We've had a good run. Actually, we've had a bloody great run. Tamagotchis, Burt Reynolds, David Beckham. It's hard to fathom a century being more culturally rich and, above all, fun. But, much like a pop album recorded by someone from the Minogue Family — all faultless things must eventually come to an end. And that end is nigh, really bloody nigh.

You see, when inventing computers back in 1998 Bill Gates and his fellow Computer Creationists — in an act encapsulating the true magnitude of their unbound greed — decided to slap a sticker on the side of every computer mainframe that read "Made in '98", instead of using the widely accepted standard of simply engraving the Unix Epoch Timestamp, a numerical representation of the number of days since England won the football world cup and ended World War 2. But what exactly did Bill and The Boys do with these two bytes they saved from every computer device on the planet? They won't say. Did they sell the two digits to a communist nation to be converted into uranium to help them build nuclear rockets to destroy the moon? Again, mute.

Regardless of your own personal theory of the current location of the '19', few can deny that it seems to be a ridiculous notion that a simple labelling oversight could cause any major future implications. But our pathetically small minds obviously cannot grasp the logical neutrons that lie behind modern sticker art. Scientists and highly regarded X-Files enthusiasts all agree that this "two-byte oversight" is not only a catchy slogan, but will also undoubtedly awaken the mythological "Y2k Bug", a small creature that lives inside us all and, much like the equally fictious Appendix, is incredibly pointless. Until it's not. Once this Bug is shaken from it's slumber, it'll most likely crawl out of our nose, disable all superior life forces (computers) and thus cause planes to bounce and cheques to fall out of the sky. One of the more dire predictions also involves an innocent father of four being charged one trillion dollars for not returning Sister Act 2 to his local video store in time.

But not all hope is lost. And while the days are clearly numbered — and also conveniently segregated into calendar "months" — they're also simultaneously counting down a date that'll signify the inevitable demise of all human existence. Thankfully, in a sinister plot to waste the little precious time you have left, we've successfully managed to compile a handful of handy tips (#LifeHacks) on survival suggestions for the unavoidable impending disaster.

Food In A Can
If we've learnt one thing from post-apocalypse documentaries such as The Walking Dead it's that priests are fucking assholes. If we've learnt two things, it's that when push comes to aggressive face nibble, the first people to go will undoubtedly be the weak — ie. those powered primarily by Farmers Markets and Organic Produce. Grab some cans of baked beans and carb load yourself up. Furthermore, spam is more than just something you delete a metric-tonne of every day, it's also packed with spiced ham nutrition and potential Nigerian Prince fortunes. Imagine just one of those offers turn out to be real, we'll be able to buy up the computers of the world and sacrifice them all.

Cats
You know when you look at a cat, I mean really look deep into their soul, and you get the feeling that they're seeing something else? Something beyond this world. It's a safe assumption that their vision includes the future, and possibly a solution for these future woes. Let's buddy up to these disgusting pests and hope the also somehow have the ability to communicate to us exactly where the true dangers lie in this post-Y2K world. As renowned philosopher Sporty Spice once said — "two should become one". Better get yourself a pair of these feline bastards just in case the first one's a dud and is merely visualising a really good place to wipe their ass.

Replace All Your Computers With Raspberry PIs
Whatever happened to those $4.95 computers that were not only going to halt Steve Job's stranglehold on modern consumerism but also end world hunger by ensuring all humans had direct access to Menulog via their own personal tablet? Undoubtedly these future devices are already compliant with Y2K traps, or at least have them available as one of the 400-plus additions you'll need to purchase to make the device actually useable.

Dig Yourself a Hole
That's just step one. Step two is hide in that hole. I'm not talking about the '90s band fronted by Courtney Love, but that's also a fairly good place to lay low (given their public obscurity for over a decade now). Wait for the world to get over their silly reliance on digital technology and resurrect from your little hole. You'll feel filthy, but also never more alive.

Document Everything
Chris Yates (aka Chris from Weak Boys aka Bong YZA) has revolutionised modern entertainment over the past few months with his unique fly-on-the-wall avante-garde film adventures. Amidst the impending doom it's imperative that there's a visual record created so that we not only learn how to prepare for future computer-related infections but also able to analyse our demise in the slowest of all motions. Regardless of how trivial the events you're recording may seem, "information is power" and Hollywood's strength will be measured by it's ability to withstand what the fear-mongering media outlets will undoubtedly label as "the brink of the end".

