Old Bar 8th birthday

Late Arvo Sons, Hit the Jackpot, Lindsey Low Hand, Talons, Kids of Zoo at Old Bar.
Not too many of us turned up early enough to catch the Late Arvo Sons at Old Bar’s eighth birthday bash last Friday. Those of us who did caught a solid performance of broken-glass pub rock with a measure of sensitivity. The Late Arvo Sons’ have developed a stable of attractive songs—the newer numbers notably more fleshy than the earlier stuff—and their live show has firmed up beautifully. Try to catch them at their final Tote Saturday arvo residency spot next weekend; it’ll be worth it just to catch them before they go big.
Hit the Jackpot delivered a grimy racket. Jessica Thomas’ toilet-bowl vocals and the hairy blokes on guitars and drums took me back to ’92 with their grungy tendencies and washy sounds. Their up-tempo numbers produced the goods for me yet there was a breadth to a few of the tunes on the go-slow that granted slight reprieve from the fist clenching.
Lindsey Low Hand proved the perfect progression. A truck crash with dual vocals, pulsing rhythms and the drummer from the last band (Scott O’Hara) doing vox and guitars. There existed some kind of sleazy sexiness to Lindsey Low Hand—awkwardly personified on the cover of their Debut Poached Egg. They managed to consolidate what had already been a cracker line-up, their cranked up intensity drew the smokers from the garden and segued flawlessly into final acts of the night.
Talons blew the fucking place apart! There’s a cut-throat brutality to their sound, a brittle teeth-grinding severity that’s distinctively un-Melbourne in a way—an underlying cynicism indicative of Sydney life perhaps? We pride ourselves on the quality of rock music coming out of this town, but my word when Sydney produces diamonds they are jagged, robust little fuckers and they’re not afraid to tell it like it is. Talons blew my fragile little mind and turned a killer night into one of the gigs of the year.
Things get hazy around about this point. Kids of Zoo were again a sonic explosion and thankfully less ear damaging than the last time I caught them. I seem to remember them being sharper than earlier shows and I reckon the mix—congrat’s to the sound bloke who pulled out unreal blends all night—complemented their chainsaw rhythms a treat. Seventeen pots inhibit my ability to comment in great detail, but all-up this bill was worth the liver abuse and was an impressive display of fastidious band booking and good taste. Happy eighth birthday Old Bar and thanks for a bitchin party.

Sam McDougall