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O Come, All Ye Faithful The First Noel On A Snowy Christmas Night Winter Wonderland I say subconscious because this estrangement rarely reaches the level of conscious articulation — rarely, because to do so would involve an acknowledgement of the horrific violence that has shaped Australian colonisation, an acknowledgement that, historically, we have been very poor at making.
The legal fiction on which Australia was founded — Terra nullius, empty land — might have been officially overturned in , but the violence it took to sustain, both literal and philosophical, had done irreversible harm.
Both lacked the emotional and musical grandeur of which The Triffids were more than capable, and which reaches its apex on Born Sandy Devotional. God knows how many such deaths occur across Australia year in and year out: cars on deserted roads that have been driven inexplicably into rivers or bent around tree trunks.
The privacy to destroy oneself in rural isolation is a perverse benefit of having so many roads for so few people. The Triffids never denied it themselves. He would have been a happier man, one gets the impression, had he been raised in New Orleans, Berlin or Paris — anywhere more exotic than plain old Melbourne.
Nick Cave has never been obliged to do similar, but his towering influence over Australian music has brought increasingly diminishing returns, as young bands persist in imitating his signifiers of lates Berlin decadence at nearly three decades remove from their original context. The Triffids, on the other hand, have a musicianship that the Bad Seeds have always struggled to approach, and David McComb is a forceful, emotive singer.
Musicianship can kill a song stone dead when a too-tasteful execution trumps feeling, but in this case their discipline as a band — achieved through countless live performances — keeps The Triffids on a leash of just the right tension. They snap and release, limbering up for the first minute or so before tightening into an emphatic rhythmic thump, and then ploughing on through the final section with increasing speed and frenzy: cymbals crashing, McComb calling down the heavens, the melodic instruments veering off into an atonal screech like metal grinding on metal as a nasty, nasty car accident looms up in the front windscreen.
Across the endless flat, your mind plays tricks on you: something appears in the headlights, or does it? It flickers and then vanishes again. What makes men and women send their cars crashing into trees and off of bridges? A broken heart can drive you to terrible things, which become more terrible in a depopulated landscape, where no decision can be redeemed or reversed by another human being. There is only the land, which offers no comfort; which for all its space begins to close down upon you, just like the music, its cavernous dimensions become claustrophobic, as if the entire thing was a thunderstorm happening inside your own head.
Treeless Plain is by no means a bad record, but it does occasionally lapse into country-rock plod. Like Born Sandy Devotional, Nebraska is a great road album, and it retains a sizeable cult following among Australian bands with hundreds of kilometres to travel between shows: the ultimate downer soundtrack for the long drive across state borders while battling a morning hangover. Springsteen too is interested in what happens when people take their demons and their miseries out onto the road, across the desolate badlands of America where dreams of freedom and opportunity for all have gone very sour.
It depends on whether or not you think that writing a chart-topper is a blessing. Wide open There exists a piece of footage filmed on January 10th, , when during a brief return home The Triffids played on the bill of the Australian Made tour, a summer festival with stadium-lite rockers INXS headlining.
An opening helicopter shot gives a glimpse of Perth: the Swan River, the Indian Ocean, that blue sky and the parched summer paddocks surrounding Subiaco Oval, more commonly home to Australian Rules football matches. In a stripy blue-and-white neckerchief, a collared white shirt, black trousers and sparkling gold waistcoat he still looks ineffably cool, which means that in he probably looked like an alien. Perfect pop songs come to most artists only once, if they come at all; what is remarkable is that within three years of each other two Australian bands, exiled to London for want of any decent audience back home, playing chaotic tennis matches with each other in between recording sessions, could have both written songs that still remain so perfect, absolutely undiminished no matter how many times you encounter them.
What is more, that both songs are landmarks of distinctly Australian writing — songs that take on, in music and words, the task of conveying what it feels like to live here. Where is home? The result in both songs is an ambience that still feels contemporary — nothing, bar nothing, dates a recording like the drum sound — set off by the lightest of rhythmic touches; shifting and subtly alive.
The loneliness and wanting is unambiguous. Australian artists and listeners have absorbed the tropes of American popular music just as completely as other non-American audiences, but Americans have yet to return the favour.
You can buy anything here, right? I walked away. I sighed inside. Probably I would have had better luck in London. What larks! Rather, the rise of internet-based music distribution has made it significantly cheaper to develop at least some foreign audience, as compared to the days when you had to up sticks and physically relocate for years on end, and this alone has doubtless helped to boost the confidence of young Australian musicians. Our almost comical distance from the rest of the world matters less and less, in economic terms.
But I wonder at the long-term cost to our creativity; to any imperative that might exist for artists to try and figure out what an Australian music might actually sound like. The possibility of cultural homogenisation is not a new complaint, but I make it here if only to sound a small note of disquiet: maybe having instant access to the latest sounds of Brooklyn or Brazil, and being able to knock up a local variant before the MP3 blogs have done buzzing about the original, is not an entirely wonderful state of affairs.
The global cutting-edge gets its blade a little blunted when everyone is striving to sound as instantly and profitably up-to-the-minute as possible. The point is not to look for the next Born Sandy Devotional but to bear in mind the circumstances that went into making it. Does voluntary, self-imposed exile even matter as an emotional state, anymore?
What does homesickness mean when you can write emails home all day, if you want to? The virtual erasure of distance has not removed the real physical gulf that lies between Australia and everywhere else: the Indian Ocean to the left, the Pacific to the right.
How can you be so young and want to write words of such damning finality? And then, a year later, during another northern winter, I began listening to Born Sandy Devotional all over again, walking lunch hours with my gloved hands in my coat pockets, stepping over icy puddles down under the Manhattan Bridge. I have to be near water to hear this record properly. A simple black and white portrait of the band on the front cover, taken at Primrose Hill, a place in London I walked not too many months ago, without realising that once The Triffids walked there too.
Robert McComb standing perfectly at ease in a waistcoat, Jill Birt holding — is it a drumstick? The Eyre Highway runs west to east for 1, kilometres from Norseman in Western Australia to Port Augusta in South Australia, and the population of the Western Australian section stood, last official count, at A good luck charm, this record will return to America with me and sit on my desk in Brooklyn — population 2.
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