The debut album “Party Girl” made it blatantly apparent that London soul-rockers The Dustaphonics had it all over their competition on a couple of fronts. Not only did they have a killer vocalist in San Franciscan expat Kay Elizabeth but a consummate engine room to drive the songs. Album Number Two finds them with a new singer and an interchangeable rhythm section.
So it’s goodbye from them. After 12 years of playing gin places, late-night dives and boltholes all around Australia, a US tour, two EPs and two albums, with one final lap of honour, Sydney's Hell City Glamours will be no more. “Deux” is the farewell long-player and it’s a pretty good way to go out.
Here’s a tip. If you don’t own this disc, get it now. And buy it for everyone you know who loves music.
The Meat Puppets are an outfit I’ve been looking forward to seeing ever since I heard they were coming.
There are a few similarities with the last outfit I saw recently, The English Beat. Old band touring, only two original members, no set list. No encore because of curfew (Fowlers is right next to a huge block of student accommodation; you only rarely see the occasional student at Fowlers, and their sense of dislocation and disgust is visible).
But the gigs are very, very different, and not just because of the style of music.
Hipbone Slim (aka Sir Bald Diddley) is a musical slut, fathering nine records by four different labels in three countries in 10 years at last count. The parentage of each of his offspring js easy to pick - by rockabilly out of garage rock with dashes of ’50 instrumental and skiffle thrown in - and “The Out Of This World Sounds Of” throws up no surprises.
This mob seem to come from Perth, a town which seems to live in several weird time warps all at once. The convict past and the glorious fuck-you-we’re-suddenly-rich '80s, and all the other sorts of odd pockets of Australiana you can imagine.
It was an unusual night. First, I was comp’ed quite unexpectedly and had no time to do any research on the current state of play on The Beat (as I still think of them).
Slightly giddy after a long day concentrating old and fragile papers (don’t ask), I found myself examining many things in considerable detail.
People, f’rinstance. We all kind of make our own fantasy of what we’re really like, and try to live it. Sometimes someone comes along and, unbidden, flings open the French windows and lets a bit of air and light in.
One Thousand Years sound like they’ve spent that accumulated amount of time listening to their dads’ record collections. And exactly why is that a bad thing? Rock and roll’s grim hold on the collective consciousness is eroding by the day so if bands like this West Australian quartet are going to fly the flag, who are we to complain?
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