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Polaroids Of Androids

Record Reviews

10.0

Unity Floors
Womens Golf

File this in the under the same label as that silly Assassins 88/TV Colours Canberra Tourism spiel and that Royal Headache 7" fun fact-finding frolic. "There's not enough songs here for this release to be that good", "you still haven't reviewed my band's 725 minute, four track album we sent you six months ago" and/or "don't piss 6000 words on my face and then tell me I look like Jimmy Barnes".

And they're all relevant subject lines for the overly detailed, equally grammatically-disabled complaint emails you plan to send, informing me that this review takes longer to read than the actual duration of the three-track 7" it's discussing. But more is more. I love throwing billions of words at you in the hope that a single sentence resonates at some stage. Getting lost amidst unnecessary details, writing volumes and volumes of unfocused literature about single throwaway lyrics and penning more deliberately confusing and unhelpful sentences than you can poke a pedophile priest at, with the specific aim of making you more intrigued than convinced. Yellow circles mate.

The 7" starts with what sounds like a ancient computer dying. Bleep bleep and done. The 5.25" floppy drive is shot. Is that a fairly loose metaphor and do we have time to shoot a billion assumptions into it's vagina? Maybe just one large one. Something about Unity Floors' polite nostalgic head nods. Not overplayed mimicry, just acknowledgements of a simpler time, when Dunedin was bigger than Brooklyn and people didn't have press releases, let alone press releases filled with retarded expressions like "imagine if Thom Yorke and Tom Waits and The Panda Bear had a baby".

"Whatever that means"

Stretched out to employ some deliberate emphasis. And to fit in with the lyrical structure. A poignant full-stop lyric either way. The kind that halts the pedals on your brain cycle for a second. It's a characteristic that's applied consistently throughout Unity Floors' music. Brain sticking one-liners that break rank from the more frequently applied shoulder-shrugging stoner grunts.

"John the Baptist is a friend of mine"

We arrive at the next point of exclamation. Shouted. Not in anger, but in an attempt to rise above the competing riff and steady thuds. A battle that plays out throughout the eight minutes of music contained here, the two sides frequently locking horns over who takes the focus and control of the pop direction. This particular lyric is probably, once again, more likely about a born-again-Christian ex-buddy, rather than a cheap shot at idiots who think there's anything wrong with gay married couples aborting their second trimester blobs. There's no room for big statements here anyway, they've got their own world to worry about. Enough insecurity, grief and, the primary focus on this particular occasion — the painful thoughts associated with inevitable heartbreak, to get caught up in bigger world issues. Too much heat close to home. Enough to "boil an ocean" even.

"Say, you're good looking"

Contradicting all the initial sorrowing feelings of uncertainty, Nobody Home, brims with self-belief and a greater sense of urgency. Suitably partnered with a probably-too-loud up-tempo backing, the lyrics take a distinctly more celebratory and carefree approach. Cautions thrown at wind patterns like they're more than just a propellant for the under carriage of our wings. They also assist the natural progression here and, as with all three of the tracks, there's no forced agenda. We perfectly glide alongside, purely just on the momentum created. And nothing lasts for a second longer than it has to.

"Shotgun wedding, thirty-two months"

Patched together memory fragments perfectly suit the duo's approach. Partly because their music features so many timeless qualities, but also because of the way these snapshot lyrics tie in with the overall homemade aesthetic. Unity Floors sound like just two fellas, somewhere in the outer suburbs of Sydney, splitting a case of Carlton Draught and throwing ideas around a shabby, overly echoey rehearsal space. Lost in their own self-created escape, away from all the negativity, showmanship and industry-related mirages that plague their city. How close this is to reality is hardly important. The music creates this image, and these reflective snippets perfectly trace over this created world.

It makes perfect sense that this climatic third track, Identity Theft, stands alone on the reverse side of the 7". It deserves it's own space. It's the ideal song to play to people in an attempt to justify the aggressive masturbatory words you frequently throw in their direction about "some Sydney band called Unity Floors". It's the perfectly articulated summary of everything that's great about the duo. Loose and sloppy, but more because of a lack of defining endpoints than an absence of focus. And passion is bubbling to the surface as well. It's hard to stay precisely within the lines when you're hurling yourself into every millisecond of the song.

"I don't care"

But they do. And that's why this all comes together so well. No signs of restraint. There's nothing left in the tank at the end of the trip here. Sure, the journey is only a brief stroll down a few quiet suburban back-streets to your childhood corner store for a milkshake and a battered sav. But it's probably the most important thing going on in your world that day.

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Unity Floors

 

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