Who knew a band started by a group of schoolmates on Sydney’s Northern Beaches over two decades ago would still have the same hunger they had when they started? There is a line by AC/DC, “It’s a long way to the top if you wanna rock ’n’ roll,” and I feel that line sums up C.O.F.F.I.N pretty well.

The band has been relentlessly making music, touring and doing anything that makes sure rock and roll does not die. Their most recent album Out In Oslo debuted at No.1 on the ARIA Australian Albums Chart, which is a huge achievement for a band that has been doing this for as long as they have.

But we at Sound Under always say never judge art based on numbers or charts, and C.O.F.F.I.N are a big example of that. They might not have the biggest numbers on social media, but the talent is undeniable. When it comes to rock and roll and Australian pub rock, I would easily have AC/DC and C.O.F.F.I.N as my top two. And although they have always been incredible, I genuinely feel their sixth album is their best work so far.

It has everything I want from this kind of music. The production is brilliant, the riffs are heavy, there are catchy, almost anthem-like hooks throughout, but what really makes Out In Oslo work for me is the versatility. Produced by Declan Mehrtens, the album sounds bigger than some of their previous work without losing the rawness that makes C.O.F.F.I.N what they are. There are moments that sound exactly like the band you came here for and then others, especially around the middle of the record, where they go somewhere I wasn’t really expecting them to go.

They have also released a feature-length documentary, “10,000 Miles From Oslo”, which goes through the history of the band and gives the album even more context.

Watching these guys go from starting a band as kids to still touring and making some of their best music more than two decades later makes you appreciate what it actually takes to keep something like this going. Shout out to Jake Laderman, Scott Marrinan and everyone involved in making the documentary as good as it is.

Lyrically, there is quite a lot happening across the album, and I don’t think you necessarily notice all of it on the first listen because the music itself is so immediate. You can easily put this album on, enjoy the riffs and hooks and leave it there, but underneath that you have songs dealing with distance, violence, relationships, injustice, belonging and people trying to look after each other when the world around them isn’t making that particularly easy.

The title track is a good example of that. “Out In Oslo” has missiles flying overhead, bloodshed, panic and this idea of how we react to suffering when it is happening somewhere away from us.

That continues through songs like “Sleep In It”, which looks at love and dedication, while “Think Bad” feels like someone’s mind going in ten different directions at once, thinking about health, money, emergency contacts and how to get their life back. “A Place To Stay” is much simpler in what it is asking for, with someone basically needing somewhere to get through the night. There is a lot of uncertainty running through these songs, but also this idea of relying on other people when things start falling apart.

And then you get to “13 Days”, which for me is the biggest surprise on the entire album and probably my favourite song here.

C.O.F.F.I.N going acoustic wasn’t something I expected to hear, but it works incredibly well. The song was written around two friends who were facing potential jail time and were given thirteen days to organise and fund their defence, and there is something about telling that story acoustically that makes it hit differently. Rather than exploding through the frustration, they let it sit there.

The brilliance of “13 Days” isn’t just in the lyrics either, it is the overall composition. The acoustic guitar, Ben’s delivery and the way the song gradually develops give it this haunting feeling that I haven’t really heard from C.O.F.F.I.N before.

The repetition of “thirteen days” starts to feel like a countdown as the song continues.

I also love where they have sequenced it. After four songs where the album has already established its energy, everything suddenly slows down and you are forced to sit with this story for a few minutes. Then “Won’t Let You Down” brings the electricity back and somehow feels even bigger because of what came before it. That kind of sequencing is something I don’t think gets talked about enough with albums. Sometimes where a song sits can completely change how you hear it, and I don’t think “13 Days” would have affected me in quite the same way if it was just sitting towards the end of the record.

More than anything, that song represents what I like about Out In Oslo. We already know C.O.F.F.I.N can make incredible rock and roll. We know they can write massive riffs, play loud and make the sort of music that probably makes even more sense when you are packed into a room watching them perform it. What I didn’t necessarily know was that they could strip almost all of that away and still sound completely convincing.

The second half moves back towards the heavier C.O.F.F.I.N we know, but by the time “Miles Away” closes the album, distance has appeared in so many different ways that the song feels like a fitting place to finish. The album starts out in Oslo, travels through relationships, violence, friendship, needing somewhere to stay and trying to get somewhere else, and eventually ends with someone wondering whether they still call Australia home while being miles away from it.

For a band that started in Manly and has spent so much of its life touring around the world, I think there is something quite beautiful about ending there. Whether every part of that song is autobiographical doesn’t really matter, because by this point the idea of distance has become part of the album anyway.

I think one of the hardest things for a band that has been around for more than two decades is figuring out how to grow without losing what made people care about them in the first place. You can change everything and lose your identity, or you can keep making variations of the same album because you know it works. Out In Oslo manages to sit somewhere in between.

It still has everything I associate with C.O.F.F.I.N, but there are enough moments where they stretch that sound to make me wonder where else they could take it. More than twenty years into making music, that curiosity is probably more impressive to me than the No.1 next to their name.

C.O.F.F.I.N are a band that reminds me every time I listen to them why I loved rock and roll in the first place, and Out In Oslo cements their place as one of the greatest rock and roll bands to have come out of this part of the world.

The Darwin rapper’s historic victory was about more than winning a television competition. From performing his brother’s song to bringing his family and community onto the national stage, he made sure Australia heard the stories that mattered to him.

On Sunday night, 22-year-old rapper Yung Milla made history by becoming the first Indigenous artist and the first rapper to win The Voice Australia.

The Marranunggu artist from Darwin, whose real name is Levi Nichaloff, was crowned the winner of the 2026 season after being mentored by former Spice Girl Melanie C, taking home $100,000 and a recording and development package.

It is a pretty remarkable achievement for a young artist who came into the competition wanting to share his music and represent the people and community he comes from. And while winning a show like The Voice is obviously a huge moment for any emerging musician, what makes Yung Milla’s victory particularly interesting is the journey that led him there.

If you have watched these competitions over the years, you would know that they generally favour singers with powerful voices, impressive vocal ranges and the ability to deliver those big moments that get everyone out of their seats.

Yung Milla came in as a rapper, and throughout the competition, he continued to approach music the way he always had, using it to tell stories about his life, his family and the experiences that shaped him.

He didn’t have to move away from hip-hop to win a mainstream singing competition, and I think that is one of the most interesting things about his victory.

His coach Melanie C also acknowledged how his journey had challenged the conventional understanding of what The Voice represents, recognising that having a voice isn’t necessarily limited to how well someone can sing, but also how powerfully they can use it.

And when you look back at the performances that brought Yung Milla to the grand final, you begin to understand why that distinction matters.

He brought his family and community along for the journey

To understand Yung Milla’s journey, you have to go back to his blind audition, where he made a decision that probably tells you more about him than any introduction could have.

Instead of performing a familiar hit or choosing something that would immediately appeal to the coaches, he decided to perform “All My Life”, a song by his older brother, J-MILLA.

His brother had played an important role in his musical development, and now that Yung Milla had an opportunity to perform in front of a national audience, he wanted to use that moment to share his brother’s music.

All four coaches turned their chairs during the performance, and J-MILLA was eventually invited onto the stage to perform alongside him.

It was a beautiful moment between two brothers, but looking back at it now, it also established something that would remain consistent throughout Yung Milla’s time on the show. He wasn’t interested in making the experience entirely about himself. Whenever he had the opportunity, he found ways to bring the people who mattered to him into it.

That became even more apparent during the semi-final, when he performed his own interpretation of Men at Work’s “Down Under”.

Now, “Down Under” is one of those songs that almost everyone in the world associated with Australia. It has been played at sporting events, celebrations and just about every occasion where people want to express a sense of Australian identity.

But Yung Milla approached it from a completely different perspective.

He incorporated his own rap verses, didgeridoo and a choir, using the familiar composition to tell stories about his upbringing, his family and the experiences that shaped him. His mother also joined him on stage towards the end of the performance.

And I think this was one of the most interesting moments of his entire journey.

Here was a young Aboriginal rapper taking one of Australia’s most recognisable songs and using it to tell a story about his own Australia. The one he grew up in, the people who raised him and the experiences that shaped his understanding of home.

It reminded me of what I love about hip-hop in the first place. Artists have been taking existing compositions, reinterpreting them and using them to communicate entirely different experiences for decades.

Yung Milla didn’t need to completely change “Down Under” to make it his own. He brought his own perspective into it, and by the time his mother appeared on stage, the performance had become as much about his family and community as it was about the music.

Then came the grand final, where he chose to perform Tupac’s “Changes”.

For anyone familiar with Tupac’s music, “Changes” is one of those records that has remained relevant long after its release because of the social issues it addresses. It explores racism, inequality, poverty and the struggles faced by communities, while questioning why meaningful change can be so difficult to achieve.

Yung Milla has spoken about how the song represents what he stands for, and knowing a little about his life outside music makes that decision particularly meaningful.

Alongside his work as an artist, he has been involved in mentoring and supporting young Aboriginal people in the Northern Territory, including young people involved in the youth justice system. He has spoken about wanting to become the kind of person he needed when he was younger.

So when he chose to perform “Changes” on one of the biggest stages of his career, it felt like a natural continuation of everything he had been sharing throughout the competition.

What this victory means for First Nations music

Yung Milla’s victory is a historic moment for The Voice Australia, but it is also worth looking at what happened across the competition more broadly.

He wasn’t the only First Nations artist to reach the grand final this year. Fifteen-year-old Torres Strait Islander singer Daisha Auda, from Logan in Queensland, also made it to the final four after an impressive journey that included her performance of Andra Day’s “Rise Up” in the semi-final.

Daisha had previously been eliminated before receiving another opportunity in the competition, eventually making it all the way to the grand final while continuing her Year 11 studies.

Having two First Nations artists reach the final, with one ultimately winning the competition, is something worth recognising, particularly considering the national audience a show like The Voice attracts.

But I also think it is important that we don’t look at Yung Milla’s victory as though First Nations music has suddenly arrived in the Australian mainstream.

Artists such as Archie Roach, Yothu Yindi, Briggs and Baker Boy, alongside countless others, have been making important contributions to Australian music for generations. Their work has helped shape the country’s musical identity while telling stories about culture, community, history and experiences that haven’t always received the attention they deserve.

And beyond the artists who have achieved national recognition, there are incredible musicians across regional and remote communities who continue creating music and developing their own sounds.

Yung Milla’s victory adds another chapter to that history, but what makes it particularly valuable is the opportunity it creates for people to discover music they might not otherwise have encountered.

Someone who watched The Voice and connected with his performances might now go and listen to his original music, discover his brother J-MILLA or begin exploring the wider hip-hop scene coming out of the Northern Territory.

And that is something I would love to see happen more often.

Because while mainstream exposure can introduce an artist to a much larger audience, it can also become an introduction to the musical community that helped shape them.

Yung Milla has been open about wanting to use his music and the opportunities available to him to support younger generations. Now, with the prize money, recording resources and national attention that come with winning The Voice, he has an opportunity to continue building on the work he was already doing before the competition.

Of course, winning a television show doesn’t automatically translate into a lasting music career, and it will be interesting to see how he develops as an artist from here.

I’ve only been living in Melbourne for a few months, but one of the things I’ve really enjoyed about being here is how easy it is to find live music. You can be walking through Fitzroy or Brunswick on a random evening, see a band playing at a pub, and end up discovering someone you had absolutely no intention of seeing that night.

And I think that’s a pretty special thing to have in a city.

Before moving here, I obviously knew Melbourne had a reputation for its music. You hear about the legendary venues, the artists who came out of the scene, the festivals, the record stores and everything else that has made it such an important part of Australian music history.

But actually living here and slowly getting to know the scene through Sound Under has made me appreciate just how much of that reputation comes from the smaller places and communities that don’t necessarily get talked about outside Melbourne.

It’s also made me think about how easily we can take something like that for granted.

Because while Melbourne has spent decades building its identity as a music city, the industry behind that reputation is going through a pretty difficult period. Venues are dealing with rising operating costs, artists are finding it harder to make a sustainable living, and the number of places presenting regular live music across Victoria has declined considerably over the last few years.

And with the Victorian Government announcing a new set of commitments to support live music earlier this week, it feels like a good time to look at what is actually happening and what it might take to keep Melbourne’s music culture alive.

One of the things that makes Melbourne’s music history so interesting is that so much of it has developed around actual places.

You can trace different periods of Australian music through its pubs, clubs, bandrooms and the communities that formed around them. Places where artists could play regularly, meet other musicians, experiment with their sound and gradually build an audience.

The Tote in Collingwood is probably one of the most recognisable examples of that culture, having been associated with Melbourne’s independent music scene for decades. Then there are places like The Old Bar, The Evelyn and The Night Cat, each contributing something different to the city’s musical identity.

What I find particularly interesting about these places is that their importance isn’t necessarily tied to how many famous artists have performed there.

It’s everything that happens before an artist becomes famous.

I was reminded of this when I attended Marthouse Records’ farewell show at Brunswick Ballroom earlier this year. I had been following Dr Sure’s Unusual Practice and was keen to see them live, but what stayed with me from that evening was much bigger than any individual performance.

There was this genuine sense of community in the room. Artists who had worked together over the years, people who had supported the label, friends, family and an audience that seemed to understand how much Marthouse had meant to everyone involved.

Watching Dougal Shaw perform with his father on stage was one of those moments that made the evening feel particularly personal. And while Marthouse was a record label rather than a venue, the farewell reminded me how much independent music depends on people building things together over time.

When something like that comes to an end, you don’t just lose a name or a business. You lose a little part of the community that formed around it.

The same is true for live music venues, which is why the latest figures coming out of Victoria deserve some attention.

The numbers behind Melbourne’s music reputation

In February this year, Music Victoria released its 2025 Victorian Live Music Venue Audit, commissioned by Creative Victoria, which looked at the state of live music venues across Victoria.

The report identified 2,441 venues statewide, which is a substantial number and gives you some idea of just how deeply live music is embedded in Victoria’s cultural landscape.

But there was another finding that stood out to me.

In 2019, there were 813 venues across Victoria presenting at least one gig every week. By 2024, that number had fallen to 655, representing a decline of 19.4 per cent.

Now, that doesn’t necessarily mean all those venues have closed. Some may still be operating but hosting live music less frequently, while others have changed how they use their spaces. The report also identifies factors such as the pandemic, rising costs, labour shortages and changing audience behaviour as contributors to the decline.

But even when a venue remains open, hosting fewer gigs has consequences.

Think about an emerging artist who is trying to build an audience and needs places to perform regularly. Or a band that has just released its first EP and wants to start playing around Melbourne. Fewer regular gigs mean fewer opportunities for those artists to get their music in front of people.

And it’s not just musicians who are affected.

Music Victoria estimates that an average gig involves 29 different job roles, 43 people and more than 140 hours of work. That includes everyone from sound engineers and venue staff to promoters, managers, security and production crews.

I think we sometimes forget just how many people are involved in making a live performance happen, especially when we’re standing in the audience enjoying the music.

For us, it might be a couple of hours watching a band. For the people involved, it can represent days of preparation and an important part of how they earn their living.

So when regular live music activity starts declining, the impact reaches much further than the stage itself.

Another interesting part of Melbourne’s live music story is how closely it is connected to the city’s changing neighbourhoods.

Fitzroy, Collingwood and Brunswick are all places people associate with music, nightlife and creative culture. But they’re also increasingly desirable places to live, which brings new developments, apartments and residents into areas where venues have sometimes been operating for decades.

And this is where things can get complicated.

Someone moving into an apartment near an established music venue obviously has a right to reasonable living conditions, just as a venue has a legitimate interest in continuing to operate within its approved conditions.

But what happens when the expectations of a residential neighbourhood begin to conflict with the very music culture that helped make the area attractive in the first place?

