SAM 4 GARETH

I write pop music reviews for an Australian magazine called Music Forum. I thought I'd share with you the review I wrote for them last May: Havilah, by the Drones, My Favourite Album Of 2009 And Possibly All Time. I like to think it was this review alone that scored them the cover (which is more likely due to their good-quality publicity shots).

I’ve loved the Drones since I first heard the superbly-named 2005 Wait Long By The River And The Bodies Of Your Enemies Will Float By. 2009’s Havilah is a glorious continuation of everything good they’ve got going on.

Be aware, however, that this is not a light album. Neither should you expect the fun clicks and beeps that have become standard for many of the now-synth-infused modern rockers. The Drones are steadfastly old-fashioned: four people on four instruments, playing the darkest kind of blues-rock, keeping the veil of production between the sound and the listeners whisper-thin.

The Drones’ sound is uniquely Australian in a way not widely recognised. It rings with discomfort and dissonance from the soulless small towns of Australia’s forgotten expanses, and the forgotten expanses inside people. It explores the dark corners and the uncomfortable truths of modern Australia, with all our history and secrets, and it’s as sophisticated and complex as the overseas giants we’ve always tried to emulate. While sometimes blackly humorous, the essence of Havilah lies on the edge of misery. There’s a beautiful bleakness about it.

Lead singer and songwriter Gareth Liddiard’s voice is arresting: righteously spitting and harsh, unaffected by an American accent. His spiteful growls and strangled yells are the perfect way to deliver his twisted lyrics. The blessedly-included lyric sheet reads like poetry on its own, and the tunes to which they’re set sound like Liddiard’s dark, angular words made musical.

The Minotaur is Havilah’s first single, a blistering tirade on waste and sloth. Underpinning Liddiard’s hoarse ranting—“he spends all day looking at porn or playing f—king Halo 2”—are driving, tom-centred rhythms and the relentless crashing of cymbals, twanging, circular riffs over sputtering and screeching rhythm guitar, and a fittingly bull-headed bassline. All combined, it’s a violent mess of noise that makes you want to shout along, fist-pounding, hair-tearing; angry-mob-raising stuff.

Then there are the valleys of Havilah to complement the peaks of pique, full of crooning, not-quite-right electrics and unsettling quietness, like the brief, pensive Penumbra. Written about the moon landing, it begins with the uncomfortable intimacy of Liddiard’s low, humming mumble and the spooky thrumming of a solitary guitar, and is then joined by an ethereal synth keening—it’s like listening to outer space in a seashell.

Album closer Your Acting’s Like The End Of The World is a lighter track, or as light as the Drones might get: an up-tempo jangling of chords and brushing snares, a rounder, kinder melody, and a more traditional blues style. The trailing, fading outro is a great finish to an album that flows like chapters in a novel.

The Drones are where it’s at in Australian contemporary music. For more than ten years they’ve been consistently delivering outstanding albums that tap into a truthfulness rarely seen in the genre, writing spin-free, unapologetic rock n’ roll, complete with loud guitars and a healthy political grounding. Havilah is the first album in some time that I’ve been compelled to put on repeat. Played back to back and over and over, these ten tracks only get better. I highly recommend you to get to know them.

Post Script: It's no secret to those close to me how much I love the Drones. Just to illustrate exactly how restrained I was being in this review: I once turned down an interview with Gareth Liddiard because I legitimately thought I would pass out if I was in the same room as him. This is love this is love this is love that I'm feelin'.