2.30AM,
a delinquent’s bedroom/ garage, suburban Sydney
The neighbours would surely
be sick of it by now.
The clothes litter the
floor, the blanket lay precariously across the bed, half of it hanging over the
abyss clutching at the mattress. Trying to stay afloat during the vibration of
amplified sound that is being emitted in the grungy bedroom.
The five boys groove,
allowing the funky electric guitar riffs that characterise indie music to flood
over the disorganised room, rustling the empty beer bottles on the bedside
table, shaking the sweat off of the unwashed locks and spreading the grins of a
youthful group who are comfortable in their jam.
So I say, I hate when you’re away
The pleading whine. The
youthful strength of a vocal cord that is yet to be tainted by alcohol and
illicit drugs.
The lyrics build, continuing
the stereotypical crescendo of a teenage band that wishes to cherish the
instalment of heavy drum fills and a collaboration of synthetic bliss.
Caress your soul.
And it explodes. If music
was represented in colour, the canopies of the African jungle would be peeled
back, revealing the beauty of the sweaty noise, the deep yet vibrant green, the
fluttering rainbow of animals and life at its most primitive and pure.
And before you know it, the
peak breaks into a trough, then soars into flight again, and the old couple
trying to sleep before their 6AM alarm are turning in their sleep and grumbling
about the troublesome boys next door. But it’s innocent fun. It’s childhood.
It’s the careless nature of
adolescence, revelling in the enjoyment of sound and the manipulation of noise
that is a symbol of the crisp sand, the burnt orange of the sun and the deep
aqua of the ocean. It’s Australia. It’s the conclusion of heavy drums and the
neglect of tomorrow’s day of school. And, with a rascally grin floating across
the huffing and puffing faces of these exuberant boys, it’s Sticky Fingers.
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