The Single Life: Pond, The Smith Street Band & More

15 January 2015 | 2:57 pm | Ross Clelland

Did you know the Frankfurt is now officially a percussion instrument?

If you haven’t heard it, you should have. For it is – hopefully – the voice of a nation waking up to itself. The Smith Street Band, rightful and logical heirs to the Weddings Parties Anything tradition of yelling articulate political statements even while holding a beer in one hand and a guitar in the other, sum up the mood of many with Wipe That Shit Eating Grin Off Your Punchable Face (Poison City). While they have an obvious - and eminently punchable - visage in mind, feel free to imagine whichever smug frontbencher best relates to your interests and righteous indignation.

Speaking of blokes you just like to sit and have a few beverages with while he holds court on a range of subjects, probably including what a ‘coont’ his brother is, old mate Noel Gallagher strums in his recognisable fashion, and perhaps even an allows an amount of piss to be taken from himself (or maybe that aforementioned sibling) on Ballad Of The Mighty I (Sour Mash). Does it have hints of certain northern English bands of the 1960s? Sure, but he ain’t Robinson Crusoe in that. Does it even matter? His bank manager likely says no.

Meantime, our boy Kevin Parker knows that that perhaps too-often-used pigeonhole ‘psychedelic’ can cover a range of sins. The Impala end of his muse can sometimes be the intense stare at the carpet as the pharmaceuticals wear off, but – as well illustrated here – Pond are the guys who are still dancing under the Hills Hoist while they count the stars. It is called Zond (Modular), and jiggles about rather unselfconsciously. And the nation applauds the discovery of the frankfurt as a percussion instrument.

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But if you want low-budget special effects wiggled in your face rather disconcertingly, The Gooch Palms leave some visuals to go with Trackside Daze (Urinal Cakes), the punkish musical stumble across the currently disused railway track that leads into the dead heart of Newcastle they let loose before Christmas. Or they might have just left something at the Laundromat as they pack their Globite suitcases and prepare to disturb an increasingly large number of Americans. We wish both sides of that equation well.

One of the festive season’s odder musical interludes was the regular breathless updates from renowned miserablists Interpol, snowbound in a bus somewhere outside Nowheresville, Ohio. There were apparently times they couldn’t even get a high-speed connection for the X-Box. Oh, the humanity. Perhaps contrary to the yuletide wishes of many, Mr Plow dug them out. To celebrate, we are offered an Australian release of Everything Is Wrong (Soft Limit). Actually, we wanted to bring you the sheer excitement of themselves in live performance on Seth Meyers’ newish American late night chat show, but territorial interweb barriers prevented that. And frankly, simply the words and music might be a little more animated.  

But then there’s those Christmas tales that can warm the cockles. You are Mini Mansions, you’re sitting around musing about what to do on your next record of the popular music, and idly ponder how great it would be if you could get Brian Wilson – Beach Boy emeritus, unquestionable musical genius, etc – to sing along on a tune. Suitably fortified by many cups of eggnog and some pudding, someone composes the polite email, and presses the ‘send’ button. Much to the surprise of many, Brian says yes. If they never do anything after Any Emotions (ElectroMagnetic Recordings), they’ve got a great story for over the leftover ham sandwiches for years to come.

Ruby Boots has one of those so-honest country voices that sounds like its echoing over the Appalachians, where it’s actually keening over the Nullarbor from Perth. To confuse the issue just a bit, the Middle Of Nowhere (Lost Highway) referred to here is one in Utah, where Ms Boots went on a co-writing magical mystery tour to the back country home of The Waifs’ Vikki Thorn. It would appear the trip was worth the effort. Here’s Ruby singing said tune in one of theMusic.com.au’s luxurious headquarters – this one even has a couch.

A slightly different kind of country is provided by Ryly Walker, with Primrose Green (Dead Oceans) an intriguing mix of woody alt.country troubadouring, with waves of lush pop flowing through it. It’s kind of like Ryan Adams’ two streams of music meshing into one, in a manner the latter has never quite got right. Whether this is the one-off where the balance fell into place, or something Walker can regularly achieve will need some research. Which something as well-done as this suggests may be worth investigating.

More locality confusion was always garnered by Texas. Who are from Glasgow. And took their name from the movie prefixed ‘Paris’.  There’s been a couple of long hiatus in their now quarter-century history, but Charlene Spiteri’s voice remains a thing of grace and emotion. Start A Family (PIAS Australia) is a handy start point if uninitiated, while an album celebrating the anniversary – the rather straightforwardly-titled 25 – will handily replace the vinyl you wore out by the turn of the century if you were aboard from one of their earlier go-rounds.