The Goon SaxIf you haven’t been to Trainspotters before, here’s what you need to know: the venue is rebranded every weekend, transforming it from a small pub beneath Brisbane’s Central train station into a haven for local indie music.
Inside the narrow room there are chalkboard signs advertising reasonably priced steak or fish with chips and salad, and the long bar keeps the beer flowing regularly. Despite these pleasantries, it is difficult to actually see any band at Trainspotters, due to the lack of staging required to elevate band members above head-height. Furthermore, the sound system is resting at shoulder-level in relation to the majority of the crowd, obfuscating the mix in weird ways. As a result, electronic musician Scraps exists more as a suggestion than as a corporeal presence, her bubbly synthesiser sounds lightly thumping throughout the wooden floorboards of the bar. Squelchy textures and unintelligible vocals tease the audience, before a four-four beat has heads nodding vigorously across the room.
Brisbane band Blank Realm are recalling their origins as an improvised noise group tonight, after some technical difficulties and restraints leave them sounding more punk than their indie-rock recordings imply. Lead singer Daniel Spencer is loud and brash behind the drums for River Of Longing, Reach You On The Phone, and Palace Of Love, as his bandmates and siblings coax as much volume from their instruments as possible, pushing it through the small speakers with superhuman force. The result is certainly impressive, but the distorted cacophony doesn’t feel like one the band were necessarily aiming for, and detracts from the songs at times. Almost as if to rise above this, Spencer jumps on top of the drum riser for Too Late Now, while a programmed drum machine keeps a steady rhythm behind him. The band are jamming out the few songs they are playing, possibly in an attempt to recalibrate the set after a delayed start, and finish with one last ear-shattering wall of sound.
The Goon Sax are a stark contrast to the preceding acts, both with regards to their age and appearance, and their clean, strum-and-drum sound. Bass player and singer James Harrison drops his instrument and smiles sheepishly, before strapping it back on just in time as guitarist and singer Louis Forster’s glides into the opening chords of the eponymous first track from their debut album, Up To Anything. Forster’s baritone voice cuts through the noise in the room, as he wears his heart on his neatly-lined sleeves. “I only do these things so I can tell you all about doing them,” he deadpans, setting the tone of rest of the night.
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The band’s music is a mixture of earnestness and ambiguity, full of vague allusions to times, places, and feelings that aren’t as solid as they may first appear. They play almost every song off their record, throwing in a new song featuring a saxophone solo, and embellishing Home Haircuts with some slide guitar playing. The crowd call them back for an encore, as the evening finishes on a high note with the upbeat Susan.
