Stop pretending this doesn't exist. A simple enough statement, but when spat in such a cunt-fisting tone, accompanied by moonshine and stale potato chip excrements, it kinda hits with a smidgen more impact. And that's the general process of Oberon — everything is just fucking huge. The quotable lyrical statements are larger than the belt size of a mining billionaire, the music is more grand than the aforementioned mining billionaire's impractical gold-plated staircase and everything is loaded with more punches, kicks and dirty fight club tactics than a mining company AGM.
Speaking of that ridiculous mining tax and the repercussions on our half-speed economy, this record occupies a place far removed from such unpleasant daily grinds, not at all concerned with financial woes, mild-socialism or political vote-purchasing. Fact is, in the world in which Oberon occupies (read: the Blue Mountains) chances are you can't even purchase a newspaper at your local Megamart. And even if you're lucky enough to find a paper, it's probably called "The Land" and only features stories of lost sheep, rat-infested wheat crops and in-depth articles about Pete Murray and his amazing Darling Catchment invention (ie. his Timeless Crotch Thrusting).
Speaking of Pete Murray, this album sounds almost nothing like his 2003 album track Fall Your Way. To be somewhat expected I guess, after all, this is bloody screamy hardcore music. The kind of music that makes you think once about choofing that box of dishwashing powder up your nostrils and then running rampant around the suburban wilderness, pillaging and pummelling the whole "tranquil village lifestyle". The kind of music that makes your testicles swell to the size of Matty Newton's head/ego, inconveniently causing your tadpole tanks to drag along the rugged, pathless terrain of the deserted forest you now find yourself pelting through at breakneck speed.
This music exists in that detached wilderness, taking refuge in the isolated habitat where hardcore music belongs. As loud as apparatuses allow, without a single milligram of Fucks given towards the prospect of neighbour complaints, Oberon openly embraces it's unrestrained and relentless nature. This is music that sucks you into it's world, gives your entire head and body a solid Going Over and then spits you out with your legs strangled around your neck like a baby attempting to Kurt Cobain itself into a transcendent state with it's umbilical cord.