i can see right through you.

Tuned into the ARIAs just in time to catch Missy Higgins. I don't have a remote, and I'm concerned that in the time it took me to rise from the couch, stumble over to the TV and hit the off switch I may have suffered irreparable brain damage. I mean, seriously, Missy, stop fucking whining so much. You seem like a smart girl. Take a look around. Put away your fucking electric keyboard, pick up a guitar and sing about something that matters.

In the hope of actually enlightening my newly deformed brain I threw on 'Germ Free Adolescents' by X-Ray Spex. Let's face it, there aren't many bands from punk's inception that stand the test of time (and as an aside, if I see another kid with a GBH patch - or worse, GBH written in studs on the back of a leather jacket - I will smack them upside the head), but Germ Free Adolescents sounds like it could've been made yesterday. Sure, it would've been made by a rock-punk band (the saxophone in particular makes me think Rocket From The Crypt), but fuck, no one who's anyone bothers genre splitting any more. Poly Styrene's lyrics are surprisingly prescient, especially given that a) thirty years have gone by and b) she was only 19 when she wrote them. They're a band that not enough people know about, so get on board and win mad scene points.

je me souviens

Dear Quebec,

I'm sorry, as I know you're all really nice guys, but Majorca made you look like rank fucking amateurs tonight.

Love Brendan

Ps. If you keep referring to your band as "Kew-Beck" instead of "Keh-Beck" (or, even more correctly, "Kay-Beck"), I will lock you all in a room and make you listen to the speeches of Rene Levesque until you learn to adaquetely respect Canadian francophiles.

what decency deserves.

Saw Soiled Stroller (aka the diamond sea, aka slow signal, aka milky joe and the sweet chinchillas) at 383 house last night. There are so many things right about this band: a mic stand made from a milkcrate, a broomstick and copious amounts of gaffer; a tendency to play in livingrooms and backyards to friends and people in the know; songs that are well-structured and tight; textured guitar interplay; and all-round impressive musicianship. This last reason shouldn't come as any surprise. We know Jacqui is good from her time in Terror Firma and Schifosi. We know Alicia is good from her time in Masstrauma. And we know James is good because I'm told he spent time in Jaws. The real surprise here for me is Steph Cola, who i've never seen in a band before, but whose mad guitar skills are so amazing that when she takes the lead in their cover of God's 'My Pal' I'm more impressed with their version than that played by A Death In The Family at the Espy a few weeks back. And Steve from Mid Youth Crisis sang it for them. Apparently Jacqui doesn't even know the words.

steady diet of nothing would have to be my least favourite fugazi record. this isn't to say i don't love it - quite the contrary - but rather to say it doesn't have the energy or sheer force of will that the other records burst with. instead it has a darkness, a sullenness that makes it one of those records you can only listen to at very particular times. like now, with the sky closing in and the late-afternoon exhaustion making every movement a trial.

this being said, the only knuckle tatts i've ever seriously considered read KYEO.

sometimes someone else just gets it. ben tripp, everybody. worth clicking for this phrase alone:

"Why do I offer this disclaimer? Same reason. Very tired. Don't want to argue with the un-examined chickenhawk "I have a cousin in the military" jingoistic pro-death legion of hateloving fetus-fetishist Jesusgobbling fuckwits any more. Which brings me back to the point. I'm so damn tired."

Flesh Vs Venom at Pony, 06-10-07.

Resisting the almost overwhelming urge to just stay at home listening to the new Fear Like Us record, I catch the tram into the city to see Flesh Vs Venom at the Pony. Almost as soon as I arrive Mel asks about the whereabouts of my bike, and I have to confess to her that I’ve left it at home because, well, a girl I kinda had a crush on while I was at uni is in town tonight and I’m supposed to be catching up with her after the show. And, well, it’s hard to take someone home when you have your bike with you. Girls in their going-out clothes don’t tend to react well to being offered a dink.

So I’m in a positive frame of mind. Mel and I stand out the front of Pony, me metaphorically smoking a cigarette, she literally smoking one. I tell her about my attempts to define Flesh to a friend earlier that day, and how I ended up just throwing out adjectives. “Pressurized… Claustrophobic… Tense….” Mel tells me she too has a tough time of it, and takes the easy way out, loosely comparing them to Joy Division and Bauhaus.

But when they start up they blow those comparisons out of the water. Squalls of feedback (later revealed to be not entirely intentional) and reverb make this one of the loudest shows I’ve ever been to, even at Pony. Kody belts his guitar and twiddles with knobs, barely breaking rhythm as he changes up the sound. Amy is in good form tonight – apparently unable to hear herself in the foldback from her position behind her keyboard in the centre of stage, she unwraps the mic cord and edges closer to the side of the stage, bouncing up and down with the music the way Angela Pippos bounces when she reads the sports on the ABC news. Later in the evening, perhaps during the second or third last song, she’ll duck down behind the keys. I’m momentarily distracted, wondering what she’s doing, curiosity getting the better of me. She’s looking at her hands, pressing her fingers against each other, adjusting her wedding ring. It’s a soft, intimate moment in the midst of punishing gales of noise.

