At the time of writing this I am currently on day 132 of self-isolation, with no end in sight. It is the first day of the mandatory mask wearing in Melbourne, Victoria.
And though not the worst/ part of our on-again off-again ways,/ the latest loss of you stings me anew
Reading Almost a Mirror is like listening with anticipation to a new mix tape painstakingly compiled by a friend.
Punk? We've got gobfuls of it. Twenty-odd stories.
...we took it down, we took it further up, further down, rolling on the energy, every time a bit more crazy and loose and loud, louder, quieter, louder, and seven minutes in...
That night I hung out down the back of the venue because the molten mosh pit at the foot the stage was simply terrifying.
Their own webpage describes them as a cross between Diamanda Galás and The Birthday Party. I tell a friend they are like Bikini Kill mixed with Joy Division. We’re both correct.
Mid bite, it happens. There on my TV screen, just for a few seconds, doing an intense wiggily kind of jogging on the spot, is a girl with cropped spiky, reddy-bleached hair wearing an oversized suit jacket. I just about choke on my crumpet.
It was as if I had heard Bad Reputation for the first time. As it directly related to my sister. As it stands as a song. And it is, my friends, a ripper.
We wouldn’t have called it shoplifting, but we also knew we had to be surreptitious when we set about manually adjusting Coles’ profit margin.