Western Front

Bobby and I were lucky enough to score tickets (look at me, I sound like a hardcore music user) to St. Jerome's Laneway Festival, a wonderful event that took place last Sunday at the beautiful Sydney College of the Arts (SCA). Amongst an amazing collection of talented acts, including Daniel Johnston, Florence and the Machine and The XX, local quintet Bridezilla dazzled the indie crowd and reminded me just how good their new record is. I reviewed it a couple of months ago - it was in fact my first ever album review - for This Way In. Bobby, I should also mention, reviewed the whole of St. Jerome's which you can find on his website.

Photo taken by the wonderfully talented Daniel Boud of award winning website www.boudist.com

If you're in Sydney, check out his exhibition at Mart Gallery in Surry Hills - the opening of which is tonight.

It takes some effort not to be jealous of Bridezilla. Not only are the quintet insanely talented, stylish, mature, musically educated, incredibly humble - even violinist Daisy Tulley, who’s notoriously crass - and more goddamn good looking than you or I will ever be, they’re all younger too. Whilst I’m getting pissed on other people’s booze, chain smoking and chatting up some guy (who I later realise is my boyfriend and not even worth my pick up lines), they’re likely to be found sitting in the darkest corner of the party having quiet, intelligent conversations. That is, if they’ve been coerced into going out at all. Their music is beguiling as they are, and the snowballing of their success comes as no surprise to anyone who’s seen them perform, which, let’s be frank, includes most of Sydney - even my Mother’s seen them - and, with the band having just returned home from playing the Flaming Lips-curated All Tomorrow Parties Festival, New York has now held witness to their explosive live show too.

Therefore, given this reputation, it comes as some surprise that, on first listen, Bridezilla’s aptly named debut long player, The First Dance, is almost unbearably restrained. It plays in dramatic contrast to their passionate live performances, which see regular outbreaks from Tulley and Millie Hall on saxophone. The album is an understated, tense and sombre affair. There’s a tautness that runs through the record, threatening to break out into an explosion of improvisation though, amazingly, it never does. This is perhaps most apparent in the almost entirely instrumental Soft Porn. It’s certainly a beautiful self-discipline, and the way Holiday Carmen-Sparks’ seductive croons complement the dizzyingly harmonious instrumentation is mesmerising. The most jarring sounds on the album – and they’re not really very jarring at all - come courtesy of Magnetic Arrest, with it’s pulsing beat, it was inspired by Carmen-Sparks’ trip to America. Queen of Hearts and Tailback meanwhile, are two examples that the band are more than able to write attractive pop numbers, without compromising their gothic sound.

It’s easy to dismiss Bridezilla as a band whose hype has come courtesy of the novelty of their youth, which is mentioned in almost every review and interview, but with The First Dance, they truly have created something far beyond their years. It’s an album that stands alone. Immerse yourself in The First Danceand any pre conceived notions you have become irrelevant. Released this month, their much anticipated debut long-player (they formed all the way back in 2005) is brooding and measured. Perhaps you won’t be dancing around the room to it, getting pissed and chatting up every person you fall upon, but it’s the perfect record to have a quiet conversation to in a dark corner of the room. In fact, who needs conversation? Whack it on your iPod and seclude yourself in Australia’s outback (somewhere like The Colo River, perhaps). It’s wonderful. Of course it is. What else would you expect from Sydney’s finest five piece?

Sing it back

As I have so briefly explained, recently we did that thing called Melbourne. If you listen hard, you'll notice that tone in my voice that only crops up when I'm feeling really apologetic that I'm such an avid procrastinator when it comes to all things writing related. But don't listen too hard, you might catch my cough. It's only taken a week. Actually, a little less than a week, I think you'll find.



We had our first meal-of-the-Melbourne-merry at Winsdor Castle, which, on walking through the doors, we were immediately confronted by an erect nipple and a hairy chest. Further, I was the only one who seemed to notice it. The man was, apparently, posing for a photo. Once I got past the disturbing nature of this incident however, Windsor Castle wasn't at all that bad. With yummy food, and a large albeit ridiculously crowded beer garden, it was actually quite nice.

The Castle was a light and airy walk from our place of stay which ended up being greatly convenient and wonderfully good value. And, they had a television (something of which I have none at home) which played such things as Snakes On A Plane and The Secretary. How did it know we'd be into such things? Oh, Maggie. Oh, CGI.


Michaels Camera Museum allowed us to wander and ogle at cameras as old as 120 years. I fell hard in love with an amazing and entirely gold, partly snakeskin Leica camera.