Get A Crew
Safety in numbers isn't just the motto of every half-decent Math Club across this nation, it's also a reliable sentence to turn to when the world ends. You probably don't know how to dig a hole, steal a cat or turn on a camcorder that thinks it's about to film everything in double-time, black-and-white visuals because it's the year 1900. But chances are somebody else knows all of that. And more. Like that coveted "override code" or the location of those two digits or even just something really useful like sexy stories about the time they went to third-base with Donna Haywood.

Bonus hack: "lads" are an incredibly resourceful species, able to convert glue into cocaine, a unsightly fashion item such as a fannypack into a useful storage companion and a carpark into a good night out. Definitely worth re-considered your "lads, are you fucking serious?" policy and forming an allegiance.

Farming
While contradictory to our initial point regarding stock-piling non-perishables, it's also probably a safe bet to hone up your gardening abilities. Broccoli doesn't grow on trees and even when it does it has to be massaged to life by a well-structured irrigation system.

Just Party 'til You Die
Again, to quote the same spice-loving, wisdom-leaking sports enthusiast as earlier — "fuck it, let's not worry about livin', let's have fun". It's a ridiculous mantra, but it does tie in neatly with the widely held belief that everything sucks and it's going to continue to suck. With the impending apocalypse currently scheduled for this Saturday at around 8pm, THIS EVENT is conveniently poised to be the ideal accompaniment your face melts (figuratively, from all the amazing music being performed) and then later (literally, as your face melts from the exposed nuclear matter circulating in the atmosphere from all the power plants that have exploded because they've been magically transported back to a time before they were born). Let's just enjoy ourselves guys. Bands from 1pm. $20 on the door. See ya down there.

It was towards the end of 2003. I turned 21 and told a girl I loved her. It was also around the time I was finishing up that university degree, taking a step back and with a fresh perspective realising the complete and utter pointlessness of it all — both socially and educationally. I wasn't a designer, I wasn't a programmer (yet) and I still really couldn't talk to anyone without a transfixed gaze on my shoelaces. Meanwhile, my mother was hell-bent on drinking herself to death and I felt as though I was following a similar self-destructive genetic path, with daytime television re-runs substituted with filthy suburban night-club, bourbon-guzzling competitiveness.

So I did what those of my generation seem to consistently turn to as a solution for such woes — I bought a long woollen coat from the army disposal store in Hurstville, packed a suitcase and purchased a one-way ticket to Heathrow.

A Song To Ruin commences with a completely unhesitant guitar riff. A double-speed heartbeat of anxiety, all rushed and void of any quantified decision process. Lead vocalist Frank Turner dissects this with an equally intemperate yelp of anguish. No words, just complete frustration. It reaches the maximum allowed decibels for audio transmissions of the time, fuzzing out at the top of it's hyperbolic arc.

There are no solutions offered on A Song To Ruin. At it's most fundamental level, the spirit of the album is deeply entrenched in a sense of despair. Turner's elastic vocals are rushed, bouncing between ideas, rarely attaching themselves to anything of genuine heartfelt significance. It's all important, but there's just too much to get through to pause for effect. Agitated and upset, yet completely unable to acutely quantify his emotions towards any form of resolution. There's obviously genuine political and social arguments presented on this record, but they're all buried deep beneath that overwhelming initial thrust of anguish and frustration.

Because my savings account contained less than the cost of existing in London for a single evening, upon arrival at Heathrow, I immediately headed north, ending up in the attic of my Auntie's house in a village ten miles outside of Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. Winter revealed itself about a week later, temperatures quickly dropping to single digits and the skies settling themselves in to the consistent grey hue where they'd remain for the next few months. A bleak outlook that perfectly complemented my own disposition.

A few days after I arrived I got a job via a temp agency, my university graduation obviously affording me the ideal set of skills required for five-pounds-an-hour employment in the field of data entry. The actual business was a small loans office in the city of Gateshead where people, a few dollars short ahead of giro (dole) day, would come in and borrow ten quid for basic survival tools — bread, milk, smokes. In hindsight, it would seem as though I subconsciously chose the most depressing job imaginable as a form of justification for own state of mind.

