It's Unlikely Paul Kelly Will Ever Run Out Of Words

Among the many arguments of the rock and/or roll is the divide between music that’s there to just waft into your ear, make you tap your foot and reflect on the joy or memories of him/her/either/both, as opposed to noise that gets under your skin and into your head and stays in there to fester like that sliver of broken beer bottle you stood on at closing time.

The latter has pretty much always been The Drones stock in trade. But somehow Feelin’ Kinda Free seems to have taken it to a whole new level of jaggedness, coupled with detailing a suburban ugliness (right down to Gareth’s haircut…) that seems to come straight out of the pages of the Herald Sun or The Telegraph. Boredom (Tropical Fuckstorm) is another excuse to make a clip to make the audience uncomfortable – and Dan Luscombe in lederhosen manages that on its own – but it’s another dense tumble of words that makes it even more oppressive. It’s that guy ranting at you over the pub’s pool table at 1am, when you know he’s solved all the world’s issues in his head, but is likely to put the cue over yours as he can’t quite articulate just what it is he’s so pissed off about, even as the words pour out.

Another making the music that makes you itch to the point clawing at your arms - and has been doing for an even longer time – is Al Jourgensen. His latest band identity if the delightfullly descriptive Surgical Meth Machine. This is moodier that his Ministry days, more in the ‘Can’t sleep, clowns will eat me’ line. I’m Invisible (Nuclear Blast) is that hot rod that Jesus built him idling at the lights, perhaps waiting for the guys to come back from knocking over the 7-11, with the Stilnox and the paranoia just kicking in.

By now you need something to give you some peace and stillness. For M.Craft to find some of that has included a journey from a rather good shaggy little Canberra indie-pop band called Sidewinder, through time in other places including paying guitar for Jarvis Cocker, various other musical sidetracks, to currently being holed up in a shack on the edge of the Mojave Desert – where the only sound is Gram Parsons having some peyote with a coyote off by the Joshua trees in the distance. Blood Moon (Heavenly/Spunk) is tinkling piano and enough spaces for your thoughts to find room to wander.

Although it seems unlikely he’s running out of his own words, Paul Kelly is part of that celebration of that other chappie who knew his way with a quill. Playing it fairly straight, PK takes one which would probably make the cut in the William Shakespeare’s Greatest Hits compilation (400^th Anniversary Edition) with a run at Sonnet 18. For those of us with less than classical educations, that’s the ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day…’ one. There’s no youthful lilt to it, this is a simple man’s simple voice speaking with sincerity and experience, and love. And you really wouldn’t expect anything less.

Stately houses and gloomy palaces would probably not be the natural habitat if the bard was still knocking out what would probably be soap opera screenplays today. Tiny Little Houses happily credit modern masters like Pavement for setting the visual for their Milo Tin (Ivy League) in the temple of the local convenience store, even if the story seems shot through with some suburban angst, despair, and absurdity that really could only be Australian. Cross-reference usual suspects from The Go-Betweens through to Dick Diver for the feeling of struggling while simultaneously shrugging your shoulders, and reading something English and vaguely literary.

Add some echoey synths to that, and a slightly dreamier stare off into the middle distance. This will place you somewhere in Yumi Zouma’s dream pop ballpark. Keep It Close To Me (Higher Plains) has a bitter sweetness to it, without being syrupy, and Christie’s voice is alluring and just knowing enough to have you feel with her, rather than watch with detachment. They’ll not take the accolade of my favourite #Strayan synthy thing from Alpine, but I’d go early to see them if they were the support band.

Also with that echoey distance, but perhaps a little more human, Emma Russack is making pop music of a perfectly modern model. My Own Friend (Spunk) is a growth spurt of maturity – both in the thought process that appears to be happening in the lyrics, and the musical approach. This is pop music of subtlety and feeling. This will no doubt rapidly grace the playlists of those community radio stations we know and love, but probably deserves even more than that.

Meanwhile, in Adelaide they can still make a helluva racket. While a great headline to start with, I’d quite like West Thebarton Brothel Party to be a grouping on the South Australian senate ballot paper. C’mon, in a state that’s delivered the sublime-to-ridiculous of Penny Wong, through Nick Xenophon, to the execrable Cory Bernardi, anything could be possible. Anyway, Red Or White (Clarity) is a loud angry racket, with some surprising melody among grumpiness. Annoy your neighbours by playing at suitably high volume, like I just did.