The Night Cat in Fitzroy is an interesting example. In 2025, the venue became involved in a legal dispute with a nearby developer over noise and planning conditions, raising serious concerns about its future. The temporary orders threatening its operations were eventually cancelled in August, but the situation highlighted just how complicated things can become when new residential developments move into established live music areas.

And interestingly, just this week, The Night Cat announced plans to expand into the neighbouring building, with a second music room and public bar. The project still requires planning approval, and the venue is asking the community to support its application.

Here is a venue that has spent years contributing to Melbourne’s music culture and wants to create even more opportunities for artists, but whose ability to grow is still tied to navigating the city’s planning system.

And it isn’t simply a matter of choosing one side over the other.

A growing city needs housing, and residents shouldn’t have to accept unreasonable noise just because they live near a music venue. But equally, it seems strange that an established venue can find itself facing uncertainty because the surrounding area has changed.

If Melbourne wants to keep its live music culture, these are the kinds of issues it needs to work through rather than waiting until another venue is at risk.

So what is Victoria planning to do about it?

On September 23, the Victorian Labor Government announced a series of commitments aimed at supporting the state’s live music industry ahead of the November election.

Among the proposals are formally designated live music precincts in areas including Fitzroy, Collingwood, Geelong and Ballarat, changes to noise regulations, a permanent Live Music Desk and a $4 million funding package.

Part of that funding would support live performances, including all-ages events, while another portion would go towards activating underused spaces for music and the arts.

The proposed noise regulation changes are particularly interesting because they aim to give established venues greater certainty when dealing with complaints in designated live music areas.

Music Victoria has welcomed the commitments, many of which reflect priorities it has been advocating for through its Vote Victorian Music campaign.

But the organisation has also made the point that grants and planning reforms alone won’t resolve the industry’s longer-term financial pressures. It is continuing to advocate for a one per cent levy on stadium tickets to establish a permanent Victorian Music Trust, which would direct funding towards local artists, venues and the grassroots sector.

I think there’s an interesting conversation to be had around that idea.

Melbourne regularly hosts enormous international tours and major music events, and those shows are obviously an important part of the city’s music economy. Many of the artists performing at that level spent years developing their music through smaller venues, independent promoters and communities that supported them long before they were selling out arenas.

Finding ways for the success of major events to contribute to the wider music industry is worth exploring.

Of course, these are still commitments and proposals, and we’ll have to see what actually gets implemented and how effective the measures turn out to be.

But at least the conversation is happening around some of the underlying problems rather than simply celebrating Melbourne’s reputation.

Supporting local music has to go beyond telling people to buy tickets

There’s another part of this conversation that I find particularly important, especially as someone who spends a lot of time discovering and writing about emerging artists.

We often hear that people need to support local music, and I agree with that completely. It’s one of the reasons Sound Under exists in the first place.

But I also think the conversation can become a little too simplistic sometimes.

Telling people to buy tickets and support local artists is great, but audiences are dealing with rising living costs too. Going to a gig might involve paying for a ticket, transport, food and a couple of drinks, and suddenly what was supposed to be an affordable night out becomes something people have to think twice about.

At the same time, artists have their own expenses to deal with. Rehearsal spaces, recording, equipment, transport, promotion and touring all cost money, often long before there’s any meaningful income coming back.

And venues are trying to manage their own increasing costs while keeping ticket prices reasonable enough for people to actually turn up.

I don’t think there’s an easy answer to any of this. Audiences want affordable gigs, artists deserve to be paid properly, and venues need to make enough money to keep operating. Finding a balance between those things is becoming increasingly difficult, especially for smaller independent spaces.

I also wonder how much attention we’re giving to the next generation of audiences.

All-ages gigs might not seem like the most exciting part of a government funding announcement, but they’re important. For younger people who can’t access licensed venues, opportunities to experience live music can be limited.

And those early experiences can have a lasting impact.

Someone who discovers a local band at sixteen might become a lifelong fan, start making music themselves, or eventually become part of the industry in some other way.

If we want a healthy music scene ten or twenty years from now, we need to think about how people are being introduced to it today.

Laneway is one of those festivals that I had obviously known about for a long time, and if you follow Australian music even remotely closely, it is pretty difficult not to. Every year the lineup drops, everyone starts talking about who they want to see, there are inevitably a few names halfway down the poster that you have never heard of, and then a few months later you realise one of those artists is suddenly everywhere.

But when I actually started looking into the history of Laneway, what surprised me was just how literally the name describes where all of this came from.

Because before there were huge crowds across Australia and New Zealand, international artists flying in to play the festival and lineups that people now wait months for, there was genuinely just a little bar sitting in a dirty Melbourne laneway.

Jerome Borazio opened St Jerome’s Bar in Caledonian Lane in 2004, inside what had previously been a Swedish meatball shop. From everything you read about the place, it wasn’t exactly glamorous. It was small, there were bins and rats around the laneway and Borazio has spoken about originally wanting somewhere that he and his mates could basically hang out and drink.

Somewhere along the way, though, it started becoming a place where Melbourne’s music community wanted to hang out too.

Danny Rogers had returned to Australia after working as a band booker in New York and became involved with the bar, and the two eventually started putting on Sunday shows behind St Jerome’s as part of what became known as the Summer Series. The Avalanches were around the place, Architecture in Helsinki played there, The Presets played there, Clare Bowditch played there, and gradually this little bar started developing a reputation for music.

That eventually led to the fairly simple idea of taking over the laneway itself.

So in February 2005 they moved the bins, convinced some of the neighbouring restaurants to open their back doors and sell food, squeezed a stage into Caledonian Lane and held the first St Jerome’s Laneway Festival in front of roughly 1,400 people.

Apparently, they even forgot to put a roof on the stage.

I love that detail because when you know Laneway as this huge touring festival, it is easy to assume there must have been some ambitious plan behind it from the beginning. Maybe Borazio and Rogers had looked at the Australian festival market and figured out that there was room for something smaller and more alternative, and this was the first step towards building it.

But that doesn’t really seem to be how it happened at all. It feels much more like there was already a community forming around this little bar, they were already putting on artists they liked, people were turning up, and eventually somebody thought it would be fun to make the whole thing a bit bigger.

And then it just kept getting bigger and bigger.

Laneway expanded from Melbourne into Sydney, Brisbane, Adelaide, Perth and Auckland, and at different points there were even editions in Singapore and Detroit. Eventually it became impossible for the festival to remain anything close to what it had been in Caledonian Lane, because once thousands and then tens of thousands of people want to come to your festival, you obviously can’t keep squeezing everyone behind a little bar in Melbourne.

Laneway wasn’t originally competing with Australia’s biggest festivals by trying to become another version of them. There were already festivals that could give you enormous stages, massive international headliners and tens of thousands of people.

What Laneway seemed to develop instead was this reputation for having really good taste.

And I don’t mean that in the slightly pretentious sense of someone telling you they listen to music you haven’t heard of yet. I mean that if you go back through old Laneway lineups now, there are genuinely some names sitting much lower on those posters than your brain is willing to accept knowing what those artists eventually became.

Tame Impala is probably my favourite example of this.

They played Laneway in 2009 when they were still very early in their career. Kevin Parker has since talked about how early their set was, to the point that they apparently started playing before the festival gates had properly opened.

Just imagine that for a second. There are people now who travel across countries to see Tame Impala headline festivals, and at Laneway in 2009 they were playing so early that some of the audience wasn’t even inside yet.

Billie Eilish played Laneway in 2018 when she was only 16. This was before her debut album, before “bad guy”, before the Grammys and before she became one of the biggest artists in the world.

Flume has an even funnier history with the festival because before he played Laneway as an artist, he was actually volunteering there. In 2010 he was apparently carrying water between stages and getting distracted watching The xx when he was supposed to be working. By 2013, he was on the lineup himself and his career was exploding.

Now obviously Laneway isn’t responsible for making all of these artists famous. Billie Eilish was going to become Billie Eilish whether she played Laneway or not, and the same is true for plenty of these names.

But I don’t think that’s really the point. What is interesting is how often Laneway seems to have caught artists during that little window where the music was already there, the potential was already there and the people paying really close attention probably already knew, but the size of the audience hadn’t quite caught up yet.

There is something really enjoyable about going to a festival where you don’t know everyone on the lineup. You obviously want enough artists you already love to justify buying the ticket, but some of my favourite festival experiences have been the completely unplanned ones. You have an hour to kill before the next artist you want to see, you hear something coming from another stage, walk over to see what is happening and suddenly you have discovered someone.

Laneway seems to understand that feeling really well.

It is almost like the big names get you through the gates, but the rest of the lineup is where the festival gets to show you what it thinks you should be listening to.

And that is probably where its importance to Australian music becomes bigger than simply being a successful festival.

We talk a lot about supporting Australian music, especially now when there is so much conversation around how difficult it has become for local artists to break through in their own country, but before anyone can support an artist, they have to actually hear them.

And festivals are still one of the best places for that to happen naturally.

You might buy a Laneway ticket because there are two international artists you really want to see, but you’re there for the whole day, so you end up watching an Australian artist you had never heard of because they happen to be playing on the stage next to you. If they’re good enough, maybe you look them up afterwards, listen to their album on the way home and the next time they come through your city, you’re buying a ticket specifically to see them.

That doesn’t mean I want to romanticise Laneway as though it is still some little underground festival operating behind a Melbourne bar, because it obviously isn’t. Laneway today is a major festival with huge international artists, enormous crowds and an operation that probably bears very little resemblance to what Borazio and Rogers were doing in Caledonian Lane in 2005.

The music has changed too. Laneway was once much more closely associated with a certain era of indie music, whereas now you can move between indie, pop, hip-hop and electronic music across the same day. For people who grew up with an older version of the festival, I can understand why that might feel like Laneway becoming more mainstream, but I also think it would be strange if a festival built around finding interesting new music still sounded exactly like it did 15 years ago.

Music doesn’t work like that, and neither does discovery.

What probably matters more is whether you can still look halfway down a Laneway poster and find artists that make you curious. In 2024, around a third of the lineup was reportedly making its Australian debut, which suggests that even as the festival has become much bigger, there is still some willingness to ask its audience to take a chance on something they haven’t seen before.

And that willingness might become increasingly important because Laneway is now trying to survive in a very different Australian festival landscape from the one it grew up in.

We have watched festivals disappear, pause or struggle over the last few years as touring, production and artist costs have increased while audiences themselves have less money to spend. Laneway has survived all of that so far, but it isn’t immune to it either.

For 2027, Adelaide and Perth are being paused, leaving Sydney, Brisbane, Melbourne and Auckland on the festival run. Organisers have spoken about how difficult it has become to move artists and crews across so many cities in such a short period, and while they have said this isn’t necessarily goodbye to Adelaide and Perth, it does make you wonder what the next version of Laneway looks like.

Every now and then you hear a cover of a song you have known for years and for those few minutes you almost forget the original exists.

It doesn’t happen very often, especially when the song being covered is as iconic as Phil Collins’ ‘In the Air Tonight’, but watching ONEFOUR perform it for triple j’s Like A Version alongside Jimmy Barnes and Jessica Mauboy genuinely felt like that.

There are probably easier songs to cover than this one. ‘In the Air Tonight’ has been around for more than 45 years and there are parts of it that are so deeply ingrained in popular culture that even people who couldn’t name a Phil Collins album probably know exactly what is coming when they hear those opening sounds.

And then, of course, there is the drum fill.

But what I loved about this version is that ONEFOUR didn’t really seem interested in recreating the original just for the sake of paying tribute to it. They basically took the song apart and figured out what it could sound like if it belonged to them instead.

Before getting into why that works so well though, it is worth going back to the original, because the story behind ‘In the Air Tonight’ makes this version even more interesting.

Phil Collins wrote the song during one of the most difficult periods of his life. His first marriage was falling apart, Genesis had taken some time away from touring, and Collins suddenly found himself spending a lot more time at home. He started experimenting with a drum machine and a Prophet-5 synthesiser, eventually coming up with the foundations of what would become ‘In the Air Tonight’.

There have been all sorts of stories attached to the song since then. The most famous one is probably the urban legend that Collins witnessed someone drowning while another person refused to help, and then somehow tracked that person down years later and confronted them through the song.

It is a great story, but it is also completely made up.

Collins himself has spoken about how he doesn’t really know exactly what the song is about in a literal sense because a lot of the lyrics came from improvising while he was recording. What he does remember is what he was feeling at the time, and when you know what was happening in his life, suddenly the song makes a lot more sense.

There is anger in it, but it doesn’t explode straightaway. The music is sparse, Collins sounds almost distant at times and the whole song feels like it is slowly building towards something without telling you exactly when that something is going to arrive. Which is why that drum fill works as well as it does.

It is funny when you think about it because the most famous part of the song lasts only a few seconds. But those few seconds wouldn’t mean nearly as much without everything that happens before them.

And I think that is also part of what ONEFOUR understood so well with their version.

They didn’t need to keep every lyric or follow exactly what Collins did because that isn’t necessarily what makes the song special. Instead, they kept enough of its DNA that you immediately know what you are listening to and then started building their own song around it.

J Emz, Spenny and Celly write their own verses rather than performing Collins’ original ones, and that completely changes the relationship they have with the song. They aren’t rappers who have been invited onto a Phil Collins cover to give it a modern section somewhere in the middle. For large parts of the performance, it genuinely feels like a ONEFOUR song.

Then the chorus arrives and suddenly you remember exactly where all of this came from.

Jessica Mauboy sounds incredible on it, Jimmy Barnes brings a completely different weight to the record, and somehow none of these different musical worlds feel like they are fighting each other.

You have one of the defining voices of Australian rock, one of Australia’s biggest pop and R&B singers and a group from Mount Druitt who helped put Australian drill in front of an international audience, all meeting inside a song written by Phil Collins in England more than four decades ago.

On paper, that sounds like someone has just thrown four completely different musical worlds together to see what happens.

Jimmy Barnes spoke to triple j about that connection as well, saying that they came from similar backgrounds and had both had to fight to make themselves heard. That feels particularly relevant when ONEFOUR are involved because their journey in Australian music has been anything but straightforward.

For years, they became almost as well known for the shows they weren’t allowed to play as the music they were making. Police pressure and venue cancellations followed them while their music continued travelling around Australia and overseas, and somehow a group that had become one of Australia’s most recognisable rap exports struggled to simply perform in their own city.

That context makes seeing them here feel significant in a way that goes beyond whether the cover sounds good.

Here they are on Like A Version, one of Australian music’s biggest platforms, standing alongside Jimmy Barnes and Jessica Mauboy and taking one of the most recognisable songs of the last 50 years and reshaping it around the music they make.

And maybe that is also why this version made me think about what actually makes a great cover.

Johnny Cash didn’t make ‘Hurt’ memorable because he sounded like Trent Reznor. Jimi Hendrix didn’t turn ‘All Along the Watchtower’ into one of the most famous covers ever by trying to sound like Bob Dylan. They found something inside those songs that made sense for who they were and took them somewhere else.

Obviously I am not saying one Like A Version suddenly belongs in that conversation historically, but the same idea is there.

ONEFOUR could have rapped Phil Collins’ words. They could have kept most of the arrangement, added a verse and made a very good version of ‘In the Air Tonight’.

Instead, they kept what they needed and changed almost everything else. And somehow that makes the original feel more present rather than less.

Maybe that is what I loved most about this version. It never felt like they were trying to remind us how great ‘In the Air Tonight’ is. We already know that. The song has had more than four decades to establish that.

They gave us a reason to hear it differently.

And for a song that has been heard, covered, referenced and replayed as many times as ‘In the Air Tonight’ has, that might be the hardest thing a cover can do.

On 14 August 2026, Kayps dropped BUNUBA BABY, which is easily his best work so far and, if you have read our review of the album, you would know just how much we loved it.

