A rather up-tempo opener provides the spectators with a redux to classic punk, energetic yet rather simplistic, perhaps a little too much so. The noise they emit certainly earns them notice, but their inability to actually innovate beyond a string of Ramones-inspired tantrums does little to warm me to them. The drums make themselves known but the rhythms are tame, the lead vocal almost inaudible though the backing vocal alleviates this and the guitar and bass don’t particularly stand out at all; almost a kind of punk-template that doesn’t appear to distinguish itself from the field, past or present. However, their single ‘Manic Depression’ does actually deviate from expectation; rhythmically their most inventive cut in the set.

Snake Eaters

With their name reminding me of a similarly named Konami classic, I stand holding a half empty beer (kindly donated by my friend) with a vague sense of anticipation. The band commences their set, though I’m not particularly dazzled; their opener comes off as being derivative of the current iteration of commercial ‘psych’ (worrying frequency). Fortunately, this soon passes as territory I would only describe as murky appears to have been trodden upon. The lap steel playing has this screeching ability to lift the band out of the bounds of convention, sonically resembling an out of tune violin being deemed fit for service, all the while the bass resonates to the point that it feels like Tracy Pew has come back from the grave for… reasons unknown. Losing a dog aside, the aggressive u-turn undertaken appears to be a reprise from one of those punk-fusion genres that never quite took off; the end result being something interesting to see in the present day.


As cliché as the automated noise troupe prior to a band stumbling onto the stage is, it doesn’t faze my enthusiasm for a band that’s reputation from friends has so far only been positive. Leaning on a methodology that only the Post-est of Punks would presumably understand, the band display a quasi-ominous sound defined by an effects-laden saxophone that at times harmonises (screech-in-unison) with the spacious guitar playing to create a kind of subdued sound (not always); though it isn’t quite capturing what I would have hoped to see/hear. The vocalist’s casual sing-speak approach doesn’t appear to translate as well in the live setting, the added dimension of lyrics moot as I find it difficult to analyse what I can’t hear. The rhythm section keeps a solid front, the bass bouncing off the sax tastefully and the drummer’s ability to show finesse without going too Cozy Powell fits the punk-rhythm ethos well, if perhaps a little too much.

Their sound reminds me of the Neu Deustch Welle movement in a way; the sax implementation with 3rd wave punk leanings being the centric reason. However, despite the resemblance, they don’t come across nearly as fascinating or unsettling; their set draws to a close and as much as I want to like them, I can’t help but feel unfulfilled (dynamics?) at what potentially could have been something mind provoking and/or increasing ones desire to dress like a stereotypical burglar.

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Angus Rolland

Recent career decisions have compelled me into the journalistic... thing; I could list my literary influences or even debate which 3rd rate beverage has the best economic value per litre (But I won’t). Oh, in addition, I write reviews for the Independents Network.