Last week, after the show at the Fitzroy Bowls Club, none of the band had been impressed with their own performance. And they had a point. They were loose and out of practice, missing cues and – on one occasion – starting a song in the wrong key. The kids in the crowd – me included – didn’t seem to mind. The songs, I guess, are so well written that they carry the band through even their most unenthusiastic evenings. But tonight Flesh are on point – sharp as a fucking scalpel and ready to inflict pain. Marty and Tim push the songs along on drums and bass respectively, ever insistent, like a bully peer-pressures a dork. Kody shatters glass with his guitar, providing a counterpoint to Amy whose right hand work occasionally takes a quirky pop tone. I think, though, that it’s her left hand that really drives the Flesh Vs Venom sound, essentially bringing to the band another bassplayer, which gives them a depth that is impossible to escape from. She’s not a typical dance-punk band keyboard player, hitting one key at a time, and they benefit from this immensely.

I’m having trouble finding the words to describe the way they play. I’m writing this later in the evening, and trying to explain it to Tara I grab her wrist and squeeze until she tells me to fuck off. Tonight it works. It all comes together. I don’t know how to describe it, other than to say it’s fucking awesome.

My phone goes off midway through the set, but for perhaps the first time in months I ignore it. Later, when I check it, it’s a message from my friend Nat Graf, who is hanging out with the aforementioned crush from university. They’re going home, he says, the crush has to work tomorrow. I’m momentarily disappointed, but it doesn’t last long. I say my goodbyes and walk off, stopping for Lord of the Fries on the way home.

You know, I was going to write about how tonight I'm going to try to catch both Flesh Vs Venom at Pony (starting at 10.30) and Ninetynine at The Tote (starting at 11), but I've decided instead to solve that problem by staying in and listening to the new Fear Like Us record over and over again. Yep, it's that good.

so, it seems like every second person on facebook has some photo of themselves with a black person in whatever fucking country they visited for three days as their profile picture, but no black people in their friends list. there's such a disturbing sense of Otherness... like, "look at the different people i'm hanging out with! i'm so multicultural and awesome! because they're black! see!" like fuck, they might as well just wear a badge saying, "i love black people!"

and i'm trying desperately to come up with a slight against this in my status update, but saying "brendan is not impressed by those photos of you holding black babies" just doesn't sound right. sounds like i disapprove of them holding black babies, not the photo and how they're showing it off like it's a fucking souvenir spoon. it's the implicit racism i have a problem with, not their cradling techniques.

chumbawamba once released a record taking a shot at live aid called "pictures of black babies sell records". that's the vibe i want here. help a brother out.

ok, so there are a lot of new bands around that i totally, totally love: fear like us, 731, majorca, cut sick, the diamond sea (aka slow signal, aka milky joe and the sweet chinchillas). but i gotta say that i'm incredibly excited about the resurgence that 2001 is making at the moment. leith is talking about booking a true radical miracle tour, flesh vs venom are playing shows and writing songs again after taking what seems to be years off for maternity/paternity leave, kody and marcus are talking about a battleaxe discography, and even ninetynine have deigned to play shows in their own country. these are the kids who, in their various incarnations (red divide, vivian girls, the aforementioned bands, kokoshka, george w. bush, paul of blood), got me excited about music way back in the day. these days they're starting to seem their ages - shows are punctuated with cracks about bad backs and families, rehearsals happen at times that fit around jobs and not vice versa, tours are short - but that just makes me like them more. hell, i got a real job and a bad back too.

Pikelet, Small Knives and The City on Film at the Northcote Social Club, 26-08-07

Bob and Megan and I are driving over to the Social in my parents' car. We're listening to Jawbreaker, and when the conversation drops Bob sings along. I tell him the rumour Sarah K told me about Dear You: that it was written entirely after Blake Schwartzenbach was left at the alter, and that afterwards he was so shattered that he a) gave up on his punk rock values and signed to Geffen, and b) wrote an album which is perhaps to spite what Sartre's Nausea is to, well, feeling a bit crook. Bob tells me that in everything he has ever heard about Jawbreaker he's never heard the story. Given he's been around the scene a lot longer than I have – and played a slightly more central part – I'm prepared to believe him over a rumour I heard in a Montreal kitchen. We find a park around the back and head inside.

No one is there yet so we rock up to the bar. It's Hirdy and Sheeds' last game in Melbourne tonight, and I'm kinda hoping that the Social have it on their big screen. Instead they're showing the latest gardening show with Jamie Durie. I start to make my excuses – the Peacock Hotel up the road will be screening it, for sure. Bob is interested in coming, but has to stick around and have serious talks with Tara and Tom. He seems slightly disappointed – turns out he's a big fan of American football (the sport, not the band. Well, perhaps the band too. I didn't ask), to the point of having his own fantasy football team (I forget to ask if they're called 'the Braids'). Given, though, that he doesn't have the 27 years of emotional connection with Sheeds that I have, I understand his choice, and head up there alone. Where I see them get flogged.

