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Life Is A Grave And I Dig It | Nekromantix
Hellcat | April 10th

Review by Maria Swrydan

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Hellcat Records
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Sounds like … the Cramps if they took a lot speed and forgot about melody.

I wanted to like this album, really I did. A not-very-original but nonetheless-fun graveyard psychobilly riot? Even with the dodgy title walking the fine line between emo-satire and My Chemical Romance sincerity, I was sure I could learn to dig it. This boring, overproduced excuse for an album, however, is unforgivable, lacking as it does even one song I wouldn’t chuck straight into the bargain bin at Sanity.

I listened to the album in its entirety several times and nearly drove myself mad in the process. Life is a Grave and I Dig It goes for an excruciating 50 minutes. That someone thought this musically sterilised mish-mash of trite lyrics and charisma-less vocals would succeed borders on delusion. To multiply the formula 14 times is just sadism.

It’s even more tortuous because there are glimpses of something more than try-hard horror here. Some of the psycho country riffs and beats are cool, despite not being dirty enough for my taste. But without fail, just when a song wasn’t numbing my will to live, vocalist Kim Nekroman pipes up.

Amazingly, Nekroman’s back catalogue isn’t as bad as this record suggests. But here, Nekroman lacks even the vaguest smack of charm or originality. And when you’re singing mostly incoherent lyrics along the lines of “My girl, ooo ooo ooo, my girl, ooo ooo ooo” or “I hope you rot in hell ooo ooo ooo” you really can’t afford to sound strained and monotonous.

The main problem is that there are just no good hooks or interesting melodies. This is Nekromantix’ seventh studio album. I know their schtick is cemetery dead girl jokes but their first studio album came out in 1989. Maybe it’s time they moved on.

2 out of 10

The Best Of The V-Festival (Pixies, Jarvis Cocker, Phoenix, New York Dolls) | The Sidney Myer Music Bowl | April 4th
Review by Thomas Mendelovits


“Hey… been trying to meet you!” was a sentiment many fans could concur with when the recently reformed Pixies (the band broke up in 1993) announced they would be traveling to our shores for the first time ever as part of the V-Festival line-up.

However, for Melbourne fans, this meeting would prove more difficult to arrange as the V-Festival was only to be held in Sydney and Brisbane. For a long time, no-one knew what the hell was going on, but finally, two showcase ‘Best of V-Festivals’ were announced for the Sidney Myer Music Bowl featuring the Pet Shop Boys, Gnarls Barkley, Groove Armada, and The Rapture on one night and the Pixies, Jarvis Cocker, Phoenix, and the New York Dolls on the next night. Cynicism abounded regarding Virgin’s tactics to trick hordes of Melbourne music fans flying interstate for the Festival and to make matters worse, side-shows for all acts were announced seemingly deliberately at the last-minute and for the Pixies quickly sold out. Bottom line, for many of us this was probably the only chance ever to see the Pixies.

It may seem like I’m forgetting the other bands, it felt the same way on the night. Fans of the New York Dolls and Jarvis Cocker, seminal in their own right though not to the extent or the ‘nowness’ of the Pixies, probably enjoyed their side-shows, while the addition of Phoenix padded out a brilliantly diverse line-up yet one which favoured the kinds of fans attracted primarily to the Pixies. Anyway, here’s my gripe: festivals should make you feel insignificant and yet part of an epic and transcendent event. But, from the ridiculously far partition of General Admission from Reserved Seating and the stage as well as the long queues to get into the licensed section, and the general disinterest in three of the four acts, a damper was put on the ‘festiveness’ of the event from the very beginning. I guess they were right in naming it the ambiguous ‘Best of V-Festival’. “Must be a devil between us”, indeed.

Even if views of the stage were far from revealing, the sound was great and for the people in the Reserved section I’m sure the three acts prior to the Pixies put on a fantastic show. Being a fan of Phoenix I stayed for their whole set, and they quashed any doubts as to their out-of-studio legitimacy, but the lack of people and atmosphere in General Admission was a bummer. It seemed more people were busy socialising and quenching their thirsts in the overly corporate Jaeger and Red Bull tents, right up until the end of Jarvis Cocker’s set. Jarvis doesn’t do any Pulp songs (“That would just be wrong”) but his new solo material is strong enough and he is an expert charmer.

Before the Pixies were due out, the grassy knoll quickly filled and ironically now it was almost impossible for most people to see anything from General Admission. However, a chill went through the crowd from the very first bars of drums of ‘Bone Machine’ and by the time Black Francis and Kim Deal locked voices the whole vibe was immediately transformed. It was a bizarre experience to see and experience people coming together, singing along to the debauched and depraved science fiction, biblical and marine themed lyrics of Charles Thompson, but this only proved their cult and now-classic status. During ‘Hey!’, ‘Where is my mind?’ and ‘Here Comes Your Man’ especially it really did feel like a festival and they seemed to play nearly every song, or at least those which by now they realise are all but perfect.

From comparing reports of their side-shows it seems that the Pixies themselves felt like this gig was some kind of festival; indulging the crowd with some nice banter (that’s such a negative word, personality display?), on-stage antics, and an encore, none of which occurred at the Palace. Stopping dead in the middle of ‘Where Is My Mind?’ seemed like a ploy suited perfectly to the manic build-up of that song, however, it turned out that a beach-ball had landed on stage and Black quipped: “Pixies don’t do beach-balls”. It took bassist Deal a while to figure out where to come back in from, and aided by Francis it was nice to see the two, whose bumpy history has been so commented on, share a joke. During the final encore, ‘La La Love You’, each band member took the mic to sing “I love you” to each other and then left the stage with arms interlocked. Ah, it was pretty good after all.

Because Of The Times | Kings Of Leon
RCA Records | March 31st

Review by Jigantor

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RCA Records
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Sounds like ... the bastard spawn of the Pixies and Charlie Daniels, with extra filth.

The Kings Of Leon reek of knife fights in back alleys, flannel shirts and Louisiana dirt. They will not seduce you, make love to you and treat you nice like Ol' Blue Eyes or Mickey Bubble. They will take you behind the church shed, and you will like it, and you will beg for more. Now you're knocked up, but it's okay, because Caleb don' care 'bout nothin' and he's gonna stay with you, all down that long, lonely, open road.

Indie kids, be warned. This is not Aha Shake II. This is no collection of wham-bam-you're-fucked jumpalong garage scum rock with the occasional slower number so you can tell your Brunswick St trendster friends the band has 'depth'. This is a wild rodeo through the dark, a Southern ghost train, a sonic molestation that is at times jubilant, bitter, energetic and relaxed. There are discordant shrieks, 50's pop 'ooh's, mournful guitars, driving distortion, sparse arrangements and walls of noise. There is open-road cruising, traditional rock, sinister power ballads, honesty and heartbreak. There is alcoholism, rape, love and fast cars. There is Caleb Followill's voice. Knocked Up is a glorious road trip tinged with regret, Camaro is a reminder of the Kings of old, The Runner makes you cry. Black Thumbnail is arena rock for the Devil, Fans is perfection and Arizona takes you home.

The Kings may be sons of a preacher man, but they are not pure. They will rip your heart out and call it love because they know no better. They pick you up, knock you round, screw you over, beg your forgiveness and never let you go. The Kings of Leon thank God for this album. And so do we.

9 out of 10