Soundstalker - Salad Days
by stalker zine
Now, I have a bone to pick with said "colleague" (pfft colleague, more like go-fuck-yourself-eague) Am I alone in the population of approximately 6 billion party-goers that doesn't immediately think to scrub their forearms after a night out to remove the club stamp? I believe scrubbing my forearms in a normal shower scenario is right down on the priority list near "pressing my butt cheeks against the shower screen to make a love-heart" and "eating the soap that was used to scrub said butt cheeks". After clubbing, I feel it's even further down the hangover priority list, next to "eating an organically sourced vegan meal at a fine dining restaurant" and "licking the gap between the oven and the wall".
Yet here I was, chastised for my filthy state of being, when all I had was the faint outline of an Evelyn stamp. I'd even showered! Which was an effort for me, normally the thought of hot water on a hangover makes my vagina shiver and my mouth dry up in protest. Gnarly yo.
But then I looked at it. It looked back at me. And I thought to myself..."This is a symbol of youth, of pleasure, of good old fashioned enjoyment." And I looked at my colleague and I held my forearm high in the air and said "YOLO my dick suuhhn!"
I loveeeee to use all of my words hey.
Enough of this here ranting, it's time to tell you what the fuck I was actually DOING at the Evelyn. And that was seeing a gig. A darn good gig at that!
Me and my boyfriend were sitting outside the Evelyn bumming cigarettes and sipping fine wines and waiting for my friend Josh's band to come onstage. I've been friends with Josh for a while now (he is one of three friends I have at uni as I am an anti-social fuckwit that is better than you) and he's always asking me to come to the gigs and I never come to the gigs (because like I said, I'm an anti-social fuckwit) But I live about yelling distance from the Evelyn so when he asked me to come come come I thought, hey! What the heck! Tally ho! Bits and bobs!
So...after a beverage or seven, we decided to hoike it on inside to score a good seat and be front and centre for the band. Being in a somewhat cynical mood, I was ready to judge the crap out of them. Beat them to a raging pulp with judgement. Throw them with my judgement in a lions cage and rub them in entrails. That sort of shit.
But my scathing words of harsh reality will have to be reserved for another band, another day - because friends, Josh's band...were simply...fucking great.
Who are they? What are they? What is my blood type?
The name of Josh's band is Salad Days. This is them being in a band.
THIS IS NOT THEM.
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Although that may have been just as fun.
Despite their crappy name, this band is doing sensational things in the land of all things musical. With the charm of a good old fashioned indie band (cute, shaggy, dark haired boys arranged in a triangle shape shaking their skinny jeaned asses and flailing their flannies about) teamed with the uncanny ability to turn old songs of the 90's (think Nirvana and Chilli Peppers) into completely new songs by infusing them with their own quirky beats - The Days churn out a bunch of radio friendly beats and a really wholesome "hire them for your beach party" kinda vibe.
What I really like about the band though was the fact that every song sounded completely different from the other. I hate writing music reviews and having to pick out specific songs that I really liked - so often the songs all blur into each other because you've either a) had too many froths b) had too many froths or c) are in the bathroom and you miss all the songs you like. But the arrangement of the vocals in each song are really easy to differentiate from song to song, and the voice ever changing with the singers' amazing vocal range.
The only downer with seeing this band was probably the fact that the guitarist stayed in the bottom of the guitars neck for about 95% of the songs, making the range somewhat limited in the guitar sound. But in saying that, I can understand that that's what they're probably trying to make the most memorable part of their sound - so a hater can't hate when an oyster's an oyster yo.
It was a shame that the boys aren't particularly well known, as they played to an audience of about fifteen - but that's what the publicity's for guys!
Go and see them fuck around on stage. They're contagiously good.
But when you go and see them at da club, make sure you scrub your forearms the next morning. Or be scorned. Forever and ever and ever and ever.
Catch them on Facey for more info on their next gig.