Dead Moon drummer Andrew Loomis has passed away after illness, according to the band’s Facebook fan page. Loomis had to stand down from the band on the sporadic shows it has played of late. This statement was posted a couple of hours ago:

“He took a sudden and sharp, unexpected turn for worse a couple of weeks ago and has been in the hospital since February 25. Tests determined he had a series of mini strokes at home, then developed respiratory problems over this past weekend. This morning he was put on a morphine drip (and) passed peacefully.”

Loomis was originally diagnosed with cancer but was free of the disease when he passed away. 

In news just to hand, Radio Birdman is releasing two previously unheard tracks on 7' vinyl - the Master's Apprentices "Buried and Dead", and Alice Cooper's "The Ballad of Dwight Fry".

Both cover versions were originally recorded in 2004 at Hothouse Studio in Melbourne, and recently remixed and mastered. The single will be a Record Store Day special so make enquiries with your local emporium of vinyl.

There are two reviews already here, each definitive in their own right. Beaten to the punch with little to argue about, all I can offer are some additional observations.

A quote in a pre-release interview has led many to believe that this is Iggy’s recording swansong. The neat closure of the record’s final song “Paraguay” supports the proposition…and don’t writers love that sort of shit. If “Post Pop Depression” is Iggy’s “LA Woman” - and a shambolic Jim Morrison performance with the Doors in Detroit had a big impact on Teenage Jim – then it’s a shutting of the creative loop.

This is surely the disc which will finally break Heath Cullen in Australia, and the hearts of women everywhere. Hugely talented (Cullen produced the disc, and it sounds just lush and fine and crisp), the man has a knack of gathering like-minded musicians who just happen to share his dark and mystical streak.

Comparisons abound; a friend who is a big Cullen fan spots a Hugo Race-like similarity. I doubt that’s intended; more like Cullen and Race have visited the same horse races…

It never ceases to surprise me, the myriad ways in which a classic rock outfit can develop a style and method of expression which reaches out effortlessly into our lives, to help and spark our moods.

Even so, on first listen, although I could hear great talent here, it wasn’t getting to me. Until I reached what I suppose is Side Two, where things take a sudden left turn and … when the first side rolled again to play, the entire band made far, far more sense. And it’s been on repeat in the car to my great joy and the bane of the local cats and one rather irritated daddy possum.

_{Steve Lucas at the Newtown Social Club. Murray Bennett photo}

X is a Sydney band.

I can’t think any other outfit that personified the street-level, brutal and at times minimalistic music of Sin City Sydney of the late ‘70s like X. Theirs' was a world of squats with a city awash with Terrence Clark's cheap smack, the odour of brown bags of dirty money and nightly beatings at Darlo police station.

It was a world of corrupt pollies and police in the post-Askin Sydney. X captured that harsh, nihilistic inner-city world. One that has long since been gentrified.

Confession time. I love Wendy James. But not in the way you're probably thinking. The five bottles you see at the end of this review are well earned but some will not share my enthusiasm. Wendy’s blistering hysterical British syllables may well strike terror in the sensitive ears of some. Fuck ‘em.

You'll immediately remember Wendy from '80s pop punk band Transvision Vamp. She'd tell that girl to shut up. She wanted your love. But baby she didn't care. A fierce blonde strumpet in a short black dress. The pin up girl who launched rather more than a thousand lustful teenage fancies for those too young to have noticed Debbie Harry.

These are dark times. It ain’t easy playing rock and roll in most countries and France is no exception. High culture looks down its nose at anything that’s not home-grown - just like a Paris waiter in an expensive restaurant sneers at linguistically-challenged tourists who can’t read the menu.

So give Chris Rolling and his band some credit for swimming against the tide. Chris who?

Proof that their “Black Book”45 was no fluke, this four-track seven-inch vinyl EP from an all-girl trio from the UK rocks like The Pandoras with chops. It’s garage rock in the finest tradition of the early Pretty Things with a splash of glam for good measure.

First impressions count for a lot and lead-off track and title tune “Mover And A Groover” roars out of the speakers like three women on a mission. Laura Anderson’s tuneful but strident vocal is mixed right up front. The primal production has Lois Tozer’s cymbals splashing all over the place but it’s mastered nice and loud with lots of mono-esque punch. The all-important engine room lays down the beat with authority. 

Anderson’s raw and twangy guitar line leads off “Lorelei”, a tribute to a closed Soho nightspot. Sounds like a nice excuse for a re-opening. “Ain’t Worth The Time” nods simultaneously to The Crystals’ “Da Do Ron Ron” and Suzi Quarto. “Jezebel” goes back to the garage and is derivative as hell (you’ll recognise the riff) but infectious as well. An EP worth chasing down.

Thee Jezebels on Facebook

State Records on the Web