Sunday, December 9, 2012

Christ mass ...upper canon art gallery sho review

Upper Canon is what it is , a new vein way channeling ardent do what thou wilters, do it yourselfers  and makeshift anarchistists , the grate and itch of a godless pig-nose is your personal saviour this Christmas. 'Twas the Christmas party, the fruits of our year.
First up was Spermaids, The power of power-power, power punches and powered powerage, flexi-discus power spurt. Like the extreme performances of azsacra zarathustra? Nope. Not quite.

Powerful songs, performed with punch-drunk intensity , slightly disproportionate to the audience of 3. Slag-strutting and best-of-british, ever so candid our over-titty sells lightening by the pound, oh son ov Pritthi.

....And from the nothing came something, a freshly schizo-affective Middleton, melting in the throes of delusion, new iPad all unresponsive and painfully quiet, a pin couldve dropped, and finest ebony mated wif reed'n'ebonite rubber to eek out summer favourites such as 'we three kings (of orient are) , more art-gallery than pub, which was ironic, considering its now de riguer to rock out down th' gallery,  lamentfully shackled (as opposed to 'free') jazz piped out blat at a time, self-conscious and prissy, the curdled piping of the inadequate soul, a bad husband alone, naked, naked, naked. Motivations all pickled in nerve-deadening medicines, just you wait world, one day, the boy awakens, and the phrenetic energies come back, like a phoenix, the 40 something does late- 20s, coking, coking, michael hutchence and mchael jaeger, ebony and ivory, photosmart eerie, loch ness lobster, mobster mobster, not I not I, guru guru.

After which came the young souls WEIGHT (fantastic band name what), a nasty 3 piece act, gen Y fishing up the blistering brat that is screamo (life is hell !!!!!!!!!! waaaa! Mum wont give me the 50 bucks i need for me weed YOU BITCH!!!) and thankfully shitting all over it with the grown up-ness that is depressive-black metal, then growing up some more with the independent pull-yerself-up-by-the-bootstraps-leave-the-fuckin'-nest-and-get-a-lifeness that is noise-rock, and carving out one hell of a set. Thats some heavy shit from Weight, keep an ear oot for these peoples.

After witch came the hardest working band in Melbourne MAD NANNA.  Christine said they sounded a little like Yo la Tengo? Or was it Melbournes answer to the Puddle? Not quite. Hard work and hard net-work and plentiful performance = best band in melbourne. Michaels chord'n'strum is the amrita of Mad Nanna, the others embellish the odd-ball songster with poingnant finesse. Patrick O'Brien is thee Lee to Michaels Thurston, juxtaposition par-excellence. The noiser. Ian Wadley is the hypnotherapist. And they have a fantastic keyboardist, synthetic bass-tones underpinning the din. The intellectuals choice this summer. Art music.

..After witch came the iconoclastic institution The Satanic Rockers, celebrating the release of their new Eviction 6.99" The absolute peak of the night, the Rockers the riff-strewn platform for the realist poetics of Lynton Denovan. With his lyric on display Denovan recites without the slightest trace of Americana, his verses serve as curses - he sees through you, he is prophet - shining a purple haze on street life, work life - he exposes us as ultimately weak, hypocrits, liers all.  The leveller aeternal. Cross him - you'll get a song. A five piece, nasty psych-punk riffs vented through battery operated nose-goblins, psychedelic punk , obscurer the obscure, ready to go-go, madd nanna and the rockers are seasoned tour-mates - world tour =  next. Fun with a sinister lining. writing and speaking and eating. Driving cars and gambling. Hitting the spot.

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