Although the album is deeply personal to Kayps and tells his story through his experiences, family, identity and connection to where he comes from, it also feels much bigger than one person’s story. There are parts of the album that look at the history of his community, what previous generations went through and how those experiences continue to affect the generations that came after them.

That was one of the biggest reasons the album connected with us so much in the first place. Kayps is at the forefront of it, but it never feels like an album that is only about Kayps.

So when he announced the BUNUBA BABY tour with a Melbourne show, I was obviously eager to go and see how an album like this would translate live.

The gig took place at Open Bar in Fitzroy, with Squid the Kid opening the night, followed by Ricky Neil Jr. as co-headliner before Kayps eventually came out to perform.

This was also my first time going to a gig at Open Bar and honestly, the venue felt just right for the kind of show this was supposed to be. There weren’t too many people in the room, but sometimes that can actually make a gig better when everyone who is there genuinely wants to be there.

That was definitely the case on this night.

There was a really positive energy throughout the room, and whether it was Squid, Ricky or Kayps performing, people were actually paying attention, reacting to the songs and giving the artists something back. It didn’t feel like one of those shows where half the crowd is talking at the back waiting for the one artist or song they came to hear.

Everyone seemed invested in what was happening in front of them, and that ended up becoming one of my favourite things about the entire night.

Squid the Kid

First up was Squid the Kid, who seemed slightly nervous at times, which is completely understandable when you’re opening a show and trying to get a room warmed up.

But even with some of those nerves, he performed his songs well and you could hear the quality of the music underneath it because Squid already has some genuine bangers in his catalogue.

I think the performance side is something that will naturally get better the more he plays live. There are certain things you can only really learn by getting on stage again and again, figuring out how to command a room, how to move between songs and eventually reaching the point where everything becomes second nature.

As a songwriter though, he is already creating some incredible songs, and that is probably the harder part to learn.

A special shoutout also has to go to his drummer, who was excellent throughout the set and really helped make everything feel tighter and hit harder live.

Then we got Ricky Neil Jr., and this is where the night became a little ridiculous.

Ricky Neil Jr.

Where do I even start with this guy?

I had listened to Ricky’s music before, and based purely on that I was already expecting him to have this slightly over-the-top, theatrical and dramatic energy on stage. What I wasn’t expecting was just how good he would be at it.

Ricky is one of those performers who has something that is incredibly difficult to teach. There is a sense of mystery and charisma around him where even when he isn’t doing anything particularly huge, you still find yourself watching him because you want to see what he is going to do next.

I’ve been to a lot of gigs over the years and seen a lot of incredible performers, but there aren’t that many people who can completely hold an audience’s attention in the way Ricky did during this show.

This was also my first time seeing him live, so maybe people who have seen him multiple times already know exactly what I’m talking about, but if this is the level he performs at every time, I’m genuinely surprised he isn’t playing much bigger stages already.

After the show, I was talking to someone about how our generation never really got the opportunity to experience performers like Freddie Mercury or Elvis Presley live. Obviously we can watch footage of those performances, but watching something on a screen decades later is completely different from actually being in the room and feeling whatever made those people so captivating in the first place.

And I know this is going to sound like a massive comparison, but while watching Ricky I genuinely had this thought that if Freddie Mercury was Australian and playing in a small club in Fitzroy, maybe there would be something similar about the way it felt.

I’m not saying Ricky sounds like Freddie Mercury or that he is trying to perform like him, because that isn’t really what I mean. It’s more about that complete commitment to performing.

It isn’t only the way Ricky moves around the stage or the expressions on his face. It’s his entire body language, his vocals, knowing which word needs slightly more weight, where his pitch needs to rise, when he needs to pull something back and when he needs to completely let go.

Everything becomes part of the performance.

And when all of those things come together, you stop feeling like you’re simply watching someone sing their songs and start feeling like you’re watching an actual show.

I genuinely think Ricky Neil Jr. is someone you need to experience live to completely understand what I’m talking about, because videos can show you what he does, but they can’t necessarily recreate what it feels like when you’re standing a few metres away from him doing it.

He was easily one of the biggest surprises of the night for me and, without exaggerating it too much, one of the best live performers I’ve seen in a long time.

Then somehow Kayps had to follow that.

Kayps and Why BUNUBA BABY Matters

And then came the man of the moment, who had just released what we believe is one of the most important Australian hip-hop albums of all time.

Before getting into the performance itself, I think it’s worth briefly talking about why BUNUBA BABY matters so much, because that context completely changes what it feels like to hear these songs performed live.

When we reviewed the album, one of the things that stood out immediately was how much Kayps had grown as an artist. He was already a talented rapper before this record, but this album felt like the moment where he really understood what he wanted to do with that talent.

Throughout the project he talks about his Bunuba and Walmatjarri identity, his family, Fitzroy Crossing, racism, colonisation, stolen wages, people his community has lost and his own complicated relationship with culture.

But what makes the album special is the way all of those things connect.

A song like “765” can talk about stolen wages, land and generations of history while somehow still sounding like an anthem that people can scream along to. Then you have something like the “UNCLE JOHNNY” interlude, where Kayps almost completely removes himself and allows an older voice to recount memories of people locking arms in the river, police arriving and people being taken away one by one.

There isn’t a verse afterwards trying to explain what we just heard. The memory is allowed to stand by itself.

Then elsewhere on the album, Kayps turns those ideas back towards himself and starts asking questions about his own relationship with his culture, including the incredibly vulnerable line, “Am I an imposter in my own culture?”

That is what makes the record feel so much bigger than simply an album about one young artist’s life.

Kayps is telling his story, but that story exists because of the people who came before him, the community around him and the history they collectively carry. And despite how heavy some of that history is, the album never reduces his community to trauma either. There is humour, pride, family, confidence and celebration running through it as well.

That was the album we were now getting to hear live.

BUNUBA BABY Live

Kayps ended up performing the album from start to finish, which I think was probably the best way he could have approached this show.

This isn’t really an album where I would want him to pick five or six songs, move them around and fit them between older tracks just because those songs might get a bigger reaction.

The sequencing is such an important part of BUNUBA BABY because there is a story developing across the record, and performing it in order allowed us to experience that journey again in a completely different setting.

Kayps brought good energy throughout the performance and the band behind him was incredibly tight, which gave some of these songs a different kind of life compared with hearing them on the record.

But once again, what really made the performance work was the relationship between what was happening on stage and the people standing in front of it.

The crowd wasn’t huge, but every person in that room seemed to genuinely care about what they were witnessing. People were listening to the quieter moments, reacting to the bigger ones and giving Kayps the kind of energy back that these songs deserved.

And honestly, I would take that over a bigger room where half the people aren’t paying attention any day.

Kayps also performed a song that didn’t make the final version of BUNUBA BABY, which was interesting because although I thought the song itself was good, hearing it alongside everything else actually made me understand why it didn’t make the album.

It wasn’t really about the quality of the song. It just didn’t feel as necessary to the larger story.

When you have an album that is this focused and where almost every song seems to have a reason for existing exactly where it does, sometimes leaving a good song out is actually a better decision than forcing it onto the tracklist.

I would still love to see Kayps release it as a standalone single at some point though, because outside the context of the album, there is definitely something there.

The set eventually closed with “Black Fellah”, which Kayps has used as the closer for a lot of his shows and felt like a fitting way to finish this one too.

By the end of the night, what stayed with me wasn’t necessarily one particular song or moment, but just how much talent had been packed into this relatively small room in Fitzroy.

Squid the Kid is already writing some incredible songs and now needs the time and live experience to become as comfortable on stage as he sounds on record.

Ricky Neil Jr. completely caught me off guard and gave one of the most captivating live performances I’ve seen in a long time. I genuinely think he has the charisma and performance ability to command stages considerably bigger than the one we saw him on here.

And then there is Kayps.

When we reviewed BUNUBA BABY, one of the biggest things I took away from the album was that Kayps’ growth isn’t simply about becoming a better rapper. He was already good at that.

The growth is in understanding what he wants his music to say.

There were not hundreds of people standing inside Open Bar that night, and maybe a few years from now Kayps, Ricky and even Squid will be playing rooms considerably bigger than this one.

But there is something special about seeing artists at this stage, when the rooms are still small enough that the separation between the people making the music and the people supporting it almost disappears.

Because BUNUBA BABY was never really about how big the room could become.

As the album itself reminds us, money comes and goes, but your community is forever. And on this night in Fitzroy, the community showed up.

Every Friday, Sound Under curates the best of Australian alternative music: fresh releases, overlooked gems, rising artists, and songs worth spending real time with.

Whether you’re driving down the coast, walking through the city late at night, or simply tired of playlists chosen by algorithms, these picks are built differently. This isn’t about hype cycles or whatever is trending for 48 hours. It’s about music with replay value, personality, and something real inside it.

No artist is too early. No sound is too left-field, and no scene is too small.

Here’s this week’s Picks:

765 — Kayps

Earlier this week, we wrote about Bunuba Baby, Kayps’ new album and a project that feels much bigger than one artist telling his story.

At the centre of it is Kayps — his perspective, his experiences and his relationship with the community around him — but throughout the album, those individual stories constantly open into something wider. Family, history, Country, community and the things carried from one generation into the next all become part of the record.

“765” is one of the tracks that captures that world particularly well.

There is confidence here, but what makes Kayps interesting is that the confidence rarely feels separated from where he comes from. His identity isn’t something sitting around the edges of the music; it is built directly into it.

And that’s ultimately what makes Bunuba Baby worth spending time with. It isn’t just an album built around Kayps. It feels like something created by and for a community, with everyone involved bringing something to the table.

We went much deeper into the album in our full review earlier this week, so if “765” catches you, go spend some time with *Bunuba Baby*.

Foreverland — Vlads

Vlads were one of the first bands we wrote about on Sound Under, and they keep proving why we liked them in the first place.

“Foreverland” shows another side of the band.

There is something almost utopian about the idea behind it: a place for people who don’t necessarily fit neatly into the mould society has created for them, but find their own playground anyway.

“Welcome one and welcome all / This land’s ours forevermore.”

That feels like the heart of the song.

Foreverland isn’t necessarily somewhere you can point to on a map. It’s the place you create with the people around you. Somewhere you can live freely, hold onto your memories and, at least for a little while, escape everything outside of it.

Vlads wrap that idea inside a massive chorus built to be sung together, which feels pretty appropriate for a song fundamentally about belonging.

Don’t Mean It — The Colliflowers

At this point, there are a few things we’ve come to expect from The Colliflowers: great rhythm, strong melodies, incredibly tight grooves and songs that know exactly how to get stuck in your head.

“Don’t Mean It” ticks pretty much every one of those boxes.

The riff grabs you immediately, the rhythm keeps everything moving and the whole track has that effortless bounce The Colliflowers are becoming very good at creating.

But underneath all of that catchiness is someone looking straight through another person’s bullshit.

“Cut to the core, you can see it / Choose to ignore and believe it / I can see right through / You don’t mean it.”

It’s simple, direct and exactly the kind of line that sticks.

The verses make the situation even messier — vodka tonic in a teacup, a trashed house, broken glass on the floor, forgotten keys — while the narrator seems increasingly aware that whatever this person says doesn’t really mean much anymore.

And somehow The Colliflowers turn all of that into something ridiculously fun to listen to.

Considering the run they’re on right now, you start wondering when they’re actually going to miss.

So far, it doesn’t look like anytime soon.

Parachute — Joe Mungovan

“Parachute”, the seventh track from Joe Mungovan’s project Preparing for Lift Off, sounds ridiculously upbeat for a song about feeling like everything around you is falling apart.

And that’s exactly why it works.

Joe plays with that bait-and-switch throughout much of the project. The music pulls you in one direction while the writing quietly takes you somewhere completely different.

Here, you’ve got an energetic, catchy track wrapped around the feeling of going through the same day over and over again, being told how you’re supposed to live, looking for something and continually coming up empty.

Then comes the central image:

“Feels like I’m going down without a parachute.”

It’s funny because the entire song feels like it’s moving upwards while the person inside it is doing the exact opposite.

That contradiction fits ‘Preparing for Lift Off’ perfectly. The project spends a lot of time wrestling with where you belong, what you’re supposed to be doing and how you’re meant to find yourself when everyone else seems determined to tell you the answer.

Even the plane imagery becomes progressively more chaotic until the plane is literally on fire and Joe has no option left but to jump.

If you haven’t heard Preparing for Lift Off yet, start here. Then go explore the whole project.

Scout’s Honour — Zafty

I’ve been a huge fan of Zafty since hearing his EP ‘OMO BURUKU’, which I still think is his best work to date, so seeing another EP on the way immediately had my attention.

I still need some proper time with the new project before deciding exactly where it sits within his catalogue, but “Scout’s Honour” is a banger.

The hook is immediate, the concept is clever and Zafty once again shows how naturally he can make songs that feel big without completely sanding away his personality.

The whole thing is built around the childhood promise of Scout’s honour — three fingers in the air, promising someone you’ll be there — except Zafty turns that into a love song.

And he commits to the idea.

‘OMO BURUKU’ showed how distinctive he could be, but songs like “Scout’s Honour” make you wonder just how far he can push into bigger, more accessible territory without losing what made his music interesting in the first place.

This new EP looks like another step in that direction.

Where Zafty goes from here is going to be very interesting to watch.

Every Friday, Sound Under spotlights the best alternative music beneath the surface.

Got a track we should hear?
Tag @soundunderau on Instagram or send us a DM.

There is a moment on BUNUBA BABY where Kayps remembers seeing photographs of his Elders hanging when he was a child. He didn’t fully understand what he was looking at, so the question that entered his head was an innocent one: “Why is Uncle levitatin’?”

It is only one line on an album filled with difficult ones, but it says a lot about how far Kurrungaya Bieundurry has come as a songwriter.

Kayps has been making music since he was around 13, and for anyone who has followed his work, his ability has never really been in question. He can move between melodic hooks and rapid-fire flows with ridiculous ease, jump between genres without losing himself and, when he wants to, simply outrap the people around him. At 20, he already has the kind of technical confidence that usually comes much later.

What has changed on this album is what he is doing with it.

Released on 14 August, BUNUBA BABY feels like the first time everything around Kayps has been brought into the same place. His childhood, his Bunuba and Walmatjarri identity, Fitzroy Crossing, family, racism, colonisation, stolen wages, people he has lost, his years away from home and his own uncertainty about what that distance has done to him all become part of the record.

It would have been easy for an album carrying this much history to become overwhelmingly heavy, but Kayps understands that the place he is writing about cannot be represented through trauma alone. There is too much love there for that.

The first voice we hear isn’t even his.

Natalie Davey opens “Come Home” through Wangki Radio, welcoming listeners from across the Fitzroy Valley before introducing BUNUBA BABY. It gives the album an immediate sense of place, almost as though what we’re about to hear is being broadcast across the community it belongs to.

Kayps follows by giving us the kind of details that rarely appear when people talk about regional communities from the outside. Four-wheel drives, the heat, cigarette smoke outside a clinic, a drum kit in the meeting building, cousins fighting on the grass, the IGA, trying to heat up a feed when there’s no microwave around. There is nothing particularly grand about these images, which is precisely why they work.

The darker realities exist right beside them too. A booze ban, rehab and a cousin who died at 25 after Kayps had told him he’d see him soon.

“Sugar coating where I’m from could never make me hide away,” he says towards the end of the verse.

That refusal to simplify home becomes one of the most important ideas running through the album.

“CROCODILES” carries the same feeling forward, but with more warmth. Kayps writes about returning northwest, fishing after the rain, the riverbank, red dirt, dry season and crocodiles sitting in the water. Yet within the same song, he is writing about songlines being washed away by the West, stolen wages and generations of people fighting to hold onto culture.