When I get back Evelyn / Pikelet is setting up. I notice that no one is sitting at the merch desk, and take the opportunity to snaffle the only seat in the entire room. I'll have to sell shirts all night as a result, but that's barely work, and besides, it's nice to have a job. Eventually Harriet rocks up. She's been at the game with her parents. She tells me that her mum cried. We console each other with the Minton vegan mint slices she has in her bag. Apparently I need a lot more consoling than she does.

I have a problem with two of the bands on the list tonight: they're not really bands. Both City on Film and Pikelet are solo acts. And I know both of their real names. So what do I call them? At what point does the performer become the person? Is the stage name the name of the performance, rather than any particular entity? When I say, "Pikelet was really good tonight," and follow it up with, "she's really developed her sound over the past year," (both true) does the pronoun refer to Pikelet or Evelyn? Is it possible for a performance itself to develop a sound? I'm so confused. If anyone can straighten this out for me, the way Rina straightened out the whole surnames issue, just leave a comment below. Especially if you are Evelyn or Bob.

Nomenclative issues aside, Pikelet is really good tonight. She's really developed her sound. When I first saw her about a year ago there was a lot of space in the music – it was almost sparse in parts. But now, with a bit of help from the samples and loops she creates on the spot, the sound has really filled out. It's important – the Social band room is big, and she's only one person. A solo act has a lot of work to do in order to fill the space, and she does the job well. She also plays her guitar a lot more these days, which is a good thing. I mean, she plays drums in True Radical Miracle, and bass in Baseball, so really, it's nice for her to get a chance to be a guitarist as well.

Sometime during her set pretty much the entire Melbourne Emo Mafia circa 1999 roll up. I was overseas at the time, and it's Natalie Ann who alerts me to their presence, but I recognise a bunch of the faces: Bloom, Kieran, that Amanda girl who actually came to a party in at my parents' house in Stawell once with Corey Delley (who is conspicuous in his absence), but who I'm too awkward and shy and perhaps self-conscious about the image I used to project to approach. Kieran asks me after Pikelet's set if it's okay to request Braid songs when City on Film are playing. I tell him that Bob's been playing a few of the old songs throughout the tour, but really, I'm more excited about the Tom Waits cover he'd played at Deago studios the night before.

Between sets a couple of randoms come up to buy shirts. I've sold three by the time CoF starts, and sell another during the first song. It's a weird phenomenon. I mean, he might suck! He might say horrible racist things during his set (I'm talking about you, Sensefield)! I'd feel strange about handing over my fifteen bucks before I know for sure.

Small Knives play next, and they're really, really pleasant. Despite giving the appearance of being totally fucking hardcore, I'm a bit of a sucker for the quiet acoustic types - my favourite Springsteen album is Nebraska, and my favourite Against Me album is the acoustic EP. Small Knives hit this nail square on the head. Two blokes up on stage, sometimes two guitars, sometimes guitar and organ, sometimes one singing, sometimes both. They don't sell any CDs, but I like them a lot.

City on Film is up next. He sets his own sampler off and launches into the first song. He doesn't say any horrible racist things, and he doesn't suck. He is, however, a lot looser tonight, and apparently looser still than at the Canberra show, where he was forced to take a Breathalyser before playing. It's a good thing. Though he doesn't talk to the crowd until after the first couple of songs, he's moving around, stamping his foot and shaking his head. The music is indie-rock gone acoustic, occasionally sounding a bit like Joan of Arc, but not much. He has a problem with the sampler and decides it's better to talk to us instead. We're all grateful. I mean, the guy is funny. He's rolling his Coopers around the stage, talking about Drop Bears, making fun of how we say his name. It's awesome.

I suggest to Tara and Harriet the next day that there's pressure on solo acts to be funny and witty and charming, as if the songs themselves aren't enough. They don't agree, but really, it's rare that I'll go away from a solo show thinking just about the songs themselves. When it's only one person on stage the banter matters, the stories matter. You have to create an atmosphere of familiarity, of intimacy, and not much does this as well as cracking someone up.

And yeah, Bob does this well. After he plays a Magnetic Fields cover he challenges the audience to name the band. A guy up the back does and Bob offers him a free CD. The guy declines and asks for a Braid song instead. Bob looks genuinely apologetic. "Do I want to do it? OK." He admits, "But would I be able to do it? Probably not." He plays "Come On Eileen" instead. Everyone seems satisfied. He plays one encore, then another, then two more when he said he'd only play one. It's the last show of the tour, and you get the impression he doesn't want it to end.

But it does. We pack up, and once everyone has cleared out we head up to the green room. The Social has provided an entire slab of Coopers and a bottle of wine for City on Film, perhaps accustomed to dealing with entire bands rather than solo acts. Bob doesn't seem to mind. He and Megan sit on the couch and quiz us on our understanding of Australian colloquialisms, using the back of their Lonely Planet as their guide. I'm quite offended when Tara, Tom and Harriet all use me as their example when defining 'bogan'. "For Christ's sake!" I cry, "I write fucking poetry!" But I guess love of the Essendon Football Club and a soft spot for Midnight Oil puts me over the edge. Eventually the Social kicks us out. We smuggle the leftover beers in our backpacks and head for the car. Tara and I must have forgotten we don't drink. Those beers are still in our fridge now. Anyone out there like Coopers Green?