I was standing in my Auntie's living room when the video for I Am The Party came on during some sort of four-minute "hardcore, alternative" MTV segment. Immediately I was hooked; in a large part because of the band's obvious stylistic similarities to At The Drive-In, who I'd become obsessed with over the previous year. I bought A Song To Ruin on CD the next day. The following weekend I bought a copy of Kerrang magazine because it featured a one-page interview with the band where all they mentioned was their frustration over the negative articles discovered when searching for "million dead" on Google.

Frank Turner's perturbed state of restlessness was the enthralling entry-point. Everything sounded unplanned, completely unstructured. His vocals would take the lead, aggressively manoeuvring between pulpit protests and apocalyptic anguish. It was twenty ideas at once, twenty years of angst, void of any controlling mechanism or ulterior motive. Frank is outraged and struggling to encapsulate his resentment into economical sentences. As such, the music finds itself frequently out of pace with the lyrical purpose. He's forced to catch up, cram in long-winded arguments in spaces reserved for powerful singular quips, forced to break longer sentences over multiple lines. His unedited arguments bury the listener, yet give them their overwhelming sense of purpose. I knew almost none of the actual lyrics, but I immediately knew every single word was incredibly important.

Quickly this initial excitement evolved into an exposure of the record's true temperament — an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. Whilst still, at this stage, remaining mostly indecipherable, the lyrics were clearly constructed from a political argumentative state — some form of rejuvenated anti-Thatcher rhetoric. Yet it wasn't packaged as a protest record, but rather a presentation of all things fucked. I felt as though I was completely disconnected from the centrical social themes, yet I still imagined myself as the narrator, sharing Turner's love of playfully tongue-tied justifications, and similarly frustrated by them being constantly derailed by their own complexity. In turn, I found myself beginning to shift the entire viewpoint inwards. This wasn't about the problems of the United Kingdom, the world at large or the destructive consumer-based modern age, this was about my world and it's collapsing state.

The title track comes as a welcomed midpoint refuge. Void of the same veracity of the surrounding chaos, it's heavy metronomic thuds synchronise perfectly with my footsteps as I trudge across the Tyne Bridge for another eight hours of monotonous data entry. It's 8:45am, yet the sun is still reluctantly tucked away somewhere in a more southern part of the country. A fraction of a degree above zero, with the cold winds lifting up off the river below and howling through the steel underpass tunnel, making it feel significantly colder and burning my face in the process. Everything's just a shade of grey. Everything's fucked. And I'm so alone I feel sick.

Two nights later, drunk on the way home from the village pub, I call my girlfriend. It costs me a weeks pay and it's 6am in Sydney and she can barely hear me. The reception cuts in and out sporadically as she attempts to wake up and I try and sober up enough to make sense and navigate my way up the steep hill back to my Auntie's place. They haven't salted the snow-covered street that day and with my level of inebriation it's an almost possible feat. Eventually, after several moments of echoed international transmission, the line completely cuts out, I slip and watch as the Nokia 3110 escapes my grasp, slides down the icy bitchumen and into a nearby stormwater drain. I lie atop the wet footpath for a whole minute in a state of contemplation, before picking myself up and slowly climbing the remaining forty metres up the hill, powered solely by the knowledge the comfort of A Song To Ruin was waiting inside the warmth, paused on my discman in the attic room, at the exact point I'd left it earlier.

I guess it's not as though I had a great deal of musical selections at hand. 2003 was the dawn of the iPod era, yet their adoption was reserved exclusively for those with Firewire adapters and over-compensating parents. I had neither. But I did have a shitty discman with 5-second anti-shock, a handful of burnt CD-Rs I'd brought along on the trip and A Song To Ruin which, due to my crippling financial state, was the only record I'd bought in the two months I'd been in the UK.

Given its prominence within that small collection, it racked up an obsessive tally of listens throughout the winter. During which, my relationship with the album dramatically shifted. Whilst initially forming as a complementary soundtrack for my own depressed state, it slowly became a subservient accompaniment as it's deeper level of complexity, initially restrained by the jolt of energetic angst, began to shine through, with words and phrases starting their rise to prominence.

