The Saints

Eternally Yours
EMI, 1978

Only five months after Never Mind The Bollocks was released, The Saints were already deriding the punk aesthetic. "Now you think that you got a first in fashion/ New uniforms, we all look the same... a new profit in the same old game," Chris Bailey sang on 'Private Affair' from the band's second album, Eternally Yours. They had reason to be pissed off.

The Saints' first anarchic single, '(I'm) Stranded', part of an album of the same name recorded for $200 at an advertising jingles studio in Brisbane, had preceded every punk group in the UK. The British media called it "bloody incredible" and one paper ran their review under the heading "Single of this and every week". At the time, back at home, Bailey thought to himself, "that's odd, I don't recall becoming instantly famous in the UK".

But when the band finally made it to London, it was like stepping into a bear trap. The Sex Pistols had taken off in the capital and brought the de rigeur punk uniform with them. Reportedly, EMI wanted the Australian group to create a rival "Saints suit", with lime-green shirts, ripped pants and spiky hair. Critics were far less affectionate towards a bunch of angry brats from the colonies now they had their own punk heroes. And when the band did have a hit with the single 'This Perfect Day', EMI hadn't made enough copies.

The Saints recorded Eternally Yours at the same studios later used by The Clash for London Calling. It kicked off with 'Know Your Product', a caustic attack on the advertising industry with a prominent brass section that confused all the punk kids. "Cheap advertising, you're lying/ Never gonna get me what I want/ Smooth talkin', brain washin'/ Aint never gonna give me what I need," Bailey spat out between horn blasts.

It was one of punk's finest moments, especially in theme. But if you asked an Australian kid in a Ramones T-shirt who The Saints were today, they probably wouldn't have a clue. Sometimes it must really fucking suck to be in a band from Australia.

Dead Kennedys

Fresh Fruit For Rotting Vegetables
Alternative Tentacles, 1980

After a short hiatus, this column was supposed to return with a snappy analysis of some obscure pop record. Apparently providence had other ideas, because I ended up revisiting the much more enjoyable pastime of getting drunk and listening to The Dead Kennedys' Fresh Fruit For Rotting Vegetables at an obnoxious volume. Oh well.

One of the defining records of punk rock, Fresh Fruit is a masterpiece of black humour. Jet-black humour. The Sex Pistols' 'God Save The Queen' was facetious, but 'Kill The Poor' made it look about as sharp as a pair of fluffy dice. "No more welfare tax to pay!" Jello Biafra screamed in a Republican persona, advocating the massacre of homeless people. "Jane Fonda on the screen today/ Convinced the liberals it's okay!"

When Biafra switched to singing in the underdog's voice, his world-view was even less romantic. On the second track of the Californian band's debut album, he belted out the chorus "This world brings me down/ I'm looking forward to death". It was followed by a cynical number called 'When Ya Get Drafted'. In Fresh Fruit's dystopia, the ruling class wanted deadbeats killed and the proles wanted to top themselves anyway. Listening to it is like watching a film about the horrors of the twentieth century set to a surf-rock score.

There are a few light-hearted moments as well, like when the band push their rebellion into the ridiculous. 'Stealing People's Mail' and 'Let's Lynch The Landlord', with its sunny, Beach Boys-esque guitar solo, make for good sing-alongs. Sample: "We ain't goin' to the party/ We ain't goin' to the game/ We're gonna cruise down main/ Stealin' people's mail!"

Fresh Fruit ends with two of the band's most famous tracks, the unsettling 'Holiday In Cambodia' and their cover of the American classic 'Viva Las Vegas'. Together, the two songs are the perfect account of The Dead Kennedys' take on the USA – a horrible, scathing attack on naive, left-wing trendies and a fat-bellied parody of the uneducated classes. Sometimes I wonder if there was anybody they liked at all. Probably not.

Q & Not U

Power
Dischord / Popfrenzy, 2005

If this band can create an entire album’s worth of semi-coherent, occasionally rhyming, free association lyrics, then surely I can knock up a single review. Here we go:

“Boring lyrics and predictable indie-rock.” Love, it doesn’t need to be that way. Airplay. Triple J. DC hardcore. Left that last one behind! Whimsical lyrics and synth-pop bass lines. This could be serious. Duelling vocals. Falsetto voices. Playful guitar, but we don’t need feedback. There’s synthesizer, off-kilter, synthesizer horns! An impressive array of references, but it didn’t have to do with the subject. Is it sex? I’m dancing, then I’m thinking, and then I’m just confused.

Which urban district did you write a prayer for? These lyrics remind me of The Dismemberment Plan, but these sounds don’t ring a bell. Third album. Three members. Left the fourth behind! Who needs a bassist anyway? (Post) punk’s not dead – I read that on a T-shirt, so I’m pretty sure it is! A cappella. She said whatever, and left my heart behind. I’m looking for something beautiful. You know what it is, but you just wont say! 'Collecting The Diamonds' is a thankless task, but you make it so fun in the end! You do it all over with 'Beautiful Beats', and leave 'X-Polynation' for the end!

I’m an angry kid in a surrealist garden; these flowers just melt in my gaze. “Do we the pro-cess in our process?” Does anyone understand what you say? Letting me down easy. Coming down slow. 'Passwords' push-push-pushes me into introspection, but then I’m just confused. I put it on repeat anyway, no need to be confused! 'Wonderful People' opened the record, but I’m sure they stuck around! It’s interesting. I’m interested! Entertained and perplexed. Resonating but chasing resolve. Long-term playability? I’ll tell you in a month. On second thought, that T-shirt rocked. I’m leaving credibility behind.

Andrew Ramadge is away. This review first published in Beat in 2005.

Bright Eyes

3 New Hit Songs From Bright Eyes
Wichita, 2001

I got in some great swipes at Conor Oberst last time he was on Australian stages, as I'm fond of boasting to company. I think my friends understood why I did it, as well – even though they'd been tortured by my collection of obscure Bright Eyes singles for years. There are few other contemporary songwriters whose work is so prolific and so consistently beautiful, if any. And none I've hated more. Not even bloody Jeff Buckley.

Oberst is, in his songs at least, a cute troubadour with a taste for flings matched only by his willingness to lament them from the next town as if they were meant to last forever, wandering about in constant amazement like he was switching eyeballs at the rate of contact lenses. He writes like someone stuck between the ages of six and 16, obsessed with wonder, heartbreak and outrage and trying his hardest to publicise every last sin. What makes Bright Eyes so notable is that Oberst can match his confessional and stream-of-thought lyrics with incredible music, seemingly without even breaking a sweat.

The problem is that few of us can live the fairytale Oberst complains relentlessly about. Most of us can't mope around stoned whining "life's shit" and expect to get a date, or have a song dedicated to us by a razor-fringed boy with an acoustic guitar. We have to learn how to make the boss coffee to pay the rent and give up writing poetry for, as John Birmingham describes the art of journalism, pouring saccharine ooze over cancer babies and beached whales. And to get ourselves through it, we learn to hate the part of ourselves that identifies with Oberst's tirelessly romantic, wide-eyed view of the world.

"Hooray, I like feelings and shit!" someone yelled when Bright Eyes played the Prince of Wales in St Kilda. It was a great gig, but I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. I got drunk, got a ride home from an extremely kind acquaintance and went to play – much to my confusion – 'Drunk Kid Catholic' from the obscure 3 New Hit Songs EP. I guess it's a love/hate thing. Conor Oberst is the perfect romantic and I, clearly, am a struggling one.