Snakes Run, Cut Sick and Gorilla Angreb at the Arthouse, 29-07-07

I'd been excited about the Friday night show for weeks beforehand – the Focus, Straightjacket Nation, Gorilla Angreb and Eddy Current Suppression Ring all on the one bill – but on Thursday night I break up with my girlfriend so it's pretty much a write-off. I split midway through Eddy Current's set, buffeted by bogans and annoyed by pretty much everybody. The same post-breakup grumpiness keeps me from making the trip out to Northcote for the all ages show the next afternoon, meaning that I once again miss Jacqui and Alicia's new band, whose name changes with every show and who are apparently amazing. Instead I stay home, listen to the Weakerthans and tinker with my bike. Somehow I manage to break a lockring. I must be angrier than I thought.

I've been watching the Tour de France pretty much religiously over the past three weeks, and am aware that tonight there is a very real chance that Australia's Cadel Evans will take the yellow jersey, setting him up for an overall win. So again, I'm tempted to skip the show altogether and stay at home watching TV. But TJ suggests that I could skip out before Pisschrist and be home by 11.30. Given that it's a timetrial tonight and there's no way Cadel will be riding first, I figure I can wing it.

I roll up early, get stamped, then wander off to get coffee with Cori, Tegan and her friend Sophie. When Tegan reveals to us that she earns more cold hard cash as a dog hairdresser than I do as a teacher, I insist that she shout me coffee. She insists that I catch up when it comes to job satisfaction, but I'm not convinced.

When we arrive back Snakes Run are playing. They're fast, eighties style hardcore, and seem to be throwing everything into their set. I'm impressed, but Cori wants to go find a bank so she can buy more beer later in the evening. I'm not usually too keen to support a young girl's drinking habit, but I'm more into walking around late at night than I am fast, eighties style hardcore, so we wander over to the Vic Market. The air outside is cool and kind of refreshing, but smells slightly of rotting vegetables and camel shit. I get to complaining about my relationship breakdown and suggest to her that maybe I'm incapable of ever sustaining a relationship that lasts longer than a month. She, sensitive to the last, agrees.

Cut Sick are one of my favourite bands in Melbourne right now. Yep, seriously. They're always good to watch, always thrashing hard, playing fast and throwing themselves around like an ADHD kid with a bellyful of jellybeans. Steve and Rob, dual guitar / vocalists, throw their copious amounts of hair around and slice the air with their guitars, but the real star of the show tonight is Steve's gigantic hickey, which is perhaps the biggest I've ever seen. Somehow it seems to sum them up perfectly – they're young, full of energy and go at life without hesitation, whether it be rocking out, bombing hills or sucking each other's necks. Rob spits in the air and sends a spray over the entire band. The kids loved the terribly spelt Mispent Youth, but Cut Sick – essentially the same band but with Max on drums – are so much faster, tighter and debaucherous. They're touring a lot, doing the hard yards, playing skateparks and galleries and anywhere they can, and will continue getting better with each show.

I talk a bit to Rob after their set. We worked together over the summer at the Social Research Centre. As an aside, anyone wanting a quick 'in' to the Melbourne punk scene could do worse than apply to one of two call centres – Social Research Centre, wittily referred to as 'Social Retard Centre' by its employees, where Dan from Straightjacket Nation is a supervisor; or the mysteriously named Wallace, where vegan champion Lidia is a supervisor. Nearly everyone I know in the Melbourne scene has done a stint at one or the other, some unfortunate souls both. I want to ask Rob if he and Steve practice their rock stances in the mirror, but the conversation steers away and I don't get the chance.

Gorilla Angreb start up and immediately I'm more impressed by them than I was the previous night. After the same thing happened with Against Me, who played absolutely shit at the Corner on a Saturday night, but pretty much ruled at the Arthouse on a Monday, I'm beginning to think that the Arthouse, my sentimental attachments to it aside, is the best place in Melbourne to see bands. And what's more, two of the things that I usually hate about the Arty have all but disappeared: non-smoking laws have actually worked and I'm able to breathe inside; and the fucking idiots bringing the mosh at the front of the stage have been replaced by people actually dancing. For the former I have the state government to thank, but for the latter I have Gorilla Angreb, whose sheer enthusiasm infects us like a virus. The singer, whose excellent voice is complimented by her amazing dance moves, wraps the microphone cord around her wrists and punches the air in front of her, grinning like it's her birthday. The bassplayer, posture like a question mark, stares out across the top of the audience with bloodshot eyes, bass slung across his knees and shaven head glistening in the stagelights. Where everyone in the crowd is madly in love with the singer, everyone is a little bit intimidated by this guy. For the second night in a row I've found myself positioned directly in front of him and I swear I only saw him smile once. Their own brand of early 80s punk, infused with catchy riffs, singalongs and actual singing lends itself to dancing, but is scrappy and raw enough to maintain interest and keep our heads bopping.