Neither side cancels out the other.

The Fitzroy Valley Kayps gives us is beautiful because it is home, and painful because of what has happened there. The anger that naturally comes from that becomes much harder to ignore on “SHIPS”.

Kayps goes back to being the only Black kid in his class, remembering the prejudice that surrounded him and eventually being told that he was “too black”. His response isn’t restrained, nor should it be. The track carries an aggression that feels built from years of being expected to absorb those experiences quietly.

Flewnt and JJ Vacant extend that feeling beyond Kayps himself. Flewnt’s verse in particular is brilliant, moving from cultural pride towards stolen wages and the demand for greater space, funding and recognition. By the time the song ends, it no longer feels like one person’s frustration. The voices around Kayps are becoming an increasingly important part of the album.

That sense of community is something the album returns to constantly. Kayps may be at the centre of the record, but he rarely writes as though his story exists by itself.

On “765”, one of the strongest performances on the album, he moves between his own experience and something much older almost without warning. The track is technically impressive — Kayps’ delivery alone could give plenty of rappers a run for their money — but what makes it work is that none of that technical ability gets in the way of what he’s actually saying.

He talks about his culture being criminalised, wanting land returned and still waiting on his grandfather’s stolen wages before reaching one of the most haunting images on the entire album:

“As a youngin, I saw photos of my Elders hangin’

Lil’ me thinkin’, ‘Why is Uncle levitatin’?’”

There is something devastating about seeing that through the eyes of a child who doesn’t yet understand what he’s looking at. Kayps is smart enough not to explain the moment any further. He leaves the image there and keeps moving.

But for everything “765” carries, this doesn’t sound like a song weighed down by its subject matter. It’s huge. The hook sticks almost immediately, Kayps attacks the beat and there is a confrontational energy to the whole thing that makes me wonder what this song could become once people have had some time with it.

There is something about “765” that reminds me of what happened with Kendrick Lamar’s “Not Like Us”. Not necessarily in how the two songs sound, but in their ability to carry something much heavier inside music that people can gather around. Kendrick made a diss track that thousands of people ended up shouting together, and listening to “765”, you can imagine Kayps getting his own version of that moment.

“765 section steppin’, tell me where you from.”

Give that line a crowd and you can already hear what happens next.

And if it does become that kind of song for him, there is something pretty powerful about what people will actually be shouting along to. A track about being a Black boy from the northwest, about culture being criminalised, stolen wages, land, family and the things he saw growing up has been packed inside one of the most immediate songs on the album.

Kayps hasn’t watered any of it down to make an anthem. The things he wants to say are the anthem.

That makes the “UNCLE JOHNNY” interlude that follows feel particularly important.

An older voice recalls trucks approaching while people sat in the middle of the river. They were told to move. Some did, while others locked arms and stayed before being taken away one by one.

“It was like a war to me,” he remembers. “I was really scared.”

There is no verse from Kayps afterwards trying to contextualise what we’ve heard. The memory is allowed to exist on its own, and after hearing “765” immediately before it, the relationship between the two generations becomes difficult to miss. One carries the memory of what happened; the other is figuring out what to do with everything that memory has left behind.

There is a quote commonly attributed to Jimi Hendrix that I’ve carried around in my wallet for years: “When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”

I found myself thinking about it a lot while listening to the album, because so much of the history sitting underneath this album eventually leads you back to power. Who had it, who didn’t, what people were willing to do to keep it, and what happens when the consequences of those decisions are inherited by generations who had nothing to do with making them.

History isn’t sitting somewhere safely in the past on this record. Kayps is talking about his grandfather’s wages. He’s talking about photographs he saw as a child. He’s talking about things his family and community are dealing with now. The distance between what Uncle Johnny remembers and what this 20-year-old is rapping about isn’t nearly as large as it should be.

And then Kayps gives us the title track “BUNUBA BABY”.

Suddenly he’s full of bravado, calling himself the hottest brother in Boorloo City, putting on for the West and talking about Bunuba blood with complete confidence. In another context it might simply sound like the familiar self-belief of a young rapper who knows he’s good. Here, coming directly after the voice of an older generation, it feels closer to reclamation.

There is history behind that confidence, and maybe that’s why pride feels so important on this album. Kayps isn’t proud because he doesn’t know what happened. He’s proud while knowing exactly what happened, what survived and what his community continues to carry.

The same applies to the album’s politics. Kayps never treats them like a separate category of songwriting that requires the music to suddenly become serious around them.

“STICK TO THE CODE” is probably the clearest example.

It has the best and catchiest beat on the record, and everyone involved understands exactly what to do with it. Kayps, Yung Maynie, Sachém, Denzel Kennedy and Big Deej move through the track with so much confidence that it is easy to imagine the song becoming a live favourite.

Yet underneath that energy are many of the same concerns running through the rest of the album: tokenism, culture, land, money, family and the responsibility of standing with your people.

The message doesn’t interrupt the song because, for Kayps, there doesn’t seem to be any reason those things should exist separately. A song can carry history and still make a crowd move.

Even the short “RUN BOY RUN” gives us another piece of the world Kayps has been building. He writes about a 2,524-kilometre drive, flooded roads, water seeping through the door, six-foot ant hills in the distance, salt mounds, camping and the river continuing to rise. So much of the album is about what home means politically, culturally and personally, but here Kayps almost just lets us travel through it with him.

“SONNY WALTERS” brings the anger straight back. Kayps is looking at the systems surrounding his community again, calling out the way Indigenous culture can be celebrated when it is convenient while the politics rarely reflect that same admiration.

He moves through homelessness, incarceration and the history people would rather ignore, and by this point in the album you realise how easily Kayps moves between the past and the present because, in his writing, the two are constantly affecting each other.

That balance is one of the album’s biggest strengths, particularly because the further Kayps takes us into his world, the less straightforward his own place within it becomes.

“GOODY” is where that tension finally comes to the surface.

“Am I an imposter in my own culture?”

After hearing Kayps spend much of the album defending his identity so forcefully, the question catches you off guard.

He begins thinking about the distance that has grown between himself and his father’s teachings, wondering whether he understands himself well enough to be the kind of role model he wants to become. He talks about friends seeing him cry more often, accepting that he needs to let his feelings out and recognising that healing might require a kind of vulnerability we haven’t heard much from him elsewhere.

Then he looks back at his teenage years.

“Teen years as a black kid in a white place

Any photo taken had me changing into white face.”

What follows is perhaps the hardest question Kayps asks anywhere on the record: whether he had placed himself in environments where conforming became normal enough that he began washing out his own race.

These are some of the deepest and darkest lines on the album. Anyone who has ever felt themselves changing just to belong somewhere will know how shit it feels to eventually look back and wonder how much of yourself you left behind in the process. For Kayps, that question runs even deeper because he’s talking about his culture, his father’s teachings and his identity as a Black man.

And he doesn’t really answer it. Maybe he can’t yet.

For an album filled with confrontations, “GOODY” contains the most difficult one because Kayps is no longer confronting anyone else. He is looking at himself.

The second verse makes that reflection even more significant by taking us back to where his relationship with music started. Kayps talks about making his first tape at 13, when music was one of the only places he had to put the anger he was carrying. He remembers Ducky supporting him, Goonie seeing potential he hadn’t yet recognised in himself and his mum accompanying him to venues because he was still a kid.

Seven years isn’t a particularly long time, but there is an enormous distance between the artist described in that verse and the one capable of writing it.

The anger hasn’t disappeared, BUNUBA BABY wouldn’t be the same record if it had. What has changed is Kayps’ ability to understand what sits around it.

He can now trace personal experiences back through family and history, recognise that pride and uncertainty aren’t opposites and write about his community without reducing it to what has happened to it. Just as importantly, he can write about himself without pretending his own story exists outside the people who raised him.

That becomes especially clear on the closing track, “BROKEN GLASS”.

Kayps and BADASSMUTHA write openly about generational trauma and systems that continue to make decisions affecting their communities, but towards the end of the track, Kayps’ attention shifts.

“Money comes and goes, but your community’s forever

If you’re hurting, then at least we hurt together.”

After everything that precedes it, the sentiment doesn’t feel sentimental. If anything, it reveals what has been underneath the album from the beginning.

For all the justified anger running through the album, anger isn’t really what holds the record together, Community does.

Kayps keeps returning to cousins, family, his father, his grandfather, his Elders, the people who backed him when he was 13, the people he has lost and the younger generation now looking towards him. Even his most personal questions are connected to what those relationships mean.

It is why the album’s framing through Wangki Radio works so well.

At the beginning, Natalie Davey announces BUNUBA BABY across the Fitzroy Valley. What follows feels like Kayps filling that broadcast with everything he wants carried through it: memories of home, uncomfortable history, anger, humour, grief, pride, uncertainty and the voices of people around him.

Then Natalie returns at the end.

“If you’re still with me, that was Bunuba Baby.”

She reminds everyone that it’s hot outside and tells them to stay cool.

After everything we’ve heard, there is something almost perfect about how ordinary that ending is.

Because at the forefront of all of this is Kayps. It’s his story, his perspective of the world and the community around him, but that doesn’t take away from what the album really becomes by the time it’s over.

This is an album about community.

It’s about history and the things people went through, but also what those experiences did to the people around them and the generations that came afterwards. It’s about what gets passed down, what gets taken away, what survives and what people do with all of that when it eventually becomes theirs to carry.

Which is why it feels fitting that BUNUBA BABY itself doesn’t exist because of Kayps alone.

There are featured artists all over this record bringing their own stories and perspectives into his world. There are producers shaping how those stories sound, the people behind the mixing and mastering, the artwork, Natalie Davey and Uncle Johnny’s voices, and everyone else who helped turn the idea into the album we’re hearing now. You can feel that people understood what Kayps was trying to make here and brought their A-game because of it.

Take those people away and BUNUBA BABY wouldn’t be the same album.

In that sense, maybe the way this record was made tells us as much about it as the lyrics do. Kayps spends 11 tracks reminding us that nobody’s story really exists by itself, and the album carrying those stories was built by a group of people around him.

But standing at the front of that community is still this 20-year-old artist who started making music at 13 because he needed somewhere to put everything he was feeling. Seven years later, he’s not just putting those feelings onto a page anymore. He’s understanding where they came from, connecting them to the people who came before him and finding a way to make other people listen.

And it really does feel like Kayps is ready to claim his place. Not only within Australian hip-hop, either.

There is something much bigger in what he’s building here. The ability has always been obvious, but this album gives that ability purpose. Kayps knows where he comes from, he’s starting to understand exactly what he wants to say, and now he’s becoming good enough as a songwriter to make people far outside his own world stop and listen.

If there was only one Australian hip-hop artist we could put our weight behind right now, Kayps would be it.

BUNUBA BABY shows exactly why.

At 20 years old, he’s made the best record of his career so far, but I don’t think this conversation needs to stop at Kayps either. For us, BUNUBA BABY is already in the conversation for one of the best Australian albums of 2026.

Every Friday, Sound Under curates the best of Australian alternative music: fresh releases, overlooked gems, rising artists, and songs worth spending real time with.

Whether you’re driving down the coast, walking through the city late at night, or simply tired of playlists chosen by algorithms, these picks are built differently. This isn’t about hype cycles or whatever is trending for 48 hours. It’s about music with replay value, personality, and something real inside it.

No artist is too early. No sound is too left-field, and no scene is too small.

Here’s this week’s Picks:

I Don’t Mind — Five Buck Kid

“I Don’t Mind” starts with pure fuck-you energy and never really lets up.

Melbourne independent band Five Buck Kid have built the track around the emotional messiness of a situationship, but instead of drowning in it, they turn that frustration into something loud, catchy and ridiculously fun.

The rhythm grabs you almost immediately, the drums are tight, and the hook is the kind that gets stuck in your head after one listen. But our favourite moment comes towards the end, when the guitar solo kicks in. It feels like all the frustration running through the song finally gets somewhere to go, capturing the emotion of the track without needing to spell it out.

Five Buck Kid are heading out on tour in October around the release of the track, and if you haven’t heard them yet, this is a very good place to start before digging into the rest of their catalogue.

If you like the storytelling and heart of Springsteen mixed with the swagger and guitar energy of Arctic Monkeys, there is a very good chance you’ll fuck with “I Don’t Mind.”

When The Shit Went Down — Ella Hooper

Ella Hooper first came into the public eye as the frontwoman of Killing Heidi, and at this stage of her career, she really doesn’t need to prove how good of a songwriter she is.

But “When The Shit Went Down,” the first single from her upcoming album *Overnight Success*, feels like an artist who still has plenty left to say.

There is a maturity to the song that immediately stands out. It deals with hitting rock bottom and everything that comes with those moments when life stops going the way you thought it would. It’s personal, but never so specific that you can’t find some part of yourself inside it.

That universality is probably what we connected with most. Regardless of age or background, most of us know what it feels like to have life knock us down, question where we’re going, and somehow have to figure out what comes next.

Hooper doesn’t romanticise that feeling. She writes from the perspective of someone who has lived enough life to understand that the difficult chapters are often the ones that change us the most.

If “When The Shit Went Down” is setting the emotional tone for *Overnight Success*, we’re very interested to see where the rest of the album takes us when it arrives in October.

Adeline — Outfront

After a few months away, Outfront return with their fourth single, “Adeline,” and honestly, what a way to come back.

This is everything we want from a good indie pop-rock song. The composition is bright and energetic, the hook sticks almost immediately, and there is a feel-good quality running through the track that makes standing still pretty difficult.

But the guitars are where “Adeline” really comes alive.

If we had to pick our favourite guitar solo from this week’s releases, this might be it. Scott Morrison deserves a special mention because his playing throughout the entire song is excellent, but when that solo arrives, it takes the track somewhere else entirely.

What we like about Outfront is that they don’t seem interested in overcomplicating things. “Adeline” is built around melody, movement and musicianship. Sometimes that’s all you need.

Clean — Hein Cooper

Hein Cooper is one of those artists you put on when you actually want to sit with your thoughts.

His music has always carried a sense of self-discovery, almost like you’re listening to someone figure things out in real time. If you haven’t heard him before, his 2025 album *My Own* is a very good place to start.

What makes Cooper special is how easily he can take you into something deeply personal while somehow making it feel like your own story.

“Clean” captures that beautifully.

There is something almost hypnotic about the composition. The song slowly pulls you into a different headspace, creating the kind of atmosphere where everything outside of it seems to disappear for a few minutes.

And by the time the song finishes, you might find yourself thinking about something you weren’t thinking about when it started.

Maybe that’s what “Clean” does best. It creates space. Space to think, reflect and perhaps understand something about yourself that you hadn’t quite figured out yet.

Disguise — Even Hannah

Three songs into this new chapter, it feels like Even Hannah are absolutely heading in the right direction.

Each release is revealing a little more of what this band are capable of, and “Disguise” takes their sound another step forward. There is something bigger about this one. The composition is groovy, the hooks land immediately, and the whole track carries the confidence of a band whose music feels increasingly built for much larger stages.

Honestly, we weren’t expecting them to push the sound this far this quickly, and that might be what makes “Disguise” such a welcome surprise.

When we previously wrote about “Chapter One,” we said there was something refreshing about hearing a band sound genuinely excited about what comes next. That song felt like a turning point, or at least the beginning of one.

“Disguise” makes that feeling even stronger.

Even Hannah have been steadily building momentum through energetic performances, big guitar hooks and songwriting that feels built for crowded rooms. While plenty of bands spend years trying to figure out exactly what they want to sound like, Even Hannah increasingly sound like a group becoming more confident with every release.

What stood out about “Chapter One” was the ambition behind it. “Disguise” feels like some of that ambition starting to become reality.

Every Friday, Sound Under spotlights the best alternative music beneath the surface.

