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Polaroids Of Androids

Record Reviews


Golden Fang EP

I'm guilty of so many things. Piracy, copyright infringement, dressing like a pirate for sex role-playing games and calling myself Jonny Deep. And, of course, talking about myself when I should be discussed another matter entirely. #meta. Oh, and then there's that whole thing of inserting hashtags into sentences when I know all too well that the sufficient regular expressions to transform them into hyperlinks are non-existent. And discussing string filtering out of it's defined programming context in an attempt to show my understanding of "computering". Jesus Christ mate, you're a fuckwit. Let's add talking to myself without explaining the change of context to that list. And blasphemy.

But far and away the biggest crime I'm frequently guilty of is my rampant use of inflation. Not merely the 2% mark-up I put on "coffee runs" as an intern at Vice or the fictional spin I put on my mundane day job as editor-in-chief at Women's Weekly, but my consistent attempt to augment discussions beyond their own logical boundaries. Dissecting all rock music ever recorded when the topic at hand is the new Rage Against The Machine side project. Joyously skipped through the highs and lows of Marshall Mathers' illustrious career when attempting to explain my love/hate relationship with a Tyler The Creator record. Wafting on for two entire paragraphs about my own personal writing/life shortcomings rather than penning a simple analysis of a six-track EP from a Sydney pop-punk trio.

So, let's not get lost here. Remember Northern State? Yep. Let's not mention that beautifully bratty rebellious thrill. The simplicity. Akin to "our" own Grates, who, although have probably now been beaten to death by the popularity baton, will forever remain that magnificently hyper-unfocused cluttered mess in my heart. I probably hear them everywhere because of that. Nope, influences should be distant and beyond our generation. Even mentioning The Grates within this context should make us all feel incredibly old and out of touch. In fact, let's not talk about "kids these days" at all. Not a word about their vintage wears, paradoxed by heavy-duty steel cap boots and gang-related bandannas. Their enviously free-spirited, moment-seizing approach to life. Their love of sun-soaked music with punk edges and twee sweetness. Or their energy, their bloody obsession with energy drinks and their strange alcohol and energy drink concoctions. Let's not get lost in assumptions or generalisations at all.

The point of all this rambling (there's a point?) is that, in the case of Bloods, it's easy to search for something more preeminent. Easy to attempt to make this about something more. Because what we're offered is so explicitly one-dimensional. In fact, the unashamed simplicity is, at times, annoyingly straightforward ("cake" rhymed with "take" etc). Yet, for the most part, it's this genuine and perfectly uncomplicated innocence that energises the EP. The joyous jolts of juvenile insouciance acting as the perfect refuge for our mushed, 400-hour working week brains. An acceptance of this guileless approach is arguably essential to the enjoyment.

In addition to the obvious (ie. those bloody infectious hooks) there's also just enough grit and grunt around the edges to give the whole thing the required measure of ticker. While the EP would have benefited greatly from the odd emotional explosion — or really any form of unrestrained passion at all — each of the six tracks are blasted with enough persuasive energy to retain interest.

Golden Fang is fifteen minutes of pure, uncut, youthful exuberance. It's not a reason to feel old, it doesn't mark a milestone in a specific sub-movement of music, apply a commentary for the disposable nature of music in modern times or, really, attempt to do anything more significant than what it offers. It's simply a series of mostly halcyon, micro-moment tales, presented with an utmost focus on pop clarity and a punk undercoat which is comfortingly familiar. Just don't expect anything more.

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