I'm a bit intrigued by the crowd, to be honest, and not only because a bunch of them are attempting to sing along to lyrics that are entirely sung in Danish. As stated above, the usual Thrash Til Death style crust punk crash into each other crap that takes place at the Arty has been, despite Metal Mick's best efforts, replaced by dancing, and I'm going to speculate that this is in no small part due to the considerable number of girls up the front. This is an all too rare occurrence, and I can't help but wonder what exactly draws a majority of a particular gender to a particular show. Pisschrist, headlining the show tonight, have heaps of female fans, despite having no female members, whereas I only ever see a few girls at Straightjacket Nation shows, despite their female drummer. I've spent a lot of time thinking about this previously, and come to no conclusions whatsoever, and doubt that I'll come to any tonight. So I stop.

Outside, I stop to talk with TJ, Ross and Cori. We throw around restaurants that have puns in their names, quietly proud of our very own Lord of the Fries, but also impressed by Abra Kebabra. Ross suggests that we write to the Souvlaki King on Brunswick Street and tell them to change their name to "I Should Be Souvlaki", but I doubt that any of us have the conviction. The Gorilla Angreb folk come out to chat – Ross has come down the East Coast with them, and they all seem pretty nice, but I have a date with Cognac to Angoulême, and have to split. On the way home, riding close to a tram, sparks come flying off the wires like fireworks, showering me in points of light. At a red light on Swanston Street I skid to a stop and go straight into a trackstand, which I manage to hold for what seems like an entire minute. None of the latenight pedestrian traffic are impressed. And when I arrive home Cadel has ridden the timetrial of his life, but has not quite done enough. Second place for him, and an empty bed for me.

Christian hip hop at some church in Richmond; Shagnum, Brisk, Edge of Spirit, The Rivalry and Palm at the Arthouse, 01-06-07.

Lidia and I are hanging out in Hound Dog's Bop Shop, surrounded by the best selection of country, blues and early rock n roll records in Melbourne. An exgirlfriend calls me up and I hit the 'busy' button. Lidia, subtly prying, asks me what the deal is. I tell her I'm no longer on speaking terms with this particular former lover. "She done me wrong," I say. I look around at the records in the racks. It seems an appropriate response, and nothing more needs to be said. I buy a Sam Cooke CD and we go our separate ways.

It's a weird night. I'm keen on going out, but am a little sick, and more than a little directionless. So when Riley calls up and tells me to come to this hip hop show at 'the church', I decide to take him up on the offer. I like hip hop. I like it a lot. And I like exploring different scenes. It should be fine. Yeah.

But I should've been smarter. I'm going to blame my cold, keeping my nose running and my senses at an all time low. I meet up with Riley and we head into the Venue. It's huge, positively gigantic, rows upon rows of seats, rapidly filling with young, healthy looking people. There's a suspicious revival-meeting vibe. Some of my students from school are there. One of the oldest (and perhaps drunkest), Peter Brown, perceptive to the last, remarks that he never thought he'd see me at something like this. And he's right. Despite being stuck between Riley's devastatingly attractive younger sister and her equally blessed friend, I'm feeling horrifically out of place. When the two MCs on stage start talking about the 'thousands of people worldwide who have been persecuted for believing in Our Lord Jesus Christ', I figure it's time for me to leave.

Tara is still at home so I catch up with her and we ride to the Arthouse. She wants to be there by nine fifteen so we can catch Shagnum, and when we arrive, late and midway through their set, I can see why. These guys are fucking brilliant at what they do. Older blokes shredding through monster bar chords, sweating out all the crap they've accumulated through the working week. I think they've been around for a while, but I can't remember being this impressed by them before. It's been a long time since I've deliberately gone out with the intention of seeing metal bands, but if Shagnum are playing again, I'll be there. Probably.

In order to avoid having to think of further constructive criticism I go for coffee during Brisk's set. The moon is full, fat and round. Someone read me my stars earlier in the day and they were overwhelmingly positive. I don't usually place much stock in superstition, but these days my mood is a slippery proposition, and I'm taking compliments wherever I can find them. I join the line for lattes at Koko Black. While I'm waiting the Crow calls up. He's at some place called the Kitty Club. I have no idea of what that is, and it doesn't sound very good, but given I'm still in this strangely gregarious mood, I consider catching him up after the show is done. My coffee comes and I make my way back to the Arty.

I've failed in my main intention, though – when I return Brisk are still playing. They are better than they were at the Espy the other night, but then again, everyone is better than when they play at the Espy. There are still, however, a handful of things I don't particularly like about them, despite Tara's protestations. The keyboards, again, are superfluous, intrusive and annoying, often destroying relatively awesome riffs with cheesy eighties synth sounds. They've listened to too much prog rock – a common ailment in this Floyd-friendly era (as a digression, apparently all the guests at Epitaph boss Brett Gurewitz's house are asked to play a game I like to think of as "Rock Star Assassination", which goes like this: if you could choose one band or individual from the whole history of music to eliminate – in terms of both their recorded output and their influence on other musicians – who would it be? Apparently Tom Waits said 'Pink Floyd', which makes me love Tom Waits even more. I'd also be tempted to take out Bob Marley, but for his influence on the Fugees). And there's the matter of Pete's voice. It's lower down in the mix tonight – Ben from My Disco is behind the desk, so the sound is pretty damn good – but it's still abrasive at some points, flat and lifeless at others. When he really lets rip with a scream it sounds alright, but given his generally unenthusiastic demeanour, this is a rare occurrence. The guitarists and bassplayer are actually pretty good, but are, again, overshadowed by the voice and keys. They play their last song and I head up the back to chat to some friend of Tara's.

