buried in a basement on Williams Street, between the Cross and the City, Club 77 is like those biker clubs from the 70’s that you always heard about but never went to. It is like an oasis, crowded between two of the busiest sections of nightlife that Sydney has to offer. Everything is dark and dingy, bathed in a devilish red light. When you walk in, a pungent smell, (not a bad smell, just strong) hits your nose like the gasoline fumes from a Chopper. I felt like I would run into Bruce Willis or Lemmy. This place was the genuine badass article. And it’s where Zeahorse were playing.

Now, although I missed Narrow Lands (a very regrettable decision on my part), I did manage to catch the brilliant No Art, a band that has the unique ability to always be playing live whenever I have absolutely no chance of seeing them, like some sort of drone-y leprechaun. However I caught the fucker this time round, and shower me with gold they did. Their music is swirling and disturbing on record, but in a live setting, you can’t help but feel a certain affinity with their music. Don’t worry, it doesn’t lose any of its nihilistic steel and splintering edginess, but it feels more like that cool goth chick at school who you always wanted to hang out with, rather than this super-cool entity of post-punk genius waaaaayy out of your league. If you’re keen for some overloads of musical goodness, check out ‘Dead Arm’, you won’t regret it.

After No Art had performed their duties of wowing us into silence and gratitude, Zeahorse came on to alight the stage with a noxious intensity. From that opening chord of the set, the unmistakeable clang of ‘Pool’, the audience’s brains were torn apart. Listening to Zeahorse in their natural environment was like being earfucked by a hellbeast. I felt like David Attenborough watching some lions, admiring the predatorial beauty of a band that could dole out killer riffs that would slash you apart in equal lengths with encouraging, amiable spaces of music.

Don’t get me wrong, the whole set from start to finish was a fucking onslaught of the senses, like dipping your mind in a vat of the bubonic plague, and watching in fascination as it turned into something ethereal and otherworldly, brought on by something that probably shouldn’t exist. Except the bubonic plague killed a fuckload of people, and everyone that crowded into Club 77 that night had their jaw on the floor, simply gobsmacked at the sounds and intensity of the sounds that pulverised our ears. I’ll say it again, one minute your headbanging like a rocking horse taking its first hit of heroin on ‘Onion’, next thing you know, you’re slowly grooving your hips to ‘Kathie’s Makeover’. The closer of ‘Career’, with its ‘One Inch Man’-ish bass-line and furious energy, was a particular blistering part of the set, shaking the crowd’s heads into a frothing mass of ecstasy.

To conclude, if you are any sort of self-respecting fan of the heavier stuff, you should already know and love Zeahorse as much as I do. If you’re ever in the need to be overwhelmingly entertained, and Zeahorse are in town, fucking go. Zeahorse are more insanely good that butter on toast at 7 o’clock on a Sunday morning, and that is a fucking fact.