It’s sometimes easy to boil the mid-‘90s to the turn-of-the-century down to a grunge-into-Britpop continuum, but there were tangents — some distinctly Sydney in origin and style. That those listed above are still making noise that stands as really individual — however infrequently due to time, distance and/or members having grown-up lives — suggests the quality. They’re linked, to the point of sometimes overlapping members, but vary in style and approach. 

Happily uncategorisable then and now, Lobsterman. Chris Lobb is a softly spoken and gentle fellow. His music shambles at you with an awkward grace — a kinder and gentler version of The Fall’s diatribes one moment, some almost Tom Waits-ian surrealist folk like Lips Ripped Clean Off the next.

The sporadically seen Peg were a far more brutal proposition. They can rage, John Archer’s macho bellowing sometimes recognising its own insecurities, while he and Tony Bonza’s guitars drop into reveries — an exhausted exhaling or pause for breath before it all arcs up to batter you again. There are even a couple of new songs, suggesting there might be future plans — or not.       

And then there’s Crow, still tapped as ‘band most likely’ of their era. For a million internal and external reasons, it just didn’t quite happen. They can be theatrical, at times savage, then musing, nearly gentle. Peter Fenton croons and yowls, the band careers alongside — or a bit behind or ahead.  Songs from their 2010 reformation album, Arcane, regard this country with an affectionate jaundice, through Stray Leanne’s Ned Kelly snowdome. 

The faithful are rewarded with favourites from the back catalogue: Charley Horses big and lurching, the soaring Broken Machine, ‘other’ singer/guitarist Peter Archer’s arching Railhead. Even as a part-time proposition Crow can be fragile, they can be great. This night, they are — typically — a bit of both.