fear and loathing - The I-94 Bar
Take the massive rhythm section of Fear and Loathing, add ex-Love Fever and Primevils’ David Mason on one guitar and the redoubtable Sean Tilmouth on the other guitar and you have a crunching, bowel-scouring rock band.
The Bums were first put together a few years back by the late Renestair EJ; their first gig featured a rather heatstroked Ren beaning a startled Mr Tilmouth with the mic stand. Mr Tilmouth’s response to this was not, "I say, that’s a bit harsh, Ren old buddy". No.
Sean knocked Ren out cold, and floored him again when Ren got up and went for the cuddle of forgiveness. I’ve seen the video and this band owe me a new pair of underpants.
Perdition + The Toss + Fear and Loathing
+ Chainsaw Preachers + Lumpsucker
+ The Rip Offs + Surfer Rosa
The Gov, Adelaide
Saturday, September 26, 2020
It's probably bad for me, but lately I've been thinking a bit.
Mostly about the continuous nature of rock'n'roll. Sure, the stupidvirus has thrown a spanner in the works, but spanners were surely forged with the express intent of being chucked into the smooth-running of rock'n'roll.
I put on Little Richard's very first album (on CD) as I drive toward Port Adelaide; I realise that his extraordinarily-controlled shrieks and vocalising are the origin of so much we hold dear, from the Beatles to the Stones to Smokin' Bones to whatever new shit you just heard.
It is my great privilege to interview the elusive Chris Spud at his home. Who? You may ask. Among other things he’s a member of Fear and Loathing, who might just be Adelaide’s most seminal band of the last 30 years. He’s also a solo artist in his own right with persona like Captain Spud producing quirky music that spans the genres of exotica, punk and electronica.
Chris Spud’s home: It’s the kind of neat and tidy which frankly gives me a headache, yet is essential for Chris and Mrs Spud to live an orderly life while creating … a certain kind of chaos. A sheep’s skull peers in through the window…a pricey artwork leers down like the bottom of Poseidon’s trunks…
Sarah telling Hermann from Fear and Loathing not to swear.
Fear and Loathing
The Filthy Gypsies
Lucy the band
The Federal Hotel, Semaphore, Adelaide
August 24, 2019
Photos: Wayne Ridley
What a pack of bastards. The folk in the bands, I mean. I wasn't going to review this gig, partly because the sound wasn't as good as it could have been, I missed most of the first act's set (and they were damn good and deserve a better review), one of the bands was using a stand-in bass and extra guitar player and... well, I hadn't gone with the intention of reviewing anyone, just a couple of brews and some friends. And the bastards have asked me to review the thing.
If I could claim to have been too drunk, I would.
Oh, yeah, "full disclosure" as the Barman says on occasion, I know a lot of these folks. But you, I-94 Bar reader, may rest assured that I would never review a band unless I thought them worthy of your attention. All I will add is that I wore my latest and current favourite Chickenstones T-shirt.
Biased? No, I'm not biased. Why do you ask? See, Adelaide's Fear and Loathing (aka FAL) is the band everyone should see, experience or endure, at least four times in their lives.
First gig: At the sight of a bunch of late 40-somethings making what they sometimes call music and what everyone else calls punishment, you will feel an uncontrollable urge to get extremely drunk. You will not remember getting home.
Second gig: Still hungover from last time, you turn up because you've realised that you didn't quite take it all in, and they've got this hypnotic scrunch about them. By now you're tapping your toe, occasionally jiggling along gingerly. You find yourself buying the band numerous jugs of pale ale. You find yourself driving home at midday, fairly certain you're going in the right direction.
The Gov, Adelaide, Friday, September 6, 2013
So hi de ho to the Gov once more, the Crystal Ballroom of the modern age. Well, no, not really but we can pretend.
I was at Muscle Shoals Records Fayre, on Lygon Street in Melbourne, when I received the unwelcome news from one of my dearest friends, a character in and out of bands in Adelaide for decades, who I doubt you’ve heard of, but whose name (when you have to use it) you will always spell incorrectly, as I do: "Bad" Bob Lehermayr.
I was less than charitable with Bob, and he rightly gave me a serve.
Then he told me about Charlie Tolnay dying.
After Bob (also rightly) hung up on me, I received a text message from The Barman. Bad news had travelled fast.