Red Red Krovvy. Red Red Krovvy. In words.


I was there. I lived it. No, fuck you. 

I suffered the humidity, the girls with their beer glasses barrelling into you. I suffered the heat, the long periods of boredom between the heat, the hanging out on street corners waiting for a water that never came. Late nights, always late nights. Found spaces, not your conventional locations at all. The lurching, the grotesque, the comforting thud thud thud of guitars played breakneck and drums played thud thud thud, the vocals in your face because they literally had no place other to go, and neither did you. Cassette culture. Cassette culture, an artefact and desire for a world that never existed first time round. Through creating the simulacrum you create something that is more real than the real. Red Red Krovvy, sweaty and beer-stained and abrasive and punk – Aussie punk (sure that means different) – with a female singer, who sounds like she gave up years ago on sick of being polite. Probably there is a real life behind them, office jobs or nursery cells, like there is most damn near all of us…but we don’t dwell on that, those of us who know what it’s like to hang out in the shrubbery, in empty parking lots, separated from the herd by dint of our dreaming and our desire to sweat out moods. We play pinball till three in the night. We live out our stars.

Saw ’em play once. The night stands out in my muscle memory where many others don’t. Reflux. Reflex. Several reasons, none of which I think I will repeat here.

Red Red Krovvy, Spring Hill Hotel
A girl stalks a cage, prowling. Short clipped beats. Hard edge noise. Brutal and sweet. The audience ring the cage. The cage is in your head.

Knew it had to be them. The prowling. The constant resetting of confines. Compressed. Tightly wound. No relief. Never any relief. I’d fucking go out tonight as well if there was an out.

Fed up with the shit, and the mediocre, and being anxious and worrying about shit. Looking for an out, any out. That’s what their debut album sounds like to me. Mean as Terry but nowhere near as forgiving. The sound of anguish.

Groovy like you’ll never be. Time has stood still but that don’t mean folk aren’t aware of that. This is the sound of empty sunburnt playgrounds. The anti Go-Betweens.


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