Live Review: Surfer Blood, Palms, Jeremy Neale

The unnerving ease with which we as thinking beings practise cognitive dissonance to unburden our lives never fails to impress. To engage with something by un-knowing it in order to enjoy it seems counterintuitive to how we relate to music, or even how we enjoy anything at all, but it happens more often than you think. Case in point: Surfer Blood.

The night started with the high-strung pop music of Brisbane's Jeremy Neale. He stood on his tip toes the whole time as if being held up by unseen wires, and the phantom tension it generated was being transferred like electricity between his body and his music. It was a lighthearted set full of jangly pop tunes, and lead singer/marionette puppet Jeremy Neale flashed plenty of smiles that were unintentionally creepy. A busted string towards the end gave him the opportunity to play a new guitar courtesy of Palms. No offence Neale, but their Rickenbacker really improved your sound.

Sydney's Palms have been performing since 2011, after the demise of local heroes Red Riders, and since then their brittle garage pop sound has changed very little. Their show hasn't evolved either, but this all shouldn't be read as some sort of creative atrophy. The neo-punk sound they established as their modus operandi is simply what they're happy with, and they continue to exploit it with little variation. They put 100 per cent into a solid set of crunchy guitar noise, and Al Grigg's jittery lack of focus mirrored the music. It felt like it sped up towards the end as if they were losing control of the set, but that's their appeal.

In the interim between their only two albums, Surfer Blood's frontman JP Pitts was charged with domestic abuse. Whilst he was never convicted (a deal was struck), the damage was done to his credibility as a promising band leader. Or so it seemed. Pythons, their second release, was full of references to remorse and regret, but it still sold. Their show on Friday proved that not only is the band capable of successfully manoeuvring around serious issues like this, so are audiences. Money was spent, songs were played (really well) and the crowd loved it. It's impossible to imagine that no one among 500 fans knew about the incident, and yet folks were willing to put it aside so they could enjoy themselves. Separating artists from their art is difficult and personal. But this is one time this reviewer just couldn't.