Here are two messages to all those lazy smartarses that say: 'The '70s are back'. Firstly, they were just the '60s on steroids. PLus a few other things. Secondly, they never went away. Like many bands with smarts, Buffalo Killers reach back 30+ years to source their reference points. The point of difference for them and those other smart acts is how well they nail their flag - freak or otherwise - to the mast.

It's a brave band that bandies around the tag "Detroit Rock" these days - especially when they come from Sydney. Most Michigan music types have not the faintest idea that their state capital's name was commandeered by one of their own expats Downunder in the '70s and has since been applied to any Aussie rock and roll band with the slightest hint of guitar aggression and Motor City attitude. On the other hand, many Sydney music types now treat the whole thing with disdain and say it's all in the past.

These guys can't get arrested in their home town (Sydney) in a gig sense, and their last album was an OK but ultimately forgettable slice of Detroit guitar histrionics. There's no shame in either. The live scene is struggling and being in the thrall of influences without a voice to tell you to make a song your own can make a first album a mis-step. A couple of years down the track and The Prehistorics are back with a record that's a step forward.

Good things and small packages: Only seven tracks long, this debut from the Perth band led by Dom Mariani (DM3, ex-Stems and ex-Some Loves) and Nick Sheppard (a "Cut The Crap" Clash member) is a killer-no-filler collection of soulful rock and roll.

Remember when billing an LP as the ideal summer music was a prime marketing tool? The ace in the hole for Australian record companies that came around November, with the warming winds and exodus to the beach the first portents of Christmas looming just around the corner. Music as stocking fillers. These days, the Yule season starts when the mall puts up the first decoration (September) and ends when Uncle Rob passes out drunk and loses control of his bladder on the back lounge at the Boxing Day family reunion.

Far be it from me to claim that I had my finger completely on the punk rock pulse of the Murder City back in the late '70s and early '80s, but try as I might, I just can't remember this show ever taking place, but nearly a quarter century of recreational beverages, better living through chemistry, three kids, and a 15-year adjustable rate mortgage may have dulled my synapses a tad.