GRAND CHAMPION REVIEW

The shaky vocals of the opener Palm Springs mirror the struggle and desire of wanting to “swim in Palm Springs” as the track ebbs and flow between apathy and anguish. The unashamedly down under twang of Bibby’s lyrics and colloquial portrayals mark his musical prowess and signature style. The sway of his semi acoustic flatters like the warm Queensland breeze on the eve of tropical madness before its eventual release.

The frank lyrics and gritty musical stylings that put The Drones and Courtney Barnett on the map with the baton they carried for Australian rock has been firmly passed on to the next indie marathon runner in Medicine. The chemical cocktail Bibby is detailing is part tongue in cheek, part reality and all nightmare.

Continuing the trend of seemingly inane lyrics, Long Baby is nothing more than a question about when Bibby can eat but it is underpinned by excellent musicianship which constantly overshadows the idiosyncratic subject matter. At its core, is the kind anthemic track that when played live has any audience in full sing along mode.

As we enter the deep south with Pissbird Firetruck, the dichotomy of “you taste like spliff and I taste like wine” speaks for the entire track as it Bibby oscillates between polar constructs. Complete with violin, some cunningly placed yelps, it is rollick around the bar.

Slowing the pace down a little, Big Chook steps from left to right as it picks up speed. The crescendo matches Bibby’s fervor as he spits “Good night fuckers, I have nothing more” before arriving at its cataclysmic ending.

Fairly self-explanatory but Work For Arseholes is in this day and age a sorely lacking anti corporate ode to screw the work-a-day life and cookie cutter existence. Gritty guitar riffs to ignite the slacker embers and reconnect with the punk ethos of why work for arseholes.

Shifting gear, the power riffs and jangly guitar of Wake Up Hungry is a feisty piece. Mixing euphemisms with sordid tales, the track is a fly on the wall insight to a ragged life with a social commentary that is as scathing as it is acutely aware of its surroundings.

The wild and wobbly Fuck Me is cacophony of madness. A crazed Bibby screaming whilst accompanied by high pitched alien samples all the while feverishly shredding the fret board in a state of lust and intensity.

Rural tales as localised as they maybe transcend to a wider story of misfortune and mayhem as Wangaratta Gazza so precisely delivers. Broke and down on luck, the heavy drinking, heavy smoking lifestyle is accompanied by an equally abrasive and fast paced attack before a gatling gun of heavy fx puts an end to Gazza’s story.

Rounding off Grand Champion is the damning indictment of Hippies. Canvasing his pet peeves of why the tie-dyed community bug Bibby and the contradictions within their views, the meandering track includes a quintessential sitar before an outro giggle. Is Bibby joking, is he sincere, it can be hard to tell at times but what is clear is the warts and all approach to his lyrics which begs the question, what else is in the sketch book that will be the basis of his next record.