St Jerome's in Caledonian Lane that evening however, held no such antiques, the pub crowd seemed to average even younger than me. I was vaguely reminded of Purple Sneakers back home. I'm inclined to blame the night of the week though, and being Saturday, (pre a major football match at that) I would imagine most places in the City were of a similar vibe. I certainly, had we had enough time, would have loved to go back one afternoon during the week.

Daytime is so much prettier for such things and The Rooftop Bar at Curtin House proved as much. While the stairs took forever to walk up and the beers were rather on the expensive side, the view was wonderful, the building eerily similar to my home, and the Astroturf very entertaining. Who knew they could now make long-grassed and, yes, spongy Astroturf? I questioned my soccer (and therefore grass) knowledgable boyfriend for an accordingly long time. Awesome stuff. And when we realised it was crowded to the point of there being no seats, 'we' lamented, while I secretly cheered. Sitting on artificial grass with a normal-sized beer (none of those midis, or pots as they may call them, thank you) and a view of the city around. Again, while not as underground as one may be expecting (see what I did there?), I have to say, awesome stuff.


Due to Sunday laziness and an extraordinarily long walk, we unfortunately missed the better part of Coburg's Trash & Treasure and the entirety of Camberwell markets. On exhaustively plodding through the gates at the Coburg Drive-in, we noticed with dread there were an inordinate amount of cars leaving. True enough, it was because the stall-holders were closing up. Oh, Spader. Regardless, I still found a charming belt, two teddy bears strong, one of which with an apparently amputated arm. The concept of this non-market is wonderfully intriguing, it truly felt like twenty garages sales at once (I'm sure it would have been more, had we gotten there earlier), and I highly recommend it should you have a car and/or there is some secret Batmobile-type vehicle we were unaware of. Which actually could be quite likely, considering the location of said non-market. Check out the station after Coburg, it's lutes worth the train ride just for that.

The Carlton Hotel, with it's excess of taxidermy animals, was horribly nauseating. How this bar is well recommended I simply fail to understand. Palmz, the rooftop wasn't even open to allow escape, due to renovations. An unavoidable giraffe head (neck included) that hung on the wall between two doors was 'complemented' by emus and what one would imagine to be an entire Avery. Do you really find this impressive, Melbourne? Dim lighting and exorbitant '20s decor only added to what was already a uncomfortably heavy atmosphere.

In contrast, Lord Of The Fries is a breath of fresh air in its trade and you're highly recommended to, as we so merrily did, enjoy their thick but always crisp hot chips. Their menu is simple, and their delicious sauces categorised by country. Their prices are great too, even though I've heard it takes 24 hours to make a chip. And wait, here comes the clincher. They're vegetarian to the bone (they can do vegan too, if that's your thing) and their oil is reused in their vans as fuel.


Easy Cafe, in the basement of Bourke Street mall had fantastically swinging-from-the-ceiling benches, entangled with vines amongst garish (in the best possible way) colours. With Chinese Channel V and all the types of bubble tea you never knew existed, how can you go wrong? Sesame Milk Tea. Yum.

On Chapel Street I found the second best coffee I was to have in Melbourne. It was right up the end, opposite the train station, and it restored my hope for Melbourne coffee. The waitress was lovely too, and it seemed (I didn't nose too much) it had a garden in the back. I wish I could remember what it was called, but for now it shall just have to be that-lovely-place-opposite-the-train-station. The coffee was smack bam in the middle of our Chapel Street adventure, during which I found a dress I cut much too short, a little '70s purse and a check and floral scarf from Chapel Street Bazaar. The latter had an overwhelmingly large collection of vintage toys and clothes and furniture and knick knacks. It's the kind of place you struggle to find anything because there is so much to find.

Similarly, Retrostar was awesomely intense. Hidden away on Swanston Street, it's certainly a gem. It, believebly, claims to be the largest vintage store in Australia. On a less expensive note, Sacred Heart Mission on Brunswick is also worth a look, what with $1 vests and the like.


The best coffee now, wasn't due to the bean or the blend, the machine or the barista. As I was standing in line, waiting to order in a cafe opposite Retrostar, a strikingly amazonian woman turned around and walked past me. I smiled as one does when one thinks they know someone. I quickly ordered my coffee and found myself staring blankly as the waitress slyly smiled "Megan Gale just bought your coffee." As my severely hungover head struggled to compute this, she reiterated, "You know the supermodel? Megan Gale? She. Just. Shouted. You. A. Coffee." Giving Gale a mumbled thank you as I left, I spent the next ten minutes in a strange stupor. A lovely stupor however. Free coffee from a supermodel is a lovely thing. In fact, I'd even go as far to say (I don't think it's that much of a jump), she's a lovely one.

Alas, after rocking out in ACDC lane for a short while, it was time to turn away and go home. Turning away being something you might need to do, considering the absurd length of this post. Quick, before I flash you my nipple. And hairy chest.