Got a track we should hear?
Tag @soundunderau on Instagram or send us a DM.

Every Friday, Sound Under curates the best of Australian alternative music: fresh releases, overlooked gems, rising artists, and songs worth spending real time with.

Whether you’re driving down the coast, walking through the city late at night, or simply tired of playlists chosen by algorithms, these picks are built differently. This isn’t about hype cycles or whatever is trending for 48 hours. It’s about music with replay value, personality, and something real inside it.

No artist is too early. No sound is too left-field, and no scene is too small.

Here’s this week’s Picks:

Tear — Nancy and the Jam Fancys

Nancy and the Jam Fancys have quietly become one of the most distinctive bands coming out of Australia’s alternative scene. Every release feels unpredictable, and “Tear” continues that trend.

At its core, the song captures a feeling most of us know all too well: loving the place you call home while also wanting to escape it. It’s that strange push and pull between comfort and frustration, where you’re constantly questioning whether to stay or leave.

A huge part of why the song works is Lewis Griffin’s vocal performance. He has one of those voices that never feels forced. Every line carries emotion naturally, whether he’s delivering something vulnerable or completely letting loose. Few vocalists can make a song feel this personal without overdoing it.

Musically, “Tear” moves through those same emotional shifts. It’s driven by raw punk energy, but underneath the noise is a sense of longing that lingers long after the song finishes. It’s chaotic, heartfelt and another reminder of why Nancy and the Jam Fancys continue to be one of the most exciting bands to watch.

Lessons (feat. DOBBY) — DOBBY

DOBBY’s latest album Marshmallow feels less like a collection of songs and more like a reflection on the person he’s become. It’s a deeply personal record that explores identity, growth and everything that comes with it.

While there are plenty of standout moments across the album, “Lessons” feels like its emotional centrepiece.

The storytelling is some of the strongest we’ve heard this year. DOBBY moves effortlessly between his past and present, reflecting on the experiences that shaped him without ever sounding self-indulgent. Every verse feels intentional, adding another piece to the bigger picture.

What makes the track even stronger is how naturally it blends personal reflection with wider social commentary. It’s honest, thoughtful and shows an artist completely comfortable examining both his own journey and the world around him.

If you only listen to one song from Marshmallow, make it “Lessons.” But honestly, this is an album that deserves to be heard from start to finish.

Take Me to the Meeting — Mac The Knife

Sydney outfit Mac The Knife are quickly becoming one of the most exciting names in Australia’s punk scene. Their music feels loud, restless and built for packed rooms where nobody stands still.

There’s a rawness to their sound that feels authentic rather than manufactured, balancing chaos with just enough melody to keep you coming back.

What separates Mac The Knife from so many bands in this lane is that they take the foundations of punk and make them feel current, energetic and completely their own.

Gummy Bear — Le Shiv

Le Shiv have become one of those bands that consistently surprise us. Every release seems to explore a slightly different direction while still sounding unmistakably like Le Shiv. That willingness to evolve is what makes following them so rewarding.

“Gummy Bear” continues that run. Built around infectious melodies, layered harmonies and the band’s signature indie-rock energy, it’s another reminder that great songwriting doesn’t need to be overcomplicated.

There’s an effortless quality to the way Le Shiv write hooks. The songs feel loose and fun on the surface, but repeated listens always reveal little moments that keep pulling you back in.

If you’ve been following the band over the last year, “Gummy Bear” feels like another confident step forward. If you’re only discovering them now, it’s a very good place to start.

The Whole Lot — Rhiz & The Sugarplums

Not every great Australian release has to come from the indie or punk world, and Rhiz & The Sugarplums are proof of that.

The Melbourne five-piece bring together country, rockabilly and vintage rock ‘n’ roll influences, but they never sound like they’re simply recreating the past. Instead, they take those classic sounds and inject them with fresh energy, making them feel timeless.

“The Whole Lot” is full of personality. From the band’s tight musicianship to Rhiz’s commanding vocal performance, everything feels playful, confident and impossible not to move along to.

What makes Rhiz & The Sugarplums special is that they fully embrace who they are. In a music landscape where so many artists are chasing trends, they’re carving out a lane that feels entirely their own, and that’s exactly why they deserve your attention.

Every Friday, Sound Under spotlights the best alternative music beneath the surface.

Got a track we should hear?
Tag @soundunderau on Instagram or send us a DM.

There are some gigs you walk away from talking about the songs, others where you can’t stop thinking about a particular performance, and then there are nights that stay with you because they remind you why you fell in love with live music in the first place. The final Marthouse Records show at Brunswick Ballroom was one of those nights.

On paper, it was a farewell party. After ten years, Marthouse Records was wrapping up with one final celebration featuring artists who had been part of the label’s story. But by the time it was over, it felt like it had become something much bigger than simply saying goodbye to a record label.

If you’ve followed Dougal Shaw for any amount of time, you’ll know he has never been interested in taking the easy path.

Whether it’s speaking openly about the realities of streaming, standing up for causes he believes in, or making music that refuses to fit neatly into expectations, he’s built a reputation for saying exactly what he thinks. You don’t have to agree with every opinion he holds to recognise that consistency because, in an industry where artists are constantly encouraged to chase trends or soften their edges, Dougal has always seemed far more interested in staying true to himself.

Looking back over Marthouse’s ten-year run, that’s probably what stands out the most. It never felt like the label was trying to become something it wasn’t. There wasn’t a moment where it suddenly pivoted towards whatever sound happened to be popular or started making decisions purely because they made commercial sense.

Every release felt like it belonged there because somebody genuinely believed in it.

To me, that’s one of the greatest gifts an artist can give their audience. Not perfection or popularity, but honesty.

Music feels different when it’s made without constantly looking over its shoulder, wondering how it’ll perform on playlists or social media. Marthouse always gave me that feeling, and I think that’s why so many people connected with it.

I arrived at Brunswick Ballroom fairly early, before most of the crowd had filtered in, and one of the first things I saw was Dougal behind the merch table selling records himself. It was such a simple moment, but it summed up the night perfectly.

There wasn’t any separation between artist, label owner and audience. He was chatting with people, recommending records, signing records, catching up with familiar faces and doing what he’d probably been doing for the past decade: building a community around music he genuinely believed in.

The venue turned out to be the perfect place for a night like this. Brunswick Ballroom has a warmth to it that you don’t always find in larger venues. It feels intimate without feeling small, and as the room slowly filled throughout the evening, it became less like a concert and more like a community gathering.

Those are the kinds of spaces that remind you why live music matters. You’re not watching something from a distance. You’re part of it.

The support acts helped build that atmosphere from the very beginning. Tali and the Arms immediately caught my attention with one of the stronger opening sets I’ve seen since moving to Melbourne. Their guitarist, in particular, had a knack for lifting songs with little moments that never felt overplayed but always landed.

The It Thing followed with a set full of groove and energy. There were a few moments where I felt the heavy use of reverb made the vocals harder to follow than they needed to be, but the band’s chemistry was undeniable, and it’s easy to see why they’ve developed such a loyal following.

By the time Dr Sure’s Unusual Practice walked on stage, Brunswick Ballroom was packed, and what followed was exactly the kind of beautifully unpredictable performance that has made the band so beloved over the years.

Dougal has always had this wonderfully chaotic stage presence that somehow feels completely in control at the same time. One minute he’s on stage leading the band, the next he’s in the crowd singing alongside everyone else, before inviting people back onto the stage with him. It never felt like there was a line between performer and audience. Everyone in the room became part of the show.

One of the night’s most memorable moments came when Dougal invited his father onto the stage. The final Marthouse release is a mixtape built around recordings his father made decades ago with his own band in Brisbane, and seeing those two generations connected in that way felt like the perfect ending. Rather than closing the label with a grand statement, Marthouse ended by celebrating music that had simply meant something to the people who made it.

The night wasn’t over just yet, though. Vasco Era closed the evening, and their appearance carried its own quiet significance. Dougal has spoken before about them being one of the first bands he ever saw live in a proper venue, so having them play the final Marthouse show felt like one of those full-circle moments that only live music seems capable of creating.

Walking home afterwards, I realised I hadn’t really spent much time thinking about the fact that a record label had ended. What stayed with me instead was the feeling in the room.

The generosity between the bands, the audience and everyone involved reminded me that independent music has always been about far more than releases or streaming numbers. It’s about communities that form around shared ideas, artists who continue making work because they believe in it, and people who keep turning up simply because they care.

Maybe that’s why this farewell felt so significant. It wasn’t trying to convince anyone that Marthouse had changed Australian music forever, nor did it need to.

It simply celebrated ten years of doing things honestly, backing artists without compromise and creating a space where people could make the kind of music they genuinely wanted to make.

In a music industry that increasingly asks artists to optimise everything they do, that kind of honesty feels more valuable than ever. Marthouse Records may have reached the end of its journey, but if this farewell proved anything, it’s that the ideas it stood for are still very much alive. And perhaps that’s the best legacy any independent label could hope to leave behind.

Every Friday, Sound Under curates the best of Australian alternative music: fresh releases, overlooked gems, rising artists, and songs worth spending real time with.

Whether you’re driving down the coast, walking through the city late at night, or simply tired of playlists chosen by algorithms, these picks are built differently. This isn’t about hype cycles or whatever is trending for 48 hours. It’s about music with replay value, personality, and something real inside it.

No artist is too early. No sound is too left-field, and no scene is too small.

Here’s this week’s Picks:

Arizona — The Colliflowers

The Colliflowers are quietly becoming one of our favourite bands in Australia. Every release feels effortless, but never forgettable. They have a knack for writing songs that sound simple on the surface yet somehow stay with you long after they’ve finished.

“Arizona” is another reminder of that.

The song is built around bright guitars, infectious melodies and a chorus that feels made for long drives with the windows down, but underneath that easy-going energy sits something far more reflective. There’s a lingering feeling of being stuck, caught in routines that are both comforting and destructive.

What we love most about The Colliflowers is that they never overcomplicate their songwriting. They trust good melodies, honest lyrics and great chemistry to do the heavy lifting, and it works every time.

If you’re new to the band, start here, then go back and listen to “Reruns” and their EP Mirage Hotel. We have a feeling this won’t be the last time they appear in our Weekly Picks.

Heaven’s Open — Selve

Gold Coast outfit Selve recently released Breaking Outta Heaven, a companion EP to their album Breaking Into Heaven, recorded at the legendary Abbey Road Studios.

While the whole project is worth your time, “Heaven’s Open” immediately stood out as the heart of the release.

The song opens gently before gradually expanding into something huge. Psychedelic textures, soaring melodies and an anthemic chorus come together to create a track that feels both intimate and cinematic at the same time.

The repeated refrain:

“Heaven’s open and true love is alive.”

becomes more powerful with every listen. Rather than feeling overly sentimental, it lands with genuine optimism, giving the song a warmth that’s difficult to fake.

As an opening track, it couldn’t set the tone any better. It welcomes you into the world of the EP while leaving you wanting to hear where it goes next.

Raid — Sex Mask

There aren’t many bands making post-punk as unpredictable as Sex Mask right now.

The track “Raid” is restless from start to finish. Driving rhythms, jagged guitars and an underlying sense of tension keep everything feeling slightly unhinged without ever falling apart. It’s noisy, hypnotic and constantly feels like it’s about to spill over the edge.

What impresses us most is how naturally the chaos comes together. Every element serves the atmosphere the band are creating.

With a new EP on the way and an enormous UK and European tour ahead, Sex Mask feel like a band entering a new chapter. If “Raid” is any indication, it’s going to be a very exciting one.

Walkie Talkie — Baby Smith

Sometimes the best bands come together completely by chance.

Baby Smith was born after two Australians, Ray Sonder and Saxon Gable, found themselves living in Berlin at the same time. Thankfully they did, because the project they’ve created together feels refreshingly honest from the very first listen.

“Walkie Talkie,” taken from their debut album Lately, Love Is Dead, explores insecurity inside a relationship. It’s about questioning everything, overthinking every interaction and desperately wanting reassurance from someone you care about.

The repeated line:

“You still love me right?”

becomes almost hypnotic as the song unfolds. Every repetition feels a little more desperate than the last, capturing the kind of anxiety that can quietly consume a relationship.

Musically, the band balance that emotional weight with layered harmonies, memorable hooks and polished indie rock production that never loses its warmth.

We only discovered Baby Smith recently, but we’re very glad we did. If you enjoy melody-driven alternative rock with genuine emotional depth, they’re absolutely worth adding to your rotation.

Every Friday, Sound Under spotlights the best alternative music beneath the surface.

Got a track we should hear?
Tag @soundunderau on Instagram or send us a DM.

Australian rock music is often represented by a handful of familiar names.

AC/DC. INXS. Midnight Oil. Powderfinger. Tame Impala.

And while those artists absolutely deserve their place in the conversation, they only tell part of the story.

The most interesting parts of Australian music have often existed slightly beneath the surface. In sweaty pub venues, underground scenes, community halls, independent labels, and bands that never quite became household names despite leaving fingerprints all over the artists that followed.

Some of these songs became cult classics. Others quietly shaped entire scenes. A few still feel just as vital today as the day they were released.

More importantly, every song on this list captures something that makes Australian music unique. A sense of place, a willingness to take risks, and an ability to sound deeply tied to a particular corner of the world while still speaking to people far beyond it.

These are not necessarily the biggest Australian rock songs ever recorded. They’re the songs that help explain why Australian music continues to feel different.

1. The Saints – “(I’m) Stranded” (1976)

If you spend enough time digging through Australian music history, you eventually end up at “(I’m) Stranded.”

Long before punk exploded into a global movement, Brisbane band The Saints were already making music that felt dangerous, urgent, and slightly out of control. The kind of song that sounds like it’s kicking the door open rather than politely asking to be let in.

What makes “(I’m) Stranded” so remarkable is that it still carries that energy today. Nearly fifty years later, it doesn’t feel like a historical artefact. It still sounds fresh, restless, and completely alive.

2. Radio Birdman – “Aloha Steve and Danno” (1977)

Radio Birdman are one of those bands whose influence becomes impossible to ignore once you start following the threads of Australian rock history.

“Aloha Steve and Danno” captures everything that made them special. Sharp guitars, relentless momentum, and a complete refusal to follow convention.

The band never achieved mainstream success on the scale of some of their contemporaries, but their influence can still be heard across Australian punk, garage rock, and alternative music today.

3. The Triffids – “Wide Open Road” (1986)

There are certain songs that seem impossible to separate from the place they came from, and “Wide Open Road” feels like one of them.

Written by David McComb, the track captures a feeling that will probably be familiar to anyone who has spent time travelling through Australia. The distances feel endless, the horizon never seems to stop moving, and somehow the landscape manages to feel both beautiful and lonely at the same time.

The first time you hear it, it feels less like a song and more like a journey unfolding in slow motion.

4. Yothu Yindi – “Treaty” (1991)

More than three decades after its release, “Treaty” still sounds unlike almost anything else in Australian music.

Released in 1991, the song emerged from frustration. Despite promises from the Australian government regarding a treaty with Indigenous Australians, little progress had been made. Rather than delivering a speech, Yothu Yindi turned that frustration into music.

Blending Yolngu language, traditional Indigenous music, rock, and contemporary production, the result felt both deeply rooted in culture and completely forward-looking at the same time.

What makes the song so important is that it manages to be both deeply specific and universally relevant. It speaks to questions of identity, recognition, and belonging while remaining unmistakably Australian.

5. You Am I – “Berlin Chair” (1993)

Australian alternative rock reached a new level during the 1990s, and few songs represent that era better than “Berlin Chair.”

Built around one of the most memorable guitar hooks in Australian music, the song helped cement You Am I as one of the country’s defining rock bands.

What makes it endure is the balance. Vulnerability without self-pity. Big melodies without losing edge. Confidence without excess.

