Faded Photographs Are Never Enough Ninetynine: 180° (Patsy) |
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When I left Seattle several months ago, I was sad when I thought of all the great Northwest bands I would never see again. K records bands like The Crabs and Cadallaca. Kill Rock Stars bands like Sleater-Kinney. Soulful poets like Pete Krebs and Mark Lanegan seemingly content to play out the rest of their lives to pub full of boorish hipsters and drunken frat boys. People like Olympia's Lois and Kicking Giant. Mostly, though, I felt I'd miss the Hammond Organ-led visions of Crabs/Cadallaca's Sarah Dougher - the free-for-all frenzy that resulted among the Crabs lo-fi fans when a tambourine was offered to play. And you know what? I was right. I miss all of that, terribly. I've never been able to resist people who sing simply, directly, using their own voices. It seems like such an obvious trick to pull, it amazes me that so few are able to manage it with any resonance. So anyway. Melbourne. It has a handful of bands who copy a handful of bands from New York (like Pavement, Girls Against Boys, Sonic Youth) and that's great and everything, but I've already lived through that lifetime. I don't need other people's interpretations on what I already know. I miss the Olympia bands. They had their own personality. Why doesn't Quasi play out here? Why have people only heard of Elliott Smith and Beck - neither of whom are at all representative of the people they'd like to be? What's happened to the anger and beauty and flailing legs of Sleater-Kinney. I miss the guitarist's rock movements. I miss all sorts of beauty. The other night, however, I attended a concert which filled with me so much hope. Like so many dimensions of the International Pop Underground, these bands are hidden from sight - mostly obscured from view by a press who only ever listen to what the people paid to talk to them tell them. The Frustrations - who are like Tasmania's own version of Some Velvet Sidewalk's intensity, but with their own isolated outlook. A duo, with only the abrasion of the guitar and a few well-chosen epithets, to hide behind. The Vivian Girls, who play rock like Pere Ubu had never been invented. And Ninetynine who, it is rumoured, contain the original drummer of Sleater-Kinney. I can't verify that. (There again, who'd bother lying about such a thing?) What I can verify however is that their album 180° is full of humanity, clattering drums, the odd rustle of the xylophone. There's space within its grooves, moments when you can breathe - and if the songs (which all have titles like 'Cois Il Hamdu Lilah' and 'Mesopotamia') seem dark and alien to me, it's because I watched 'Muriel's Wedding' last night and realised that I really don't have a handle on this culture at all. But the girl certainly sounds sincere and soulful enough, and the backing is eclectic and varied enough to continually fascinate. Sure, I probably only like it because I miss my friends in Olympia and it reminds me of my friends in Olympia, but faded photographs are never enough. This has an identity and charm all its own. Maybe you should investigate. Australians are different to you, you know. © Everett True 2000 | |
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