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(This is that bit where I express shock that you don't know what's going on here, but offer a link for you to catch up. And this other sentence is the bit where I link to something fleetingly awesome on the internet. And then I say "you're welcome" or something, because I feel like I've done you a favour because I'm a bit up meself).
Now that that bit's over, I go on about how cool Frosty's photos are, especially that one with the wings in it (but if there was one with something else in it better than wings, I'd mention that one). I'd spend a short while announcing that the year is nearly done, that Frosty's nearly taken three hundred and sixty-five photographs, and we'd all have a think about time, and maybe visualise a clock face.
And then I'd stop talking about this blog post in the third person, because it's irritating.
And then I'd say "Enjoy!", because I'm nice.
So, so nice.
Everybody’s got a friend in a band.
When you have a friend who’s in a band, you’re pretty much obliged to go to their gigs.
When you go to their gigs, regardless of how awkward or clumsy they are, afterwards you generally need to tell them they were great. And then get drunk and talk wank until dawn. Pretty sure that’s standard. Pretty sure.
A few years ago, I met my mate Russ at work, and we became good friends. He told me he was in a band called Sierra Fin, and that they had a gig at the Annandale coming up, and that I should check them out. Here we go, I thought. Another friend gig, I thought. I’d better get my auto-impressed face on, I thought.
Jesus nappy-wearing Christ, I thought. These guys are goddamn fracking AMAZING.
Over the ensuing handful of years, I watched them grow (quite literally – they added a bass player) and write and play and develop and drink and eat and argue and perform and record and endanger their kidneys, and I can truly say now that I love this band.
Russ is the singing guy who does most of the writing. A hilarious bastard who happily laughs up his own pancreas, he likes it when it’s time for gin, and has about three favourite t-shirts that he rotates endlessly.
Frosty is the drumming guy who, as overheard by a punter one night, “hits the skins fuckin’ hard, ay”. Outlandishly good at drumming, he likes meat and photography very much and has excellent posture.
Joel is the keyboardy guitary guy. He can kick your arse in any general-knowledge-related realm, has fetching red swimwear, and is working on copyrighting his signature wiggle.
Oli is the bass guy, and sometimes gets thrown out of pubs for pretending he’s been shot. He’ll always, always surprise you, especially if you ask him about underpants.
And now, today, they’ve released their debut album, Cautionary Tale Of The Beautiful Blackout.
They recorded it in five days after an outrageous amount of preparation, planning and orchestration (seriously – there’s a twenty-six piece goddamn orchestra in there), and it’s beautiful.
It’s fucking beautiful.
I’m tearfully proud of them boys, and thrilled, honoured and delighted to have been hanging around while they got there.
Congratulations, me lovelies.
PS: You’d better buy the album, huh. It seems like the right thing to do.
