Burnt in an All Plastics factory. Bunked down in a pagan house post-quake. And emerging in the shadow of a Crusader’s ruined stadium, where finally it has found a bit of a home (well, a tentative one at least): Smoking. Cracked concrete. Floods. Suppression. Rants. Flying off the handle. Dealing with the fickle. Burnt and skinned hands. Bourbon and coke. Hot knives and white lines carefully monitored by a likable mad hatter. Trusting the wrong people. Throwing horse legs to the caged mutts on the farm in the school holidays. Butt durries (cigarettes) in bed. Painting. Listening to late night talk back radio for a laugh. Cheap thrills. Repairs. Cut hands. Mistakes. Persistence. Repetition. Trial and error. DIY at Log Recording. Bad second-hand taxidermy. Chin rubbers in the circle of doom, remember: the Antipodean Gothic might be sincere, but its also not supposed to be taken too seriously. Take a chill pill.

Don’t worry, the drums still provide ample space for the black-clad to strum and riff around in. Don’t worry, Donnie Darko and the red headed kid are still there, even if they have been replicated by machines or possessed by spirits. Stumbling though the delightful baggage of the sacred and the profane. The industrial estate has taken over the whole city except for a few paddocks over the sawmill chain grinding gears. And driven through it all, even though it was turned down a bit too much at times, we can still hear Dean screaming out. This time its set right. A lyric to accompany the throbbing repetition. A line to go with the hollow screech of delayed decay.