Green Apple – The Pingers (Evil Tone)
Like an episode of that boring TV circle-jerk "QandA", there’s something to offend everyone on the debut album for Aussie punks The Pingers. Excessive drinking; scoring ecstasy from your mum and putting it in your bum; debates about who’s a cunt and who’s a fuckwit and; shitting your pants are among topics debated (and that’s just the first four songs).
Teagz (vocals), Casey (guitar and vocals), Ollie (bass) and Steeno (drums) don’t come to praise punk rock, they come to colloidally evacuate its bowel, and they’re using base humour as a lubricant.
“Green Apple” is a barrage of rapid-fire punk that’s over in 20 minutes. It’s two girls and two guys with 10 original songs - one briefly reprised in death metal style so I suppose that makes it 11 - and a cover of “Phone keys smokes wallet” by The Frangipanis.
The Pingers come from the Snowy Mountains, a place in the Alpine Region of New South Wales where tunnel boring machines go to die. Most of the residents are ancient or transient. A handful are dead, so there’s nowhere for a punk band to play.
In winter, the joint is infested with snowboarding hipsters and Double Bay snow bunnies, and the price of everything is pegged to the Gucci Index. By the time what passes for (the legal) white powder thaws, it’s invaded by vegans with kids who spend days sucking down clean, green mountain air as they wander along poorly signposted walking tracks. By then, anyone with a modicum of sense has flocked like lemmings to the coast to stay in overcrowded caravan parks wedged like buttplugs between MacMansions that are maintained as weekenders by Canberra public servants.
No wonder The Pingers have a song called "Shroom Mates". They're punks, not virtuosos, and they can’t spell subtlety.
Teagz doesn’t sing as much as harangue like a Millennial version of your mother-in-law. When Casey chips in with a vocal, he sounds like that drunk from nextdoor hanging over the back fence to put in his 10 cents’ worth (it used to three but we live in inflationary times.) Therein lies the juvenile and, it must be said, often puerile charm.
The songs are dead simple but rendered well. Tighter than a guppy’s butt and much more hygienic. No-frills production If you want a lyrical taste, here’s “Broke Again”:
I’m blacked out
I’m broke again
I blew my money
On coke again
If you’re looking for “Dark Side Of The Moon”, boy, are you in the wrong place. If you complained, Pink Floyd would advise you to have a cigar. The Pingers would tell you to go blow yourself.
When it all comes down to tin tacks, where else are you going to hear a song called “Foreskins and Buttholes” with a chorus that the neighbors can enjoy?
The Pingers are Amyl and the Sniffers for punks who don’t like brand endorsements. Unlike The Chats, you won't read about them in Rolling Fucking Stone.
It’s on mottled green vinyl and on the disruptive Evil Tone label out of Sydney. Get your fun here.
