I wrote this almost 3 years ago. It's a mock review of a real gig some friends of mine put on. If I might wax pretentious about the review... What I tried to do was write what I really thought about the gig but in the most pretentious, ridiculous language I could muster. Kind of riffing on the idea that a good villain shouldn't necessarily be wrong in his intentions just in his methods. Everything is exaggerated to the point of absurdity, but the sad fact is it's not too far removed from some slabs of 70's rock journalism.
The name Kenneth Allen was based on what "Know It All" translated to in Dutch... I think. I don't really remember. I was going to write more stuff with this character with the gimmick that he was some legendary music journalist or A&R guy no one had heard of...
I think it's pretty funny...
Death Minge – The Sandringham Hotel – 15/01/2009
Scouring the sterile pretentious wasteland that is the Sydney music scene, you’d have to dig through endless muck to find a skerrick of vital hard rock. Sure, there are elder statesmen such as The Hard Ons, but many new bands seem to be caught up in the pseudo-intellectual snobbery that comes with dreadlocks and Mr Bungle fellatio; boring droning neo-post-post rock or generic metalcore dreck; the garbage that develops when Slipknot fans go through puberty and discover either black metal or Sigur Ros. On the other side of the septic tank there is the vacuous vainglorious glam rock revival which would be best labeled a bunch of imitators, if they only had a clue what they were imitating, not to mention a pint of humility. Of course, if you dig through a mound of shit long enough, you’re bound to find a kernel of corn. I found Death Minge.
Death Minge’s one night stand at the Sandringham Hotel was billed as a secretive gig amongst friends and fans of Sydney’s UK Bound rockers SHAKE. However, the allure for most was the debut of the much talked about Sutherland Shire based vocalist, Blackrat. The quaking quintuplet consisting of bass, drums, guitar and tag team vocalists, Sam Dillon and the aforementioned Blackrat delivered a performance that questioned and challenged every convention of musical live performance and funneled it into a smoldering synthesis where instead of the music functioning merely as an impression of life, life was depicted as an impression of music.
The songs clattered about with raucous and rough vitality abandoning tradition in favor of articulating a unique and original consciousness. The dueling cascading vocals showcased the essential cry of concurrent joy and anguish that is conducive to life in the urban environment. Blackrat delivered strained, yet honest vocals shrouded in a manifestation of madness and destruction. His GG Allin-esque stage presence was masterfully contrasted against the more polished showmanship and vocals of Sam Dillon. Their dynamic unpredictable theatrics functioned as a satire on the homophobic / homoerotic duality that lies at the heart of the Sutherland Shire male psyche.
The rest of the band put on a clinic that meshed, flowed and excited in a way that almost none of the self-conscious, overly safe bullshit of the aforementioned Sydney scene could dream of. The predominant reason for this is that while many other groups simply seek to imitate, picking up all of the trappings and none of the toppings of various foreign trends, Death Minge are in essence a pasty white stream of honest uncultured energy, blurring the lines of real life and performance with minimum fuss. Much like the finest jazz artists, there are no mistakes, there is simply performance, and anything and everything that occurs in the space of the room is integrated into their act. Explosive yet diffuse music that would stretch, tear and distend the limited vocabulary of the average punter.
I’m sure there would have been many who just figured Death Minge some kind of private joke, a poorly rehearsed porridge of funky noise and toilet humor. But those fools would be oh so mistaken. This was a band with a vision. While many shoe gazer acts piss about in bad diatribes on the human condition, Death Minge ARE the human condition; Unabashedly confronting yet strangely familiar; Death Minge are the aural depiction of mankind playing with it’s own fecal matter; a tour de force artistic statement, simultaneously absurdest artifice yet poignantly satirical. It’s not just the foot that’s in the mouth; it’s the whole lower torso; cock, balls, asshole, (minge?) and all.
Kenneth Allen
Scouring the sterile pretentious wasteland that is the Sydney music scene, you’d have to dig through endless muck to find a skerrick of vital hard rock. Sure, there are elder statesmen such as The Hard Ons, but many new bands seem to be caught up in the pseudo-intellectual snobbery that comes with dreadlocks and Mr Bungle fellatio; boring droning neo-post-post rock or generic metalcore dreck; the garbage that develops when Slipknot fans go through puberty and discover either black metal or Sigur Ros. On the other side of the septic tank there is the vacuous vainglorious glam rock revival which would be best labeled a bunch of imitators, if they only had a clue what they were imitating, not to mention a pint of humility. Of course, if you dig through a mound of shit long enough, you’re bound to find a kernel of corn. I found Death Minge.
Death Minge’s one night stand at the Sandringham Hotel was billed as a secretive gig amongst friends and fans of Sydney’s UK Bound rockers SHAKE. However, the allure for most was the debut of the much talked about Sutherland Shire based vocalist, Blackrat. The quaking quintuplet consisting of bass, drums, guitar and tag team vocalists, Sam Dillon and the aforementioned Blackrat delivered a performance that questioned and challenged every convention of musical live performance and funneled it into a smoldering synthesis where instead of the music functioning merely as an impression of life, life was depicted as an impression of music.
The songs clattered about with raucous and rough vitality abandoning tradition in favor of articulating a unique and original consciousness. The dueling cascading vocals showcased the essential cry of concurrent joy and anguish that is conducive to life in the urban environment. Blackrat delivered strained, yet honest vocals shrouded in a manifestation of madness and destruction. His GG Allin-esque stage presence was masterfully contrasted against the more polished showmanship and vocals of Sam Dillon. Their dynamic unpredictable theatrics functioned as a satire on the homophobic / homoerotic duality that lies at the heart of the Sutherland Shire male psyche.
The rest of the band put on a clinic that meshed, flowed and excited in a way that almost none of the self-conscious, overly safe bullshit of the aforementioned Sydney scene could dream of. The predominant reason for this is that while many other groups simply seek to imitate, picking up all of the trappings and none of the toppings of various foreign trends, Death Minge are in essence a pasty white stream of honest uncultured energy, blurring the lines of real life and performance with minimum fuss. Much like the finest jazz artists, there are no mistakes, there is simply performance, and anything and everything that occurs in the space of the room is integrated into their act. Explosive yet diffuse music that would stretch, tear and distend the limited vocabulary of the average punter.
I’m sure there would have been many who just figured Death Minge some kind of private joke, a poorly rehearsed porridge of funky noise and toilet humor. But those fools would be oh so mistaken. This was a band with a vision. While many shoe gazer acts piss about in bad diatribes on the human condition, Death Minge ARE the human condition; Unabashedly confronting yet strangely familiar; Death Minge are the aural depiction of mankind playing with it’s own fecal matter; a tour de force artistic statement, simultaneously absurdest artifice yet poignantly satirical. It’s not just the foot that’s in the mouth; it’s the whole lower torso; cock, balls, asshole, (minge?) and all.
Kenneth Allen