Edge of Spirit are up next. Apparently they are on some major label in Japan, and are used to playing shows to thousands of people at a time. It shows, but seems to work for them. The singer looks like a nightclub bouncer, shaved head and surly expression, but between screams he smiles like he's having the time of his life. It's a recurring theme throughout the night. It's been a long time since I've been to a show where the people in the bands have looked just so damn stoked to be there. In broken English they ask us if we are ready to rock. It seems we are. The crowd is full of nodding heads and fists in the air. I'm not big on metallic hardcore, but the sheer joy is infectious, and my fists are numbered amongst them.

Tara has been raving about The Rivalry for ages now, but given her wholesale endorsement of Brisk I'm sceptical to say the least. A bunch of the Broken Glass Online crew are here, flat caps and Bape Squad hoodies in effect. But Lizzie follows me up the front and we chat before the band starts. She's psyched to be seeing them, and I get a little caught up in her excitement. And when they start I'm not disappointed. There seem to be a lot of people on stage – two vocalists and two guitarists, plus the rhythm section, makes the small Arthouse stage seem tiny. Perhaps considering the same logistical problems, one of the vocalists spends most of the show singing from the crowd. Again, I'm not hugely into the style of metallic hardcore – and songs they announce as 'old ones' are considerably better than the 'new stuff' – but I'm always impressed by bands that finish with onstage pile-ons. Including members of the band. While still playing their guitars.

While Palm are setting up the Crow texts me, wanting to know where I am. He's interested in coming out. I'm not quite sure how to deal with it. I mean, I like hanging out with the Crow, but I know for certain that after a night at the Kitty Club (which apparently is in Little Collins), a hardcore show at the Arthouse won't exactly be his scene. I'm left attempting to deal with the age old dilemma – how to reconcile our punk friends with our non-punk friends. Some kids from the scene seem to deal with this by simply not having non-punk friends at all, but I'm not really prepared to be quite that narrow minded. Others keep the two worlds strictly separate, but sometimes I think the twain should meet. Perhaps 1am on a Friday night isn't quite the right time for it, however. So I'm honest with him – I tell him the address, but warn him that he won't be into the situation there at all. He's not offended, apparently, but I know I'm going to have to reassure him when I see him at work on Monday.

Lizzie and I keep talking about Palm for ages after they finish. We talk about how, instead of stagediving, the singer simply collapses into the crowd, how the bassplayer, doing a weird little squatting dance, looks at individual people in the audience and just beams at them. How the singer has crushed the microphone into his forehead, drawing blood, which trickles into his eye and down onto his cheek. He doesn't wipe it. I'm into blood on stage lately. Izzy from Robotosaurus sent me a message earlier in the week asking what I look for in a local band, and I gave him some longwinded answer about desperation, intensity and commitment, but really, I think it comes down to breaking the skin. I feel a bit weird referring to them as metallic hardcore – their sound owes a lot more to Black Sabbath than it does Black Flag, but hey, I grew up with OZZY written across my knuckles, so I'm okay with that. Palm are fucking brilliant. And Tara and I, risking life at the hands of taxi drivers once again, bike home in the bitter cold, on the first day of winter, raving about them.

A Death In The Family, The Nation Blue, Brisk, Coue Method, Identity Theft, Lead Sketch Union and a bunch of other bands I either missed or can't remember at the Espy, 26-05-07.

Tom and Tara and I are tired. We sit around the living room considering staying in and watching American Dad on dvd. The Espy, even though it's only really ten minutes down the road, seems further and further away with each passing moment. But the appearance of both Coue Method and Identity Theft has left us speculating about a secret Mid Youth Crisis set, and besides, The Nation Blue are playing. We drag ourselves off the couch and get on our bikes.

Later in the night Kieran, who I have just moments ago foolishly introduced to his former housemate Jen Jen, outlines the four major problems with the Espy:

It's in St Kilda.

It's the kind of place that would appear in a Lonely Planet guide to Melbourne nightlife.

People go there 'to go out', not to necessarily see the bands that are playing, and

It's in St Kilda.

When we enter all four of these problems are immediately evident. Some terrible band are playing in the front bar, so we wander into the Gershwin to see Identity Theft. The guys from Luca Brasi are there, including the bassplayer, who I yelled at a couple of weeks ago when he threw a lit cigarette butt that nearly hit Tom. I'm overpolite to him and he smiles at me nervously. I'm more impressed by Nathaniel, whom I meet at the bar, and his efforts at sneaking into yet another licensed venue at the age of sixteen. "Kitchen steps," he tells me, "always a winner."

