Since when did we become so bland Melbourne? Just because you have an effect pedal or two and lovely little echo on that soft Scotch College purchased sound of yours, doesn’t mean that you will remain in our brain for any longer than the time you stop playing. Hey little Velcro foot, you can’t buy our love. You can however purchase a bio and a slot in line at the “I’ve been told to like you” awards; one condition though: you must write to please. Please don’t be disheartened though. It’s easy enough to write mundane lyrics that cater to the masses of tasteless zombies that answer every call of the media and pine for the next “release of the year”. But they don’t think clear. There is a melanomaesque sound that can only be seen from the outside as a little black dot, but Melbourne, it’s crawling under your skin and feeding off everything you think is healthy and pure. You know what; it too is healthy and pure. You just choose not to admit it, or acknowledge it. It’s fucking there alright.
There’s anger and aggression and veiny neck pulsations, driven by inner sensations and the ridicule you once endured. Don’t deny that part of you Melbourne. Since when did we lose that urge to push boundaries, innovate, create and show those scarlet tears that pervade into our songs. Why do you hide it Melbourne? We are all fucked up. Don’t think that that slick school-boy appearance hides the fact that you are a burning flame that will not be put out. Do you want your fire lit? Then come out come out wherever you are. There’s still time.
Leave your assumptions and predictability behind and visit a place that seethes with hopeless yearning, mockers and rockers and the living dead, fuckers and fighters and rutheless lyricists, of victims and learners, of challengers and addicts, of beauty and sexual engorgement, of terrible nightmares and hearty laughter, and thereafter, you might wake the fuck up Melbourne.
