DRUNK ON A TRAIN - The Painkillers (Blazing Strumpet/Reverberation)
Maybe it's damaged hearing, a hankering for those increasingly scarce things called organic songs, or just old age, but two of the best albums to cause middle ear imbalances in these parts in the past 
12 months have been acoustic. In 2005, there were the Appalachian stylings of the Salmon/Peno-powered Darling Downs' "How Can I Forget This Heart of Mine". Now I'm dosed up on Perth's Painkillers, whose "Drunk On a Train" is a folk-punk prescription formulated to blow 'most any blues away.
Traveling light with just drums, guitar and voice, The Painkillers are trashy, whimsical, funny, quirky, poignant and, dare it be said, wonderful. And they have great tunes. These are observations and diary notes as much as songs. The writing gets a little hard to read at times but there's much of the charm. Vignettes about being blotto on public transport, chatting up girls and hanging out can't go wrong when delivered like this.
Keeping time is James Baker, a man for whom the term Legendary was tailor-made. You may have been Born To Be Punched but he's meant to be revered, preferably with an ale in hand. Make that a tray of beers. The man's not a camel. Perth punk's original one-man scene, his resume includes notable service with The Scientists, Le Hoodoo Gurus (the "Le" not being the only thing they shed), the Beasts of Bourbon and The Dubrovniks. And he could have trademarked striped T-shirts in the days when the fashion stylist to Jet was still an itch in her father's groin.
Doing the vocalising, guitaring and any other odd jobs is Joe Bludge, a Perth solo artist of growing blues repute who also played in some local band I never heard of but presumably others did. Joe's a generation apart from James and on his own admission would probably flop if called up to appear on Spicks and Specks with his bandmate's curriculum vitae as his specialist topic. Not a problem because at times he seems to be effortlessly channelling a healthy whack of Sir James' trash-rock sensibilities. But let's not call in The Exorcist just yet...
No-one should be surprised when they're moved by simple songs delivered on an acoustic guitar. After all, 90 percent of rock and roll was written that way. The Painkillers work because they know this and take their lead from the likes of Leadbelly, Dylan and Johansen. There's a faintest of echos of the Presleys (Elvis and Reg)
Joe Bludge wrote all the originals bar two co-writes ("Drunk on a Train" and "Redfern Girl") and the drummer stays well away from the microphone with frontman aspirations of James Baker Experience days apparently on the backburner for now. The singing job's ably filled by Bludge, whose laconic, down-home vocals are wonderfully weather-born. At times sounding like Dylan without the damage - even adopting a UK passport for "Soho"- his voice is home to more characters than your youngest kid's end-of-term infants school musical. Self-effacing lyrics like "Cara-Lane shall we move to Perth/And live at the end of the earth" don't hurt either.
Painkillers songs are like the coin-operated movie machines that used to populate amusement piers and old-time fairs. Pop in a coin and crank the handle to watch a re-enactment of the Wright Brothers' first powered flight, or a heavily made-up tart who went to school with your great grandmother being raced off by a villain with a handlebar mo. They're not the same vintage but there are lots of quirky little movies to explore in songs like the gentle "Honey Bees" (replete with simulated buzzing), the ultra-catchy title track and the pigeon pair of geographically-displaced girlfriend stories, "Soho" (with its scads of electric guitar) and "Redfern Girl (where wheezy harmonica and Baker's rolling drums come into their own).
Johnny, Jerry and Arthur would nod on approvingly in appreciation of The Painkillers' treatment of "Lonely Planet Boy", the solitary and entirely appropriate cover song that shuts down the album. It's possibly more wistful than the original, if possible and anyone who's made sense of this review so far should take to it like DavidJo to black nail polish.
It's evident that The Painkillers sold their souls to the devil for a case of Swan Lager and a battered second-hand drum kit at some dusty crossroads outside Rockingham, on the southern reaches of the Perth-Fremantle Delta. For that we should all be glad. –
The Barman