Identity Theft start up and I'm surprised at just how metal they sound. Chris – who I think used to be in Silpheed, is shredding guitar solos all over the place, and Big Jay supplements his thudding drum thunder with screams and growls. Weirdly, though, it's underpinned by this melodic hardcore sound, and it doesn't really come together the way that it should. They've been around for ages, are excellent musicians, and have really impressive amplifiers, but I'm too confused to be into it.

Lead Sketch Union are playing in the front bar and Nathaniel and I go check it out. I bump into Kieran and Jen Jen there, as well as Jen's longtime boyfriend, whom I've never met, but whom I'm sure hates me. He's pleasant enough, though – a pretty decent guy. I'm disturbed that I don't know him already; after all, he's straight edge and into bikes and tattoos, and there aren't too many of us around who fit that description. Resolving to go see more edge bands, I turn to Lead Sketch Union, before turning quickly away.

It's at this point that I realise what a nineties-revival evening this is. The bands playing tonight consist of people who I've been seeing play in bands since 1995 or people who so obviously attended the same shows I did during those halcyon days. I'm kinda torn and a little bit disturbed about this. I mean, I love the nineties, and I love nineties music, but really, I'm not sure how I feel about people making nineties music so far into the new millennium.

Pushing on, Kieran and I wander back into the Gershwin to see Brisk. Now, I've met the singer from Brisk a couple of times – he's quite good friends with Tara – and he seems like a pretty nice guy. But tonight he doesn't really seem all that interested. He pretty much just stands in the middle of the stage and screams without enthusiasm. The rest of the band are ok, but it's difficult to take any notice of what they're doing, because, well, the vocals kinda overwhelm everything. And really, a moustache doesn't help. I suggest to Kieran that the ironic moustache is the new trucker cap and he concurs. We go outside for coffee and talk shit until we realise that Coue Method are playing.

Steve from Mid Youth Crisis sings in Coue Method, which is definitely a good thing. His voice sounds exactly the same, and his songwriting hasn't slipped. Kieran tells me that he has a folk thing going on with Adrian from Mid Youth and some mandolin player, and to be honest, I'm more into the idea of that than Coue themselves. Despite having a difficult to pronounce name, they're ok, but pale into comparison with the band they will constantly be compared to. Sucks for them.

I'm typing this quite a while after the fact, so the details are starting to slip away. Somewhere along the line we end up in the Gershwin room again for The Nation Blue. And then they're playing, throwing their bodies around and beating their instruments into submission. Perhaps they don't like the Espy either, because tonight they seem unhappy. Tom Lyngcoln kicks their drinks rider – a plastic blue tub full of ice and beer - towards the punters up the front. They take the cold cans of Carlton Draught and drink up. The drummer is pelted with unmelted ice. Now that the initial shock of their onstage histrionics have worn off I can appreciate more the emotion they're exerting. I'd seen Lyngcoln drinking at the bar earlier, his flannelette shirt halftucked into his jeans, looking like a lost farmer. But now he's onstage shredding his vocal chords, mumbling barely-formed sentences into the mic between songs, and swinging his guitar around his neck with nary a thought to personal safety. I forget to pay attention for a little while, distracted by some aesthetically pleasing locals, and before I know it the set has ended. The crowd cries out for more, but Lyngcoln suggests that instead we "Go see A Death In The Family slay us all".

So we do. Tara and I are nearly falling asleep on our feet, but we manage to climb the front bar stairs for a decent vantage point. A Death… are good, even better now that Jamie Hay is playing guitar for them. I start to think about Sarah, the girl he replaced, and then it strikes me: with ten bands on the bill tonight, I have not seen a single female on stage. Not one. Tara suggests we cut out early, not in the slightest interested in seeing the appallingly named "These Hands Could Separate The Sky". We look around for Tom. He's up the front, standing at Jamie's feet. I go grab him and we're on our way. It's cold, but the wind is at our backs.

The Nation Blue at the Tote, 24-04-07

The Tote is crowded, absolutely fucking packed. People have spilled out from the bandroom to the public bar, making it difficult to get through the front door. I squeeze and lurch and edge my way through the room, conscious of my oversized backpack smacking short people in the head. The Nation Blue got a heap of press when their new album came out a month or so ago, and it has probably been receiving a fair bit of Triple J airplay ever since, but I had kinda hoped that the buzz would've died down a little by now. It hasn't, and my first piece of advice to The Nation Blue is this: start booking bigger venues. After two sold out shows in a row you should have learnt your lesson.

I'm hopped up on coffee, being a little bit silly, talking to people I don't know and making poor jokes. It's a weird crowd – some hardcore kids, some hipsters, some randoms in surfwear and torn jeans. Jen Jen is there and watches me talking to two young girls. She accuses me of having sketchy body language and ignoble intentions, but when she realises I'm standing the exactly the same way when I'm talking to her, she shuts the hell up. She arrived too late and doesn't have a stamp, so when King Brothers end I leave her in the public bar and head in to catch The Nation Blue.