It was locked in this studious state where I began my personal adoption of the lyrics — often even misinterpreted them entirely. It turns out it's not "I'm a million different monthly movies", but rather "I'm a million Mike Leigh movies", thus, the video store metaphor I'd constructed in my head — where I was desperately in need of affection, but people simply took what they wanted, abusing my trustfulness — was absolutely worthless.

Yet, at the time, I clung on to these lines as the basis of my intense relationship between the album and my own predicament. I ignored the obvious differentiations, instead finding complete salvation within each line that escaped it's hardcore enclosure. "And if I'd known that you weren't so far away" immediately became an accurate summation for my own dissipated relationship with my mother, which had become so tattered I'd felt the need to run away to the other side of the world to escape.

Alone and millions of miles from anyone who really knew me, A Song To Ruin became my solitary compatriot. It's stark exterior — the music that was so bleak and desolate, became a familiar, comforting space. The lyrical heart and soul, initially so insular and purposefully convoluted, was now a therapeutic soundboard of like-mindedness. And all I had was time which, partnered with my naturally obsessive nature, found me slaving over every sentence and measuring its value against my own thoughts. This was a record that understood me better than anyone. And it was all I needed.

Rise and Fall, the record's 14-minute finale, commences in a state of urgency, beginning mid-sentence ("they came from the East") as though time is a precious resource. Not long later it has minutes to murder, spiralling into an extended hypnotically head-numbing loop. A meditative environment, creating the required space for reflection on everything that's preceded it — the overwhelming level of details, the complex dissension and my own selfish analysis of how much every word on the album is an apt dissection of my own situation.

Attempting to calculate how I'd react to hearing this record for the first now is a redundant concern. It remains firmly anchored to a specific time and place, albeit a mostly unpleasant five months of my life and a location that acted as an ideal geographical reflection for my fleeting spirit with it's seconds of daily sunshine and bone-stutteringly cold gusts. For reasons that I'm still not completely sure about, and despite this negative association, this album remains a source of great solace that I continue to this day to share an unwavering bond with.

I told everyone I returned home because I missed my girlfriend, attempting some masquerade of false maturity. That's partly true I guess. But more so, the home-coming decision was based on a realisation that altering your current latitude and longitude co-ordinates is an utterly pointless attempt at resolution. Migrating away from what you believe to be source of your anguish doesn't solve anything. But then again neither does screaming about Charlie Bucket, consumerism and Constantinople. But most of the time we're not searching for solutions, just a little bit of comfort.

Keen observers, Commander Keen roleplay enthusiasts and the miniscule demographic that falls outside of those two categories would have all noticed that the normal steady stream of Straight Arrows dick pics, TV Colours fan-fiction and 90's computer game cheat codes that used to populate this particular HyperText Transfer Protocol has fallen well-short of it's lofty content targets over the past little bit.

There's several reasons for this.

Firstly, the obvious. "Rav" was recently stabbed brutally by an unnamable music executive because of his continual insistence of publishing negative reviews. Many of you would be unaware, but his contribution to this site is as vital as his now severely damaged organs. Ninety-percent of the time when the author is accredited as "Jonny" that's just an editorial typo and the post was written by "Rav", most likely hunching over a laptop, wearing his favourite t-shirt, which coincidentally enough has a sexually explicit/suggestive picture of Jonny on it. The post-rehabilitation hospice where "Rav" currently resides has terribly insufficient wi-fi because Malcolm Turnbull isn't willing to accept the powers of the node.js framework.

Secondly — life. Turns out it's not as just a boring eighty-year dream where we wake up when we die only to discover that it was all a dream, but we can't tell anyone about it because we're now also dead. That enlightening four-day workshop in the desert that we all attended was a complete crock of shit.

Obviously, life is merely a sequence of events. One such recent event involved an employment/career change, that some of you — those that don't have a strict "delete all press releases" rule set-up for their email (like me) — might already know about, where I (Jonny, and this actually really is Jonny) was inducted as the Online Editor for Rolling Stone Australia. Surprisingly, this role involves a considerably higher volume of writing about music than my previous job of inventing clever ways to extend PHP classes in such an aggressive manner that they eventually start extending themselves to the point where they can extend other things like, oh I dunno, genitals.

