A teenager’s bedroom/ garage, suburban Sydney  2012. 2.30AM

The neighbours would surely be sick of it by now.

The clothes litter the floor, the blanket lay precariously across the bed, half of it hanging over the abyss clutching at the mattress. Trying to stay afloat during the vibration of amplified sound that is bouncing around the grungy bedroom.

The five boys groove, allowing the funky electric guitar riffs that characterise indie music to flood over the disorganised room, rattling the empty beer bottles on the bedside table, shaking the sweat off of the unwashed locks and spreading the grins of a youthful group who are comfortable in their jam.

So I say, I hate when you’re away

 The pleading whine. The youthful strength of a vocal cord that is yet to be tainted by alcohol and illicit drugs.

The lyrics build, continuing the stereotypical crescendo of a teenage band that loves heavy drum fills and a collaboration of synthetic bliss.

Caress your soul.

 And it explodes. If this music was represented in colour, the canopies of the African jungle would be peeled back, revealing the beauty of the sweaty noise, the deep yet vibrant green, the fluttering rainbow of animals and life at its most primitive and pure.

And before you know it, the peak breaks into a trough, then soars into flight again, and the old couple trying to sleep before their 6AM alarm are turning in their sleep and grumbling about the troublesome boys next door. But it’s innocent fun. It’s childhood.

It’s the careless nature of adolescence, revelling in the enjoyment of sound and the manipulation of noise that is a symbol of the crisp sand, the burnt orange of the sun and the deep aqua of the ocean. It’s Australia. It’s the conclusion of heavy drums and the neglect of tomorrow’s day of school. And, with a rascally grin floating across the huffing and puffing faces of these exuberant boys, it’s Sticky Fingers.