Song of the day – 469: Meat Thump

So, I met up with the dude and lady continuing Negative Guest List, a fucking nice label still continuing out of Brisbane, a fucking sweet label continuing to release some of the fucking sweetest underground sounds coming out of Australia, and what’s crazy more is that it ain’t even the only one continuing to release shit so good as this out of Brisbane, and so I talked with them, mostly about myself and a myriad of musical problems mainly while they nodded and smiled or scowled depending on who was doing the responding, and we drank coffee and chatted for about 90 minutes or thereabouts and we all agreed that it might be a good thing if Everett True found himself flush with a rich of musical embarrassments that the Negative Guest List (label, not fanzine sadly) is continuing to release and I said, you know, all off-hand and like, “Well shit, don’t worry if you don’t send me none anyhow cos shit, you know, that free shit’s for parasites,” or something, and that was over a month ago or somewhere in the vicinity, and shit if you don’t know already man they must’a taken me at my word cos shit if I don’t get sent anything at all from those slack motherfuckers (fucking Disembraining Machine too, and R.I.P. Society now I think on it), but fuck that’s why I like all those hopped-up surly societal retards all the more because they really couldn’t give a shit about whiny fucktards like me, well shit if they do, they’re fucking great at masking it.

So. Leastways. This band features (d) two of Brisbane’s prime movers, but it’s taken a fucking correspondent from the U.K. to tip me off to this shit finally, tip my hand over the scales and into some scalding water, you know?

Punk rock, and attitude, and … shit, this shit is *fucked up*, you feel me?

Meat Thump. Meat fucking Thump. Grinding and lost in the darkness and uncontrollable in its pain. Heart breaking. Harmonies, if you think that shit is vital. (I do.)

You bet your fucking collection of Nirvana outtakes that this brace o’ societal retards won’t be sending me this now I’ve written about it. And you know. That’s fucking cool. Cos I ain’t the man.

by Everett True

My name is Everett True. I am a music critic. This is what I do. I criticise music. The clue is in my job description – music critic. I do not consider myself a journalist, as I do not research or report hard news. I do not consider myself a commentator as I believe that everyone should be a participant. I criticise people and in return I am not surprised if other people criticise me. It is part of the whole deal of being in the public arena. I am Everett True. Believe in me and I have power like a God. Quit believing in me and I no longer exist.