Quitting this quest of achieving the ultimate medical goal of larger penises for all of mankind wasn't an easy decision. But I told myself that this new role wouldn't diminish the "four unique visitors per day" goal that I'd set when founding this website. I should note as well, this was also something insisted by Matt Coyte (Rolling Stone editor-in-chief), who made a point of saying he didn't have any desire for me to stop running PoA because of this new position.

But, alas, much like when you leave your long-term spouse for that cute young thing you've been fucking on the side for a few weeks only to discover they just needed you to "fix their sink" (in that phrases' most depressingly non-euphemism definition) the idea of shamefully returning to my original partner for the occasional dose of felatio just wasn't a particularly desirable scenario. Actually, that metaphor doesn't make much sense. I wasn't employed by Rolling Stone Australia for my plumbing expertise. I was employed to write and collate, an activity not too dissimilar to what I'd been doing in this little space for decades. Unwittingly, I'd achieved the dream that me and my fellow Nintendo Thumb Generation peers have strived for since we crawled out of our mother's vaginas in the early 80s — my hobby had become my jobby.

The result was, obviously, that my hobby no longer felt like a hobby. It felt the same as the jobby. Just ask my colleague Bobby. Further still, as it turns out, time isn't an infinite resource. I don't know if you've ever attempted to transition from a lucrative career in server-side body enhancement into an even more lucrative career placing adjectives in their correct place and refreshing Google Analytics 40,000 times an hour, but it's not easy. As a result, for the past few weeks I've been working 26 hours a day like my name is Andrew P. Street, only taking short breaks between wrapping up my deep code hole commitments and aggressively pursuing my pro-noun lobbying efforts to read a couple of notes on Scripting.com and attend council meetings about proposed development atrocities in my local multiplicity. Thus, the time I'd previously spent leisurely listening to new songs and generally staying abreast on local music developments just didn't exist anymore.

Here's a diagram that more accurately summaries the predicament I found myself in:

In addition to all of this, I recently started a record label with old mate/globe-trotter "Whaley" called Strong Look. At the moment I don't feel like I'm spending enough time focusing on that and, well, I'd like to spend less time posting new-ish music because I'm stressing over the fact people *might* expect the homepage of this site to change occasionally and more time releasing new music that's considerably better than anything being posting here.

Shameless plug: here's the very first thing we've done, the debut single from new super-group Weak Boys, Hangovers. (Buy it here).

So what does this all mean? Why the fuck are you going to council meetings? Who the fuck is Andrew P. Street? Where can I pre-order Weak Boys' future-ARIA-nominated debut album? All legitimate questions, some of which deserve responses.

As you can probably tell from the over-inflated word count of this piece — I bloody love writing words. Some people like to call this "long form". It's really just regular form though. Twitter is the short form and I'll be damned if I'm going to use that platform as a benchmark definition of what's considered an acceptance length of writing.

So here's the plan — more words, less often. Print that mantra out and smoke it. Feels good, doesn't it? That's because it's an all-natural/unfiltered/fantastic plan, void of all that grubby "look who's going on tour" and "have you heard about this band" junk. I have little/no interest in the "now", at least from the perspective of discussing it. So expect longer stuff and/or significant stuff, all probably just things less affected by the passing of time. "Timeless" makes it sound kinda special, and let's not lift ourselves up to that bar just yet. We're also going to aim to do more regular podcast episodes, which is something you might have noticed we've been focusing on lately. There'll still be the occasional how-many-out-of-ten values assigned to a piece of recorded material, but these won't be a complete coverage of all albums as they come out (were we ever even close to being this?) and they also might include reviews of records released years/decades ago because music never really dies, it just archived in the deep cache of Google's dust-covered storage centres where it's eventually re-formatted for the latest micro-payment software platform.

I'll still also be helping out as part of the (notorious) Circle Jerk Squad, putting on semi-regular shows around town. Shameless plug: we've actually got a show coming up soon-ish, featuring The Ocean Party, Disgusting People, Polyfox, Sadfaces and Cool Sounds. It'll be a bloody corker. Here's a Facebook Event.