There is a reason people still bring this song up whenever conversations turn to the greatest Australian guitar records.

6. Silverchair – “Israel’s Son” (1995)

When people talk about Silverchair, “Tomorrow” usually dominates the conversation. Spend enough time around Australian rock fans though, and eventually somebody will bring up “Israel’s Son.”

Heavy, aggressive, and astonishingly confident for a band whose members were still teenagers, the song showed there was far more to Silverchair than being labelled Australia’s answer to grunge.

It remains one of the most explosive moments in Australian rock history and a reminder of just how extraordinary the band’s early years really were.

7. The Vines – “Get Free” (2002)

In the early 2000s, it felt like The Vines were everywhere.

“Get Free” arrived during a period when Australian rock suddenly found itself back in the global conversation. Chaotic, explosive, and completely unconcerned with being polished, the song became one of the defining tracks of the garage-rock revival.

More than two decades later, it still feels unpredictable. Like it could fall apart at any moment, yet somehow never does.

8. Sticky Fingers – “Australia Street” (2013)

If you were introduced to Australian alternative music during the 2010s, there is a good chance “Australia Street” was part of that journey.

The song arrived during a period when Australian indie and alternative music was finding a new generation of listeners, and somehow managed to feel instantly familiar while sounding unlike much else around it.

Blending indie rock, reggae, and laid-back storytelling, Sticky Fingers created something that felt distinctly Australian without relying on just clichés or nostalgia.

More than a decade later, it remains one of those songs that instantly transports people back to a particular moment in their lives.

9. Dr Sure’s Unusual Practice – “No Pigs” (2025)

The first time we heard “No Pigs,” we weren’t entirely sure whether to laugh, feel uncomfortable, or immediately start another replay.

Dr Sure’s Unusual Practice have always had a talent for wrapping serious ideas inside songs that feel playful on the surface, and this might be one of the sharpest examples of that approach.

Beneath the driving energy and absurd imagery sits a song about power, surveillance, authority, and the systems that shape everyday life. What makes the track particularly interesting is that it never settles for a simple protest anthem. Instead, it feels paranoid, satirical, and deliberately exaggerated.

Pigs appear everywhere throughout the song: in basements, ceilings, webcams, and parliament. The image becomes less about individuals and more about the feeling of living inside structures that constantly watch, control, and influence the world around us.

That tension has always existed within Australian music. From artists questioning authority to musicians exploring inequality and institutional power, some of the country’s most compelling songs have emerged from asking uncomfortable questions.

10. Drifting Clouds – “Rarrandharr” (2026)

One of the easiest mistakes people make when talking about Australian music is assuming the story begins and ends in the major cities.

“Rarrandharr” is a reminder that some of the country’s most fascinating music is being created far from Sydney, Melbourne, and Brisbane.

The first time we heard the song, it felt like the soundtrack to a character wandering through a forgotten desert town somewhere between a Clint Eastwood film and a 1970s disco fever dream.

Drifting Clouds, who proudly describe themselves as “the most chill band in Arnhem Land,” bring something completely different to Australian music. There is a warmth, looseness, and sense of place running throughout “Rarrandharr” that makes it feel unlike almost anything else we have heard recently.

Written by Terry Guyula while touring in Melbourne, thousands of kilometres away from home, the song reflects on the end of Rarrandharr, the hot dry season recognised within Yolngu culture. Yet beneath the seasonal imagery sits something deeper: distance, memory, family, and time.

Final Thoughts

One of the things we love most about Australian music is how difficult it is to pin down.

The songs on this list sound nothing alike. A punk classic from Brisbane, an Indigenous anthem, a garage-rock explosion, a protest song, and a track from Arnhem Land about changing seasons should not sit comfortably beside one another.

Yet somehow they do.

That diversity is part of what makes Australian music so fascinating. Every generation seems to find its own way of telling Australian stories, whether through loud guitars, sharp social commentary, or sounds that challenge expectations entirely.

These ten songs are only a small part of that story, but they are a good place to start if you want to understand why Australian music continues to feel different.

Every Friday, Sound Under curates the best of Australian alternative music: fresh releases, overlooked gems, rising artists, and songs worth spending real time with.

Whether you’re driving down the coast, walking through the city late at night, or simply tired of playlists chosen by algorithms, these picks are built differently. This isn’t about hype cycles or whatever is trending for 48 hours. It’s about music with replay value, personality, and something real inside it.

No artist is too early. No sound is too left-field, and no scene is too small.

Here’s this week’s Picks:

Chapter One — Even Hannah

There is something refreshing about hearing a band sound genuinely excited about what comes next. For Even Hannah, “Chapter One” feels exactly like that moment.

The Australian indie-rock outfit have been steadily building momentum over the last few years through energetic performances, big guitar hooks, and the kind of songwriting that feels built for crowded rooms. While many bands spend years searching for an identity, Even Hannah increasingly sound like a group growing more confident with every release.

“Chapter One” arrives as the beginning of a new wave of music for the band, and there is a sense of ambition running through everything surrounding the release. The band themselves joked about countless mix revisions and even taking out a bank loan to get the song across the finish line, but beneath the humour sits something important: this is a track they clearly believe in.

What we love most about “Chapter One” is the feeling behind it. Every band has a first chapter, a turning point, or a moment where things begin to click into place. Whether this becomes that moment for Even Hannah remains to be seen, but it certainly sounds like the start of something worth paying attention to.

Lunch Money — Radio Free Alice

Few bands in Australia are building momentum quite like Radio Free Alice right now, and “Lunch Money” shows exactly why.

The Melbourne post-punk outfit have built their reputation on sharp songwriting, restless energy, and an ability to make emotionally complex stories feel immediate. While many songs about leaving home focus on the person chasing something bigger, “Lunch Money” flips that perspective.

Instead, the song focuses on the person left behind.

There is something deeply relatable about watching somebody move on while you remain in the same place, wondering whether they escaped something you never quite managed to leave yourself.

What makes “Lunch Money” so effective is that Radio Free Alice never overplay their hand. The song moves with confidence, balancing emotional weight with the band’s trademark sense of urgency. It feels like another step forward for a band that continues to establish themselves as one of the most exciting names in Australian guitar music.

Got Time — Rum Jungle

Rum Jungle have built a reputation for writing the kind of indie-rock songs that sound effortless on the surface while quietly carrying something more thoughtful underneath. “Got Time” is a perfect example of that balance.

From the first listen, the track feels bright, warm, and endlessly replayable. The guitars bounce along with the kind of laid-back confidence that has become a hallmark of the band, making it easy to simply enjoy the ride.

Throughout the track, Rum Jungle repeatedly return to the idea that time is both our greatest asset and the one thing we can never get back. Lines about desire, ambition, relationships, and the relentless passing of days create a subtle tension between wanting everything and recognising that life only gives us so much room to chase it.

What we love most about “Got Time” is that it never becomes preachy. Instead, the band package those reflections inside one of the most infectious indie-rock tracks we have heard this month. It feels like the soundtrack to a summer afternoon, while quietly reminding you not to waste it.

Trackstar — The Halves

The Halves have spent the last few years quietly carving out a space for themselves within Australia’s alternative scene, blending post-punk intensity with the melodic instincts of indie rock.

Originating in Brisbane before establishing themselves in Melbourne, the band thrive in the space between tension and release.

“Trackstar” continues that tradition. The guitars feel urgent, the rhythms constantly push forward, and there is a restless energy running throughout the track.

More than anything though, “Trackstar” is a reminder of why guitar music remains so compelling when it is done well. Sharp songwriting, emotional weight, and a band completely committed to the feeling of the song. Sometimes that is all you need.

Hurracane — DMA’S

Few bands understand the relationship between melody and melancholy quite like DMA’S. Over the years they have built a catalogue filled with songs that feel massive enough for festival crowds while still carrying deeply personal emotions at their core. “Hurracane” continues that tradition beautifully.

At first glance, the song feels straightforward. But underneath that anthemic exterior is a song about memory, loss, and the lingering impact certain people leave behind long after they have gone.

The repeated image of somebody crashing through your mind “like a hurricane” perfectly captures the feeling of a memory that refuses to stay buried. No matter how much time passes, some people continue to leave their mark on us, resurfacing unexpectedly and changing the emotional weather all over again.

What makes the track particularly effective is that DMA’S take feelings of heartbreak, longing, and reflection and transform them into something uplifting rather than devastating. The result is a song that feels both nostalgic and hopeful at the same time.

Every Friday, Sound Under spotlights the best alternative music beneath the surface.

Got a track we should hear?
Tag @soundunderau on Instagram or send us a DM.

Every Friday, Sound Under curates the best of Australian alternative music: fresh releases, overlooked gems, rising artists, and songs worth spending real time with.

Whether you’re driving down the coast, walking through the city late at night, or simply tired of playlists chosen by algorithms, these picks are built differently. This isn’t about hype cycles or whatever is trending for 48 hours. It’s about music with replay value, personality, and something real inside it.

No artist is too early. No sound is too left-field, and no scene is too small.

Here’s this week’s Picks:

Are You Getting High — The Rubens

There is a good chance this is the grooviest song from this week’s picks. From the moment the rhythm kicks in, “Are You Getting High” feels warm, effortless, and strangely uplifting.

It is the kind of track that slides perfectly into a long walk, a road trip, or a sunny afternoon playlist. In fact, it has been on repeat for us lately during walks, and if you are not paying close attention to the lyrics, you could easily mistake it for a feel-good indie-rock anthem.

That is what makes the song so interesting.

Beneath the groove, the catchy hooks, and the laid-back energy sits a song about heartbreak, acceptance, and the uncomfortable reality of watching somebody move on before you have fully figured out how to do the same. Rather than approaching that feeling through sadness or bitterness, The Rubens wrap it inside one of the most infectious compositions they have released in recent memory.

The contrast works beautifully. The music feels light on its feet, but emotionally there is a lingering sense of uncertainty running throughout the track.

The Rubens have described the song as being about watching an ex move on and finding yourself caught somewhere between acceptance and heartbreak. You want to be happy for them, and maybe part of you is, but another part is still wrestling with the reality that they are no longer yours. That emotional tension sits at the heart of the song.

What we love most though is how easy The Rubens make all of this feel. “Are You Getting High” is a heartbreaker disguised as a groove-filled indie-rock track, and that tension between the music and the message is exactly why it works so well.

Too Close To The Sun — Foxblood

Foxblood are one of those bands that make you wonder how they managed to stay off your radar for so long. The Melbourne outfit have been active since 2016, releasing their debut project that same year, but after spending time with their latest album Patchwork & Standby, it becomes obvious that this is a band that have spent years refining their craft.

What immediately stands out about Foxblood is their ability to blend multiple genres and influences without ever sounding confused about who they are.

Tracks like “Occam’s Razor,” “Limerence,” and “Left For The Crows” have been on heavy rotation for us, but “Too Close To The Sun” might be one of the album’s most emotionally compelling moments.

The song feels centred around disillusionment, self-destruction, and the painful process of realising that somebody — or something — was never quite what you believed it to be.

The recurring reference to Icarus is particularly powerful. In Greek mythology, Icarus flew too close to the sun despite warnings not to, ultimately causing his downfall. Here, Foxblood use that imagery to explore the consequences of ignoring red flags, placing faith in the wrong people, and repeatedly walking into situations that you know might end badly.

Throughout the song, there is a constant tension between awareness and repetition. Lines like “Could she fool me a third time?” suggest somebody fully aware of the cycle they are trapped in, yet still unable to completely break free from it. The repeated question becomes less about the other person and more about the narrator confronting their own willingness to keep returning.

If Patchwork & Standby is your introduction to Foxblood like it was ours, “Too Close To The Sun” is a strong reminder that this is a band worth diving deeper into.

Melodrama — Joe Mungovan

Joe Mungovan has quietly built a reputation as one of Australia’s most uplifting singer-songwriters, blending folk, indie-pop, and feel-good songwriting into music that feels both thoughtful and effortlessly approachable. His songs often carry a sense of optimism without feeling naïve, and “Melodrama” might be one of the best examples of that balance.

In the current environment the world finds itself in, “Melodrama” feels like exactly the kind of song we need more of.

This has been our morning song lately. There is something about the warmth of the melody, the sense of movement, and the overall energy of the track that simply makes you feel grateful to wake up and experience another day.

What makes the song particularly powerful is how it contrasts life’s chaos with a surprisingly simple message. Throughout the track, Mungovan acknowledges the endless cycles we all seem trapped inside — relationships, mistakes, heartbreak, uncertainty, and the feeling of having to start over again and again. Yet instead of becoming cynical, the song chooses optimism.

Depending on your perspective, it can be read as frustration, resilience, acceptance, or all three at once. Life keeps throwing challenges at us, relationships remain complicated, and people continue making mistakes. Yet somehow we keep getting up every morning and doing it all over again.

Rarrandharr — Drifting Clouds

There are some songs that immediately paint a picture in your head before you’ve seen a music video, read the lyrics, or even looked up the band. “Rarrandharr” did exactly that for us. The first time we heard it, it felt like the soundtrack to a character wandering through a forgotten desert town somewhere between a Clint Eastwood film and a 1970s disco fever dream — dressed in the loudest outfit imaginable, dancing their way towards absolutely nowhere in particular.

More importantly though, this song is the perfect antidote to anyone who claims Australian music all sounds the same.

Drifting Clouds, who proudly describe themselves as “the most chill band in Arnhem Land,” bring something completely different to this week’s picks. There is a warmth, looseness, and sense of place running throughout “Rarrandharr” that makes it feel unlike anything else we’ve heard recently.

What makes the song particularly beautiful is the story behind it. While the Western world often talks about four seasons, Yolngu culture recognises six distinct seasons, each carrying its own environmental, cultural, and spiritual significance. Rarrandharr marks the hot, dry season, and this song reflects on its ending as the land prepares to move into a colder, wetter period.

Yet beneath the seasonal imagery sits something much deeper.

Written by Terry Guyula while touring in Melbourne, thousands of kilometres away from home, the song becomes a meditation on distance, memory, family, and the natural cycles that connect them all. The changing season mirrors the passing of time itself, while references to grandparents, parents, children, and loved ones who have passed away give the song an emotional weight that quietly unfolds beneath its joyful surface.

What we love most about “Rarrandharr” is that despite those themes, the song never feels heavy. Quite the opposite. There is an infectious sense of celebration running through it. The rhythms are playful, the energy is uplifting, and the whole thing feels like it exists to bring people together rather than pull them apart.

Sometimes music teaches you something new about the world. Sometimes it simply makes you smile. “Rarrandharr” somehow manages to do both at the same time.

Cold Shoulder — Liv Cartledge

Sometimes a song does not need huge production, complex arrangements, or grand concepts to leave an impression. Sometimes all it takes is a great voice, strong songwriting, and somebody who knows exactly how to deliver a line. “Cold Shoulder” is one of those songs.

This is the first time we have come across Liv Cartledge, and based on this track alone, we will definitely be exploring more of her catalogue.

What immediately stands out is her vocal performance. There is a natural confidence and emotional clarity to the way she sings that makes every line feel believable.

Thematically, “Cold Shoulder” feels like a song about reclaiming your sense of self after spending too long giving your energy to somebody who never quite deserved it. Throughout the track there is a lingering feeling of disappointment, but also a growing sense of independence. Rather than dwelling on heartbreak, Liv seems more interested in the moment where you finally realise somebody’s hold over you is beginning to fade.

For us, “Cold Shoulder” was one of those tracks that immediately made us curious about the artist behind it. And honestly, that might be the highest compliment we can give a song.

Every Friday, Sound Under spotlights the best alternative music beneath the surface.

Got a track we should hear?
Tag @soundunderau on Instagram or send us a DM.

