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When it comes to laidback guitar-slinging Melbournites, Alex Lahey finds a close analogue in Courtney Barnett. They boast the same long dirty hair, the same Zippo-spark of wit, the same affinity for the casual present tense, and the same searing candour. To say nothing of the same louche accent.
As to where their specific gravities differ, imagine them each throwing a party.
(Not to suggest we always have to define artists and their art by other similar artists and their similar art. Sometimes we imagine things because they are fun.)
Barnett holds court, if you will, around rusted patio furniture, the orb and sceptre substituted for some sauce-drizzled chips and a frosty pint. After three beers the Bogan savant within has awoken, to drop insightful observations about life, the universe and everything, interspersed with interjections of ‘mate’ and ‘bloody.
But for a more interactive experience, step through a broken screen door into a belinoleumed living room, where Alex Lahey is whipping a crowd into a screamalong karaoke rendition of ‘Mr Brightside’.
On her debut album, she whizzes through the entire spectrum of emotions with tramlike efficiency: Lahey opens with googly-eyed crushing (“Fuck work / You’re here / Every day’s the weekend”), laments the bulk of a girlfriend’s baggage (“It’s hard for me to put my arms around you / When your backpack’s on”), stresses about paying the rent on time, freaks out about her mother’s dating life, and in a cheeky twist celebrates a sibling’s affection (“I love you like a brother / Just like I oughtta”).
Her particular flavour of thrashing garage rock is injected with punkish zip, not a million miles away from Paramore’s incendiary 2013 self-titled album with its megawatt production — thunderous surround-sound drumming smoothed with skeumorphic squeals of feedback — suggesting a meticulous mind and a fearsome ambition. Clearly, many a long screenlit night was spent tweaking levels and nudging dials, and I Love You Like a Brother sounds clear as glass; a pristine IKEA tumbler hot from the dishwasher.
Lahey is not afraid of hard work.
This proficient debut proves there’s still power is saying what everyone is thinking.
As to where their specific gravities differ, imagine them each throwing a party.
(Not to suggest we always have to define artists and their art by other similar artists and their similar art. Sometimes we imagine things because they are fun.)
Barnett holds court, if you will, around rusted patio furniture, the orb and sceptre substituted for some sauce-drizzled chips and a frosty pint. After three beers the Bogan savant within has awoken, to drop insightful observations about life, the universe and everything, interspersed with interjections of ‘mate’ and ‘bloody.
But for a more interactive experience, step through a broken screen door into a belinoleumed living room, where Alex Lahey is whipping a crowd into a screamalong karaoke rendition of ‘Mr Brightside’.
On her debut album, she whizzes through the entire spectrum of emotions with tramlike efficiency: Lahey opens with googly-eyed crushing (“Fuck work / You’re here / Every day’s the weekend”), laments the bulk of a girlfriend’s baggage (“It’s hard for me to put my arms around you / When your backpack’s on”), stresses about paying the rent on time, freaks out about her mother’s dating life, and in a cheeky twist celebrates a sibling’s affection (“I love you like a brother / Just like I oughtta”).
Her particular flavour of thrashing garage rock is injected with punkish zip, not a million miles away from Paramore’s incendiary 2013 self-titled album with its megawatt production — thunderous surround-sound drumming smoothed with skeumorphic squeals of feedback — suggesting a meticulous mind and a fearsome ambition. Clearly, many a long screenlit night was spent tweaking levels and nudging dials, and I Love You Like a Brother sounds clear as glass; a pristine IKEA tumbler hot from the dishwasher.
Lahey is not afraid of hard work.
This proficient debut proves there’s still power is saying what everyone is thinking.