While all of the old links/content will still exist and function as normal, the gig guide is now dead, because fuck going out (unless there's a Circle Jerk event happening or a good council meeting on). Sorry. Maybe I'll meet you halfway and just occasionally post/spam events on our Facebook Page. Free of charge. You're welcome.

Here's to a future of less web hits and more sentences. Cheers mate/s.

Splinter [In Ya Ass, Mate] is an all-day festival happening this Saturday (July 26) at a chipper little pub known as The Chippendale Hotel. In Chippendale. Sydney. It's being put on by Sam and Morgs, aka Exploding Heads, the same kids who organised the Bad Day Out festival back in January.

In celebration (read: promotion) of this ten-hour noise extravaganza, former The Square (R.I.P) booker and current fulltime legend, Kim Tan, sat down with the two head exploders, as well as Alan and Ivan from one of the bands on the bill, Narrow Lands, to shoot some shit about what you and I can expect from the day, as well as Tanned Christ Fashion and how "girlfriend friendly" certain acts are.

DOWNLOAD (40 minutes / 57mb)

Between the chittering, we also sliced a few songs, just a sampling of some of the bands that'll be performing on the day. Head here for the full run-down.

1. Dead China Doll - Face Fuckers Unite For Aids
2. Lovely Head / Teenage Mustache - Kennedy
3. Narrow Lands - Hate Summer In Sydney
4. Bone - Ropes
5. Bare Grillz - Party Carpet

Pre-sale tickets for Splinter available now via Moshtix. Heaps of other info over on the FB Event Page.

This is one of Rat King's two contributions to a split cassette release with Brisbane tuffnuts, Sewers. Available now (in sexy 100% kangaroo leather pouches) via Virtual Cool.

You can catch this fella (aka Shaun from Dead Radio) making his first ever public (musical) appearance tonight, opening things up (literally, figuratively, sexually) at the Mike Whitney Stage, Marly Bar, Sydney, ahead of performances from the sexiest band in Sydney and the Mopiest. Three for the price of FREE, music from 9pm.

The Croatian Club, Newcastle. Paradise.

Happy Monday mate. What did you blow your money on over the weekend? A hangover? A double bacon McMuffin? A rare limited-edition cassette which you'll never be able to play because you threw out your Sony Walkman in 1996? Well, turn your wasteful ways around like a beat on a Glorious Estefan track, by pledging some dollars for The Newcastle Weekender Festival.

What?

The Newcastle Weekender is a music-related experience that's set to run from Thursday, October 2 to Sunday, October 5 in collaboration with This Is Not Art at the home of good times — Newcastle, Australia. It's being curated/organised by Chris Hearn (yep, this guy, that guy and the other). Hearnsy has already locked in a series of events at his own Terrace Bar — including a 10-year anniversary celebration of Bloody Fist Records — to run from the Thursday to Saturday, as well as a bumper all-day event on the Sunday at The Croatian Club, featuring six stages curated by RIP Society Records, Bedroom Suck Records, Y202 Records and Flip To Presant.

But, in order to get it off the ground and up into your memory banks as the greatest weekend of your life, they need a handful more dollars. At the time of typing there was only about $115 left to pledge for it to reach it's $3000 target.

Of course, this isn't some pissing-banjos-in-the-wind operation, and in exchange for your hard-earned you'll also get a variety of 'prizes', including alcoholic beverages, entry to the festival and the highest of all high fives.

Get on it / see you in October. (PS: I might see you before then).

The new video from their 2013 release, The Shadow Of Heaven. A record more than worthy of your pounds/bandwidth.

Speaking of dribbling one into the back of the net, tonight's line-up of the seventh instalment of Circle Jerk is "mouth-frothingly good".

Here's a Facebook Event with facts.

And here's some rough playing times.

