Everett True

Song of the day – 308: KASMs

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Fucking NOBODY tells me anything anymore. Nobody.

Isn’t it about time Brisbane lost its infatuation with 1993, and moved onto 2003? No, really. Apparently, the singer of KASMs once poured a cup of boiling coffee on an audience member’s head. Fuck the music. You think I’m not going to like them on the basis of that alone – especially if it’s a myth? I know that a woman banging a solitary drum on stage is a little old these days but a) it still l0oks great and b) I miss La Mômo. You could watch KASMs with the sound off, and they’d still sound better than 98 per cent of their peers. Here’s the MySpace. And the photograph above, my friends, is a fucking great photograph.

Sometimes, image is everything.

P.S. Their album Spayed is fucking luminous. Pens, and Lydia, and awkward psychedelia, and probably a little bit of Nina Hagen too. Songs are spindly, scuttling little beasts fighting for a better vantage position. Guitars are nasty. Vocals are nastier. It’s necessary. It’s No Wave. Sometimes it’s a little too theatrical, a little too rock – but fuck it. That’s what the fast forward button is for.

You seriously think I’d post something up here without checking out the music first? You are one sick lady. Sick.

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