Every Friday, Sound Under curates the best of Australian alternative music: fresh releases, overlooked gems, rising artists, and songs worth spending real time with.

Whether you’re driving down the coast, walking through the city late at night, or simply tired of playlists chosen by algorithms, these picks are built differently. This isn’t about hype cycles or whatever is trending for 48 hours. It’s about music with replay value, personality, and something real inside it.

No artist is too early. No sound is too left-field, and no scene is too small.

Here’s this week’s Picks:

Cyanide — Roxferry

Ever since forming in 2018, brothers Clay and Jake Teiffel have been building Roxferry into one of the most exciting garage-rock bands in Australia. Time and time again, they have delivered the kind of music that reminds you why loud guitars, big riffs, and raw energy never go out of style. “Cyanide” is another perfect example of that.

From the moment the guitars kick in, the track feels built for people who still believe rock music should make you want to turn the volume all the way up. The riffs are sharp, driving, and packed with the kind of urgency that keeps the song constantly moving forward, while the rhythm section gives everything a sense of momentum that feels impossible to ignore.

Lyrically, “Cyanide” seems to revolve around feelings of emotional exhaustion, disillusionment, and slowly fading under the weight of somebody else’s actions or expectations.

What we love most about Roxferry is their ability to make classic rock influences feel alive. There are traces of garage rock, hard rock, and old-school rock and roll throughout “Cyanide,” but the band never feel trapped by those influences.

If you are the kind of person who still gets excited by massive guitar riffs, driving rock choruses, and songs that demand to be played loud on a long drive, “Cyanide” will probably be right up your alley.

Guns and Little Girls — Tori Forsyth

This is not the first time Tori Forsyth has appeared in our Weekly Picks. The last time we featured her was for “You and Me,” a song that showcased a much softer and more intimate side of her songwriting. “Guns and Little Girls” feels like it comes from an entirely different emotional universe.

Where “You and Me” felt vulnerable and reflective, “Guns and Little Girls” arrives with its teeth bared.

Built around themes of resilience, self-preservation, and navigating a world that often feels hostile, the song carries an underlying tension that never fully lets up. From the opening lines, Forsyth sounds like somebody who has been through the fire before and has no intention of backing down now.

What makes the track particularly compelling is the contrast between the imagery and the message underneath it. References to rifles, missiles, war cries, and survival are less about conflict itself and more about endurance. The repeated refrain of “Same game, more players, new aim” captures the feeling of constantly facing new challenges while realising the battle itself never truly changes.

What we admire most about Tori Forsyth is her ability to move between completely different emotional worlds without losing her identity as a songwriter. “Guns and Little Girls” proves once again that she is one of Australia’s most compelling storytellers, capable of turning personal struggle into something powerful, defiant, and impossible to ignore.

Franken$tein — Vlads

We have spoken about Vlads before and why they feel like one of the most exciting bands currently emerging from Australia’s underground scene. What has always stood out about them is their willingness to push beyond expectations rather than settle into a comfortable formula. “Franken$tein” might be the clearest example of that yet.

Honestly, this is not a song we were expecting from them.

Compared to some of their previous work, “Franken$tein” feels like a dramatic shift both sonically and thematically. The track leans heavily into a gritty, aggressive, and fast-paced punk-infused indie-rock sound that immediately feels more chaotic and confrontational.

What makes the track particularly interesting is how perfectly it aligns with the band’s live identity. Vlads have often described their performances as intense, unpredictable, and completely unhinged in the best possible way, and “Franken$tein” feels like the recorded version of that energy.

There is also something fitting about the title itself. Like its namesake creation, the track feels stitched together from different impulses, emotions, and bursts of energy.

More than anything though, this track is a reminder of why we keep coming back to Vlads. Just when you think you understand what kind of band they are, they throw a curveball that completely changes the conversation.

Time for the Needy — egoism

If there is one song from this week’s picks that has been stuck in our heads the most, it is probably “Time for the Needy.” From the opening moments, the track is powered by an incredibly addictive guitar hook that loops its way through the song and refuses to leave your brain long after it finishes.

Sonically, this is easily one of the most upbeat and instantly catchy tracks in this week’s selection.

EGOISM have always had a knack for blending indie-pop, dream-pop, and alternative influences into something effortlessly replayable, and “Time for the Needy” feels like another masterclass in that approach. Everything feels light on its feet, melodic, and deceptively easy-going.

What makes the song interesting though is the tension between its bright exterior and the dynamics unfolding within the lyrics. Beneath the shimmering guitars and infectious hooks is a story built around emotional distance, attraction, and the blurry line between genuine connection and convenience. Throughout the song, there is a constant push and pull between wanting closeness and keeping people at arm’s length.

What we love most though is how effortlessly EGOISM make all of this feel. The songwriting never feels heavy-handed, the melodies never stop moving, and that endlessly replayable riff ties everything together beautifully.

Space Song — Maia Toakley

There are some artists who immediately grab your attention through volume, intensity, or spectacle. Maia Toakley does the exact opposite.

What makes “Space Song” so captivating is the way she draws you in through pure presence. From the moment she starts singing, there is something magnetic about her voice. Every word feels intentional, and there is a quiet intimacy to her delivery that makes you want to lean in and listen closely.

At its core, “Space Song” feels like a reflection on perspective, self-belief, and the desire to step outside your own fears. The recurring image of looking down from space becomes a powerful metaphor throughout the track.

Lines like “What would I do to see it all from space? I think that I’d feel less afraid” perfectly capture that feeling. There is a vulnerability running through the song, but it is paired with a growing sense of confidence and self-discovery.

The writing allows uncertainty and hope to exist side by side. Whether she is tracing the lines on her skin, holding onto a distant dream, or watching the stars tessellate above her, there is a sense that she is slowly learning to trust herself.

More than anything though, “Space Song” is a song that gently reminds us that sometimes the perspective we are searching for has been inside us all along.

Every Friday, Sound Under spotlights the best alternative music beneath the surface.

Got a track we should hear?
Tag @soundunderau on Instagram or send us a DM.

Every Friday, Sound Under curates the best of Australian alternative music: fresh releases, overlooked gems, rising artists, and songs worth spending real time with.

Whether you’re driving down the coast, walking through the city late at night, or simply tired of playlists chosen by algorithms, these picks are built differently. This isn’t about hype cycles or whatever is trending for 48 hours. It’s about music with replay value, personality, and something real inside it.

No artist is too early. No sound is too left-field, and no scene is too small.

Here’s this week’s Picks:

Phins Up — Phil and The Blanks

Phil and The Blanks feel like the kind of band that exist purely because making serious music all the time would be incredibly boring. Even their own band description paints them as “a bunch of chancers chasing a pointless dream,” which honestly tells you almost everything you need to know about the energy they bring.

“PHINS UP” might be one of the funniest and most strangely charming songs we have heard in a while. Built around a modern love story and an oddly sincere tribute to the Redcliffe Dolphins rugby league team, the track feels like it should not work at all yet somehow completely does.

The hook especially carries this glossy early-2000s reggae-pop energy that weirdly recalls Mysterious Girl, while the playful storytelling and deliberately unserious tone bring back memories of Colt 45 era comedy rap and pub storytelling.

The funniest part is that the band themselves describe it as “reggae has probably never sounded so white,” and honestly, that self-awareness is exactly what makes the song work. Underneath all the silliness is a band that clearly understands hooks, personality, and how to make a track feel genuinely fun rather than forced.

There is also something very Australian about “PHINS UP.” The references to local rugby culture, the slightly awkward charm, the loose storytelling, the feeling that the entire song could soundtrack either a beach party or a drunken pub singalong after a Dolphins game — it all feels incredibly specific in the best way possible.

Fun 4 You — Charli Lucas

This is one of our favourite songs from this week’s picks. Charli Lucas feels like the kind of pop artist who understands that great songwriting is not always about saying the most complex thing possible, but about capturing emotions in a way that feels painfully familiar.

Between the storytelling, the composition, and the subtle emotional tension running underneath the production, “Fun 4 You” ends up feeling far heavier than its bright indie-pop exterior initially suggests.

Sonically, the song feels upbeat, catchy, and almost carefree at times, but underneath that sits the heavy ache of sudden heartbreak and emotional confusion. The entire track feels built around that strange phase after a breakup where people convince themselves they are moving on while quietly falling apart underneath it all.

Most importantly though, the song just feels incredibly well constructed. Charli Lucas clearly understands how to build emotional tension within pop songwriting without sacrificing replay value, and that balance is exactly what makes “Fun 4 You” so effective.

Trocadero — Ricky Neil Jr.

“TROCADERO” feels like the kind of indie-pop song that completely pulls you in through its energy before you even realise how emotionally heavy it actually is.

Sonically, the track leans heavily into dance-pop and disco-inspired textures, filled with movement, groove, and this glossy nightlife atmosphere that makes it incredibly easy to get lost inside. It is the kind of song that almost tricks you into dancing through emotional emptiness.

What makes the track so compelling though is the tension sitting underneath all that brightness.

Ricky Neil Jr. described the song as being about “how badly I want new stuff but how lonely I get when I realise the things that make me feel safe and loved aren’t there,” and that emotional contradiction becomes the entire heart of the track.

The excitement of wanting more, buying more, chasing comfort through material things — only to suddenly realise none of it actually fills the emotional space you were trying to escape from.

The result is a track that feels equally suited for a late-night dancefloor or a lonely walk home afterwards, which is probably exactly why it works so well.

Those Shoes You March In — Gigi.

We recently spoke about Public Figures and how their debut EP Figure It Out! felt like a band arriving with far more confidence and identity than most acts usually do. There was already a strong sense of tension, personality, and emotional instinct running through those songs, particularly in the way they balanced sharp punk energy with vulnerability.

What makes “Those Shoes You March In” so interesting then is hearing a completely different side of Gigi Argiro outside of that band environment.

While Public Figures thrive on urgency and confrontation, this debut solo release feels far more introspective and emotionally exposed. Rooted heavily in the 90s alternative rock and guitar-driven songwriting that shaped them growing up, the track carries a warmth and emotional openness that feels deeply personal.

Lyrically and emotionally, “Those Shoes You March In” feels centred around self-discovery, relationships, and the uncomfortable process of growing into yourself.

“Those Shoes You March In” feels like the beginning of an artist allowing people to see a side of themselves that perhaps did not fully fit within the framework of their other projects — and that honesty is exactly what makes the track resonate.

Invisible Man — The Beefs

There is something very distinctly Australian about the core idea behind “Invisible Man.” The song revolves around a prawn fisherman lurking around in the dark when he is not working, but underneath that specific imagery is a much broader reflection on people who live outside normal routines — nightshift workers, FIFO workers, and the kind of people who quietly keep things moving while the rest of the world sleeps.

What makes the track hit so well though is that The Beefs channel it through this classic rock energy that feels rugged, loose, and incredibly alive. The guitars throughout the track are fantastic, carrying that warm, driving sound that instantly makes you want to turn the volume up louder than you probably should.

There is also something cinematic about “Invisible Man.” The song genuinely feels like the soundtrack to somebody drifting through empty streets, truck stops, pubs, highways, and late-night worksites while everybody else is asleep.

More than anything though, this is just one of those songs built for long drives. Windows down, music loud, somewhere between exhaustion and freedom. The Beefs understand exactly how to capture that feeling, and that is what makes “Invisible Man” such an enjoyable listen.

Every Friday, Sound Under spotlights the best alternative music beneath the surface.

Got a track we should hear?
Tag @soundunderau on Instagram or send us a DM.

A lot of artists today jump from one band wagon to another depending on what is hot, just to seem like they care about things and get more followers along the way.

In a day and age where being seen and heard everywhere is what most musicians and bands are looking to get, there we have the Australian band Dr Sure’s Unusual Practice, the baby of frontman Dougal Shaw, who is not only standing up for what he believes in, but has shown that through actions again and again since the inception of the band in 2019.

Not too long ago in February 2026, all of their music was taken down from streaming platforms.

At a time where most artists are trying to get onto as many playlists as possible and constantly stay visible online, the move felt almost bizarre.

But the reasoning behind it was surprisingly simple. Shaw spoke about wanting to be more intentional with where the band’s music exists and what systems it supports. He talked about growing uncomfortable participating in platforms that reduce art into endlessly available content while artists themselves are expected to constantly feed algorithms just to survive.

Importantly, the decision was not framed as some dramatic moral statement. There was no “we are better than everyone else” energy around it. If anything, it felt more like somebody openly questioning the systems musicians have slowly accepted as normal over the last decade.

And the more you think about it, the harder it becomes to ignore how strange music culture has started to feel recently.

The music itself feels like a reaction to modern life

Part of what makes Dr Sure’s Unusual Practice so interesting in the middle of this whole conversation is that their music already sounds like it is reacting to the exact world that created AI music culture in the first place.

Their records are chaotic, funny, anxious, political and weirdly emotional all at once. Across their discography, the band jumps between post-punk, synth punk, art rock and new wave while constantly pulling apart modern Australian life in the process.

A lot of the band’s writing revolves around modern alienation, housing, capitalism, burnout, identity and the weird disconnect that comes from existing online all the time. There is frustration running through the music, but there is also humour and warmth sitting underneath it.

It never sounds like the band is trying to position themselves above everybody else or pretend they have everything figured out. If anything, the songs feel like people trying to make sense of the mess in real time.

That messiness is exactly what feels important now.

Because the more AI-generated music starts appearing online, the more noticeable it becomes when music actually sounds lived-in. AI can already imitate genres, structures and aesthetics pretty convincingly, but it still struggles to recreate the feeling of actual people bouncing off each other creatively. The strange chemistry that happens inside bands. The moments that probably should not work but somehow become the most memorable parts of a record.

Bands like Dr Sure’s Unusual Practice sound deeply personal because their music is full of tension, contradictions and unpredictability. Nothing about it feels designed purely for algorithms or passive listening.

Which is probably why their decision to pull their music from streaming platforms felt so connected to the art itself. The band has always sounded like they were questioning the systems surrounding modern life. Eventually that questioning moved beyond the lyrics and into real actions too.

Music discovery does not feel the same anymore

There was a time where finding a new band genuinely felt exciting. You would hear about artists through friends, zines, forums, community radio stations, opening acts at tiny gigs, or some badly recorded live video uploaded online years ago. Music discovery felt messy and personal.

People also listened differently, Albums were something you sat with properly. You learned tracklists, lyrics, artwork, weird transitions between songs, hidden details buried deep inside records. Sometimes albums took weeks or months to fully click, but that was part of the experience.

Now music often feels like it is designed to pass by as quickly as possible.

Streaming completely changed listening habits. Songs became shorter, hooks arrived quicker, and artists suddenly had to compete for attention every second. Instead of disappearing for two or three years to make a concept album, musicians are now expected to constantly release content just to remain visible.

Even the way people talk about music has changed, everything revolves around numbers now. Monthly listeners, streams, engagement, algorithm placement. The conversation around art increasingly feels tied to performance metrics rather than actual connection.

Music has become more accessible than ever before, yet somehow a lot of it feels less meaningful.

Album culture has not disappeared completely, but it definitely feels weaker than it once did. Fewer people seem to sit with records long enough to build relationships with them. Discovery feels less organic now, like music is being delivered to people rather than stumbled upon.

Then AI entered the conversation and pushed all of this even further.

But acting like AI is purely evil misses the point too

At the same time, reducing AI to some evil force destroying creativity feels far too simplistic. Music history is full of moments where new technology scared people. Synthesisers were criticised, Sampling was dismissed as stealing. Digital recording was blamed for ruining warmth and authenticity, but eventually artists found ways to use those tools creatively.

AI can absolutely become part of that evolution if it is used carefully.

For independent musicians especially, AI tools can remove barriers that previously made creating art far more difficult. Artists can use it to organise ideas, restore recordings, experiment with arrangements, create visuals, or speed up technical processes that would otherwise require money and resources they simply do not have.