20:00 - doors
20:15 - Burlap
21:00 - Horse MacGyver
21:30 - Chris Martin (Coldplay) (solo/D'N'B/acoustic)
21:45 - Spermaids
22:30 - Tanned Christ
23:15 - Mere Women
02:00 - Italy vs Costa Rica
05:00 - Switzerland vs France
08:00 - Honduras vs Ecuador

20 years. Most of you whippering and snappering youngsters probably haven't even been successfully not pissing yourselves that long. But Peabody have. And in addition to complete compliance in the field of adulthood, they've also be wielding axes and thumping skins. And recording such activities. All in the hope that one day they'd be able to successfully hold their heads up high and see the sentence "20 years" next to their name. With a full-stop on the end, as a way of expressing to you (the pants-pissing youth of Australia) the general importance of that particular sentence.

And this is important. So important that I decided to commemorate the event with a little sit down with lead singer, guitarist, rugby league winger and all-round top bloke, Bruno Brayovic, where we discussed the band's historical significance, the music they've released and just how fucking scary touring with the Tucker Bs really is.

DOWNLOAD (88 minutes / 208mb)

In-between the chittering and chattering some songs were played. Here's your cheat sheet:

1. Peabody - All Will Be Gone (The Devil For Sympathy EP, 2007)
2. Peabody - New Day (Hi-Cycle EP, 1997)
3. Sandpit - Helicopters (On Second Thought, 1998)
4. Peabody - Days and Nights (Professional Againster, 2002)
5. Peabody - Stupid Boy (Professional Againster, 2002)
6. Peabody - Wrecking Ball (The New Violence, 2004)
7. Peabody - Synaesthesia (The New Violence, 2004)
8. Further - The Actor (Further!, 2005)
9. Peabody - If The Accident Will (Prospero, 2009)
10. Peabody - Egon (Prospero, 2008)
11. Peabody - This Empty Road (Loose Manifesto, 2010)
12. Peabody - Loose Manifesto (Loose Manifesto, 2010)
13. Peabody - Song For Val (w/ Sarah Blasko) (The New Violence, 2004)
14. Tucker Bs - Forget All These Fuckss (Chubby, 2005)
15. Buddy Glass - The Spinning Titanic (demo, 2013)
16. Peabody - All The Bad Girls (All The Bad Girls 7", 2011)

The vinyl release of Sandpit's On Second Thought available now via Microphone & Loudspeaker.

The Sydney leg of Peabody's 20th anniversary celebration is happening this Friday (June 13) at The Imperial Hotel in Erksineville. Tickets are $15 on the door, and available for pre-order via OzTix.

Times!

8:20pm - SPOD
9:00pm - Further
9:50pm - SPOD
10:30pm - Peabody

Original photo above by Bronwyn Thompson.

DOWNLOAD (38 minutes / 93mb)

Hard to believe, but Straight Arrows have now been around this place (Sydney) for seven odd years. Odd times too, including cutting their teeth at now-defunct gay bars and cutting their everything else whilst attempting inductions into solo mile-high clubs. But it's not all fun, games and larrikining, these cunts just love dispelling your previous dispersions about where the defined limits of punk and garage and Music Genres actually exist.

With their second album, Rising, on it's way (out Friday, June 13), we decided to sit down with two of these perfectly undeviated arrowers — Owen Penglis and Al Grigg — to discuss where they've been and what they've done. There's some little songs sliced in the gaps as well because; a) slam-dancing about architecture and; b) these cunts/legends have recorded some corkers over the years.

1. Straight Arrows - Jeepster (snippet)
2. Straight Arrows - Can't Count
3. Red Riders - What They Say About Us
4. Straight Arrows - From The Start
5. Straight Arrows - Gone
6. Straight Arrows - Don't Call My Name
7. Straight Arrows - Petrified
8. Palms - This Last Year (snippet)
9. Angie - Parallels (snippet)
10. The Knits - God Damn Shame
11. TV Colours - Water Runs Cold (Harmony cover)
12. Straight Arrows - Never Enough

The Rising launch tour kicks off this week as well...

Friday, June 13: Wombarra Bowling Club, Wombarra
Saturday, June 14: Newtown Social Club, Sydney
Friday, June 20: The Brightside, Brisbane
Saturday, June 28: Fishbowl, Newcastle
Saturday, July 12: Northcote Social Club, Melbourne

From Geoff's forthcoming new album, Fan Fiction, out on August 8 (on gold vinyl!) via Chapter.