Midway through the set singer Tom Lyngcoln brings his guitar to his face and crushes the strings into his forehead. His fingers are still working the chords and the feedback keeps coming, but when he drops it back down to his hips there are three neat lines of blood scratched into his brow. Between the pickups there are red smudges of DNA. But really, it was only a matter of time before things got messy. Earlier in the week I read an interview with the band in Unbelievably Bad zine, in which Lyngcoln claimed that his foremost concern in music was recapturing the sounds coming from Tasmania in 1992. This couldn't have excited me more – Mouth and The Little Ugly Girls were always some of my local favourites when they ventured across Bass Strait – but it was a particularly brutal time to be in a band. Blood was expected, debauchery demanded. And the way Lyngcoln is throwing his guitar around it seems he intends to deliver.

I'd been listening to the aforementioned new record all week, and was pretty psyched about seeing them, but had wondered how they would recreate the huge sound they generate on the record in a live setting. But somehow it works – I'm standing right next to the PA and the songs belt me like a bag of bricks. Bassplayer and co-vocalist Matt Weston is standing spreadlegged in front of me, hunching over a low set microphone to deliver his lyrics and screams. In any other band he'd be the lead singer, but his and Lyngcoln's vocals are similar and compliment each other well. Drummer Dan McKay, looking like a bogan from a country pub-rock cover band, doesn't flail around, but strikes the drums with brutal efficiency, jabbing hard like a boxer. They're tight from years of playing together, are stopping and starting on a dime, nodding signals to each other between crashing into the walls and falling into the crowd.

While I'm watching them I'm trying to figure out exactly how to describe their sound – the guitar and bass tones remind me of melodic hardcore, the song structure reminds me of post-punk, the vocals of Triple J friendly alterna-rock – but after the set, when Beard Matt suggests that the way Lyngcoln moves around the stage is 'Kurt-Chic', it all falls into place. This is grunge. Not watered down, Nirvana and Pearl Jam and Mother Love Bone and Soundgarden grunge, but grunge when it still knew that it was a direct descendent of hardcore, grunge that is self-aware but not self-indulgent, melodic and tuneful but not weak and glossy. They don't say much during the set, don't play an encore, walk straight off into the crowd and disappear into the sea of flannelette shirts and shoulderlength hair.

I walk outside into the cold, still fuelled by caffeine, ears ringing like bells. There is a bunch of kids there and I'm trying to build enthusiasm for some post-show, public-holiday-tomorrow dancing, but no one is up for it. Walking by, Brendan Hitchens asks me if I'm going to write about the show in my blog. We chat for a while before he's distracted by someone who he introduces me to as 'the guy who wrote about Wolfman Jack'. It seems that reviews of bad bands are always going to be more popular than reviews that say nice things. Perhaps I should have made it to this show earlier and caught Young And The Restless.

Gillian Welch – I Dream A Highway.

A while ago, in a fit of late-onset adolescent angst that has embarrassingly been immortalised in print, I wrote that the song that best epitomises this life was "Other People's Lives" by Modest Mouse. "They just don't seem to understand," I wrote, "That this narrative free droning is a hell of a lot like this life; always building up to something without ever actually doing so, patterns constantly in repetition, minor variations on the theme and voices incomprehensibly shouting disjointed and meaningless sentences across the noise."

Now that I'm older, and perhaps slightly less angsty, I'm inclined to suggest that another twelve minute epic, Gillian Welch's "I Dream A Highway" is the song that best captures the essence of existence. Like "Other People's Lives" there are patterns repeating, themes that emerge and re-emerge, intertwining with other threads from other directions. Yet unlike the Modest Mouse song, which considers us outsiders, watching as our own lives unfold before us, "I Dream A Highway" reminds us that we are not standing alone. Citing freely from the history of country music, Welch places us – our misguided meanderings, our long drives late at night to destinations we are unsure of, our confusion and our trouble and our pain – on a continuum that includes us in both our future and our past. Johnny Cash kicking out the footlights at the Grand Ole Opry, Poor Lazarus stepping into the light, Emmylou Harris dueting with Gram Parsons – Welch knows that these myths are part of the texture of who we are, give us a sense of identity as much as those we create ourselves. Driving from Canberra to Sydney, leaving at 1am, fuelled by shitty truckstop coffee, everyone else in the car asleep. The moon is full in the rearview mirror, the stars clear pinpricks of light ahead. As we drive on the road gets blurry, dreamlike. I'm texting anyone who is awake, trying to keep myself from drifting off. All the mistakes I've made, all the lessons I've failed to learn are coming back to haunt me – 3am being the natural enemy of those who can't come to terms with their regrets – but when I disregard danger in order to listen to "I Dream A Highway" on my ipod, I'm reminded that I'm not the first to fuck up, and I won't be the last. And more than that, she reassures me that at some point in the future I'll find the right direction, will find a road that leads, eventually, to something like redemption. We arrive in Newtown at 4am, falling out of the car and into our temporary beds, alive and bewildered and whispering our stories to each other as sleep finally comes.