The problem is not the technology itself, it is the culture surrounding it and more importantly how people and corporations are using it.

Right now most platforms reward speed, volume, and visibility over depth. AI is often being used to flood the internet with more disposable content rather than helping artists create more meaningful work. Instead of supporting creativity, it risks flattening music even further into background noise.

So where does music go from here?

That is what makes Dr Sure’s Unusual Practice removing their music from streaming platforms feel bigger than just one band making a personal choice.

Whether intentionally or not, it pushes back against this growing idea that music should always be instantly available, endlessly consumable, and constantly optimised for algorithms.

Maybe the answer is not rejecting technology entirely because realistically that is never going to happen. AI is here now and it will inevitably become part of music culture moving forward. But there is still a huge difference between using technology as a creative tool and allowing it to completely replace the personal side of art.

Because despite everything, people still crave that connection from music. You still see it when local scenes thrive, when genuinely great albums slowly build cult followings, or when songs become attached to specific moments in people’s lives for years afterward.

Maybe that is the thing worth protecting most. Not nostalgia for older ways of consuming music, but the idea that art should still feel connected to real people saying real things, rather than endless content generated to fill silence.

Every Friday, Sound Under curates the best of Australian alternative music: fresh releases, overlooked gems, rising artists, and songs worth spending real time with.

Whether you’re driving down the coast, walking through the city late at night, or simply tired of playlists chosen by algorithms, these picks are built differently. This isn’t about hype cycles or whatever is trending for 48 hours. It’s about music with replay value, personality, and something real inside it.

No artist is too early. No sound is too left-field, and no scene is too small.

Here’s this week’s Picks:

Raindrops — Headwreck

Headwreck feel like genuine stars in the making. The Brisbane-based nu-metalcore band have been quietly building a cult-like following over the last few years, and once you hear the music, it becomes pretty obvious why.

They understand something a lot of heavy bands forget: aggression alone is not enough. The songs still need movement, personality, and moments people actually want to come back to.

That balance is where Headwreck really thrive.

“Raindrops” is chaotic, explosive, and packed with energy, but underneath all the heaviness is a strong sense of groove and melody that stops the track from becoming one-dimensional. The band know exactly when to hit hard and when to pull things back into something more hook-driven.

The breakdowns throughout the song are some of the most satisfying we have heard from this lane in a while, but what really makes the track stick is the contrast between those heavier moments and the vocal harmonies layered throughout. Even the hook carries this huge melodic quality that gets trapped in your head almost immediately.

What makes Headwreck connect beyond just heavy music audiences is that they never let the music become overly self-serious. Even at their heaviest, there is still bounce, swagger, and fun inside the chaos.

If they keep refining this sound the way they have been, it genuinely feels like Headwreck are going to become one of the breakout heavy bands in Australia over the next few years.

Heartless — South Summit

South Summit have quietly become one of the most interesting bands coming out of Western Australia right now. What makes them stand out is how naturally they blend reggae, indie rock, hip hop, alternative, and pop influences into something that still feels cohesive and unmistakably theirs.

“Heartless,” the fourth single from their upcoming album Run It Back (dropping June 12), feels like another strong example of that versatility. The music video, filmed at the summit of Bluff Knoll — one of Western Australia’s highest mountains — perfectly matches the emotional openness running through the song itself.

“Heartless” works because of the tension at its centre.

Lyrically, the song leans heavily into emotional fallout, regret, distance, and the aftermath of a relationship slowly collapsing.

“I blame myself, but you already know”
“I gave my soul, but it still feels cold”

The lyrics carry the weight of heartbreak, but musically the song moves in a completely different direction. Instead of leaning into sadness sonically, South Summit build the track around uplifting melodies, groove-heavy production that almost feels danceable.

In a way, the track flips the traditional heartbreak formula on its head. It becomes less about emotional collapse and more about surviving it.

The chorus especially captures that emotional duality beautifully.

Interestingly, this was also the first song the band began working on for the upcoming album, and after hearing all the singles released so far, this still remains our favourite drop from the project.

Song for Steven — Sonic Reducer

Australia’s punk scene is ridiculous right now. There are so many great bands emerging across the country, and Sonic Reducer are definitely one of the ones we are most excited about at the moment.

Based out of Canberra, the band have been quietly building momentum through a string of strong singles and EP releases, and it already feels like they are moving toward something much bigger.

If you grew up listening to bands like Ramones or Sex Pistols, there is a very good chance Sonic Reducer will connect with you instantly.

Even though “Song for Steven” does not fully sound like a traditional punk track sonically, it still carries that same spirit underneath it all: looseness, emotional honesty, awkwardness, and youthful energy.

“You say you know what I’m on about
But I’m still trying to find what to say”

That line especially feels like the emotional core of the song. There is frustration in it, but also vulnerability — the feeling of not fully understanding yourself yet while everyone around you expects clarity.

“Don’t listen to your mother
Don’t spend your life trying to live it for another”

That line carries the classic punk spirit of individuality and freedom without ever sounding preachy.

They might not be a household name yet, but it genuinely feels like Sonic Reducer are becoming one of the most exciting punk bands emerging in Australia right now.

Too Late To Go Outside — kate moth

We recently discovered kate moth, a Sydney-based band, and we are very glad we did.

On their latest track, “Too Late To Go Outside,” they create a world that feels strangely immersive — like a rollercoaster moving in slow motion inside a dream.

The song feels hazy, intimate, and emotionally distant in a way that gets deeper the longer it plays. Even though there is movement underneath the instrumentation, everything still feels calm and weightless at the same time.

A huge part of that comes from Matt’s vocal performance. There is something incredibly soothing about the delivery throughout the track. Even when the lyrics deal with inner conflict, emotional exhaustion, and falling in and out of consciousness, the vocals somehow make the chaos feel comforting rather than overwhelming.

Lyrically, the song explores isolation, emotional paralysis, overthinking, and the feeling of wanting escape while remaining completely stuck.

It feels like the kind of song you put on alone late at night and suddenly find yourself completely absorbed in without realising it.

Higher Than Usual — Nancy and the Jam Fancys

The first time we heard Nancy and the Jam Fancys, one comparison immediately came to mind: Jim Morrison from The Doors, who is personally my favourite vocalist of all time.

Not because the band are trying to imitate The Doors sonically, but because Lewis Griffin carries a similar kind of unpredictability and charisma in his vocal delivery. There is that same loose, hypnotic energy where it feels like the performance could either completely fall apart or become transcendent at any second, and that tension is exactly what makes it compelling.

“Higher Than Usual” leans fully into that atmosphere.

From the opening line:

“You seem like a fine individual… shame I met you now you seem higher than usual”

the song immediately drops you into this hazy, psychedelic world filled with intoxication, late-night encounters, and blurred emotional states.

The video itself opens with a drug addict taking a hit, setting the tone for what the track is really exploring — not just substance use, but altered states in general. The feeling of people drifting through life disconnected, detached, impulsive, and emotionally elsewhere.

The last major release from the band was their album Swan Songs back in January 2025, and honestly, this track feels like the beginning of a new chapter creatively. There is something sharper, more confident, and more fully realised about the direction they are moving toward here.

If this is where Nancy and the Jam Fancys are heading next, we are very interested to hear what comes after.

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There’s a line from AC/DC’s It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ’n’ Roll) that has probably followed every touring band around the world for the last fifty years:

“If you think it’s easy doing one night stands, try playing in a rock ’n’ roll band.”

What’s interesting about that lyric is how little it has aged. If anything, it feels even more relevant now than it did in 1975.

The technology around music has changed completely, the ways artists release songs have evolved, and audiences consume music in fundamentally different ways, yet the core reality behind that line still remains untouched. Building a life around music is difficult, exhausting, financially unstable, and emotionally demanding in ways most people outside of it rarely fully see.

The strange thing about the current moment is that music exists in this constant contradiction. On one side, artists have more tools available to them than ever before. Someone can upload a song from their bedroom in Adelaide, Melbourne, or Perth and potentially have listeners from completely different parts of the world hearing it within hours.

There are fewer gatekeepers than there once were, and discovery itself has become far more democratic than the industry structures that existed twenty or thirty years ago.

At the same time though, actually sustaining a long-term career in music feels increasingly difficult, especially for artists who are trying to build something with depth and identity rather than simply reacting to trends.

This tension feels particularly visible in Australia right now. From the outside, the country still appears to have a thriving live music culture. Tours happen constantly, festivals continue to sell out, and there is never really a shortage of new artists emerging from different scenes around the country.

But underneath all of that, there has also been a growing sense of exhaustion across the industry over the last few years. Touring costs continue rising, smaller venues are disappearing, audiences are more fragmented than they once were, and artists are increasingly expected to function not only as musicians, but also as marketers, content creators, strategists, editors, and personalities online.

For bands especially, the pressure feels uniquely heavy because maintaining a band has always required a level of commitment that goes beyond the music itself.

It is multiple people trying to keep momentum moving in the same direction while balancing completely different personal lives, financial realities, emotional states, and long-term priorities. Even under ideal circumstances, that is difficult to sustain over a long enough period of time.

Which is partly why the indefinite hiatus of Bad//Dreems feels larger than simply another band deciding to step away for a while.

A Band That Always Felt Grounded in Something Real

Bad//Dreems were never just another band filling out festival lineups. Over the last decade, they became one of the defining voices in modern Australian pub rock, not because they reinvented the genre completely, but because they understood what made it resonate in the first place.

Their music always felt grounded in something recognisable. There was humour in it, frustration in it, loneliness in it, and an understanding of suburban Australian life that never felt exaggerated or performative.

That honesty is what made albums like Dogs At Bay, Gutful, and HOO HA! connect with so many people over the years.

The band understood how to capture a very particular emotional texture within Australian life — the boredom, the distance, the dark humour people use to mask disappointment, and the feeling of wanting more while simultaneously feeling stuck in place. But underneath that was often something uglier as well: violence, repression, toxic masculinity, racism, generational frustration, and the emotional damage sitting quietly beneath a lot of Australian suburbia. Even at their loudest, there was always vulnerability underneath the surface of their music.

What made Bad//Dreems particularly important within the Australian landscape was that their songs were not trying to mythologise themselves into something larger than life. They felt closer to conversations overheard outside pubs at closing time, long drives through outer suburbs, or the strange emotional emptiness that can exist even inside loud rooms full of people.

That ability to capture ordinary life without romanticising or mocking it is much harder than it sounds, and it is also part of why the band’s music has aged so well.

Ultra Dundee Feels Like the End of a Circle

Listening to Ultra Dundee now, especially with the knowledge of the hiatus sitting quietly in the background, the emotional weight of the record becomes even more noticeable.

It almost feels like a circle being completed.

Before this album, Dogs At Bay probably felt like the Bad//Dreems record most deeply tied to Adelaide, not just geographically, but emotionally as well.

There was something about that album that captured the feeling of outer suburbs, pub carparks, dead-end jobs, strange local characters, and the kind of restless boredom that quietly sits underneath a lot of Australian life. More than anything, it introduced the emotional world the band would continue returning to over the next 15 years.

Now with Ultra Dundee, the band somehow returns to that same emotional landscape, except this time it feels older, stranger, heavier, and more reflective. There’s still humour throughout the album, still absurdity, still the surreal Australian imagery Bad//Dreems have always been brilliant at writing, but underneath it all there’s also a sense of reckoning with time, identity, memory, mortality, and place.

Even the opening track, “Slaughterhouse ’85”, immediately feels like someone revisiting fragments of their past while trying to understand what any of it actually meant. The song moves through Adelaide imagery almost like memories flashing past a car window — the Q.E.H., Croatian clubs, late-night drives, local fuel stations, knife fights, old ghosts — but none of it feels nostalgic in the traditional sense.

It feels more like someone emotionally tracing the map of where they came from while quietly realising how much time has already disappeared.

Throughout Ultra Dundee, people seem spiritually displaced from themselves, from each other, and sometimes even from the country surrounding them. Characters drift through deserts, pubs, highways, shadowlands, religious hallucinations, collapsing relationships, and strange visions of Australia that feel simultaneously grounded and mythological.

“Shadowland” might be one of the clearest examples of this thread running through the album. The repeated line, “I wake up every morning and forget myself / And the man in the mirror looks like someone else,” feels less like a personal confession and more like the emotional centre of the entire record. The album constantly returns to questions of identity, disconnection, and the uneasy feeling of no longer fully recognising the world around you.

What makes the album compelling is that Bad//Dreems never try to over-explain any of this. The songs feel intentionally fragmented at times, almost dreamlike in the way imagery appears and disappears. Characters emerge briefly before dissolving again. Places feel symbolic as much as physical. Religious references sit beside UFO sightings, highways, pubs, violence, death, and desert landscapes in ways that make Australia itself feel almost mythological and haunted.

That has always been one of Bad//Dreems’ greatest strengths as writers.

Their music rarely presents Australia in simplistic terms. There’s always beauty sitting beside ugliness, humour sitting beside violence, spirituality sitting beside emptiness. Their version of Australia feels deeply human because it allows contradictions to exist naturally rather than forcing neat conclusions.

Knowing the hiatus sits ahead of this album inevitably changes how certain lyrics and themes are interpreted. Songs about time, endings, memory, isolation, and transformation begin carrying extra emotional weight even if they were never written explicitly about the band itself.

The closing track “Afterlife” in particular almost feels like a quiet acceptance of change rather than a dramatic farewell.

What makes Ultra Dundee such a strong final statement (if it does end up becoming that) is that it feels like a band fully settling into themselves creatively and emotionally, trusting atmosphere and honesty more than anything else.

Which, in a strange way, is probably what made Bad//Dreems important in the first place.

The Bigger Problem Facing Australian Music

The difficult reality is that longevity itself has become harder to sustain. Many artists today are operating inside systems where the emotional, financial, and physical demands of maintaining a creative career continue growing while the actual rewards become increasingly unstable.

Touring, which was once one of the few reliable ways for artists to survive financially, has become significantly more expensive, while streaming rarely provides enough meaningful income unless artists reach enormous scale.

At the same time, audiences are consuming more music than ever before, but often in ways that encourage speed rather than deep engagement. Songs move quickly through timelines, playlists refresh constantly, and attention itself has become fragmented across platforms. Within that environment, building something slowly and organically becomes much harder, even for genuinely great artists.

For bands, these pressures often become even more intense because sustaining a group over a long period requires far more than simply continuing to write good songs.

That reality rarely gets discussed properly when conversations around music become overly focused on numbers, visibility, and momentum.

Because the truth is that many important artists are barely surviving long before audiences realise there is even a problem.

What Needs to Change?

This is why conversations around supporting music need to move beyond simply celebrating artists once they are already struggling or disappearing.

If independent music scenes are going to survive long-term, then the ecosystems around artists also need to become sustainable. Smaller venues matter because they give artists places to develop before larger audiences arrive. Independent media matters because scenes cannot survive purely through algorithms.

Audiences showing up consistently matters because music cultures are built through communities, not passive consumption.

There also needs to be a wider cultural shift in how audiences understand success within music. Not every artist is going to become globally massive, and honestly, that should not be the expectation in the first place.

Some of the most important bands within any country’s music culture are the ones that slowly build dedicated communities over years rather than exploding overnight.

But for that kind of artistic growth to survive, there needs to be enough structural support around it to make longevity possible.

Australia is still producing incredible bands. That has never really been the problem. The deeper issue is whether the structures surrounding artists actually allow them to keep creating long enough to fully evolve.

And maybe that is the uncomfortable feeling sitting underneath the hiatus of Bad//Dreems.

Not that a great band reached the end of its creative abilities, but that even for respected, culturally important artists, surviving within the modern music industry can slowly become harder than making the music itself.