Mother And Son

For Wollongong’s Mother and Son, the swamp is a place of unbridled musical riches, writes PATRICK EMERY.

A television advertisement in Adelaide in the 1980s proudly proclaimed the transformation of the former swampland adjacent to West Beach into the West Lakes suburban housing development. The result was typical for the era, and a glimpse into the dysfunctional architectural style that would become de rigueur in suburban housing states across the country. On the Queensland coast, a different, but related evolutionary development was taking place, with high-rise apartment blocks soaring toward the heavens, as the white shoe brigade exploited the sun and surf for its own selfish financial ends.

The common theme between the two dystopian worlds is that of architectural commoditisation. The distinction is that in the former, the swamp was eradicated in the development process; in the latter, the exploitation relied upon the continuation of surf and sun. The relationship to Wollongong band Mother and Son’s stripped-back garage blues is subtle, but important. Like The Scientists, The Cramps, The Gun Club and the original incarnation of the Beasts of Bourbon, Mother and Son find both refuge and inspiration in the depths of the musical swamp. Like the castle in Monty Python’s Holy Grail demonstrated, the swamp has negligible real estate potential; in the image-obsessed music industry, swamp has all the attraction of a festering sore. But as Mother and Son confirm, the swamp is a place of unbridled musical riches.

Mother and Son – It Wont Be Long by FBi Radio

On ?Dead Yellow Moon?, singer Bodie Jarman’s voice smacks of a bloke who’s spent a three-day bender on a diet of cheap bourbon and bummed cigarettes, pouring out his demented brain’s meanderings to any poor bastard in his immediate vicinity, while drummer Matman Teudt keeps a rigid beat; the percussive voice of stability in the face of impending untamed chaos. On ?Hanging Tree?, Jarman and Teudt are loitering around on the margins of society, casting derisive glances at the occasional Nick Cave pretender who happens upon their threatening gaze. ?Creature From the Swamp? cuts to the chase, the entire track saturated with a thick stench ripped straight from a B-grade movie script.

Mother And Son – Dead Yellow Moon by TwoThousand

The other critical element in Mother and Son’s music is the surf. On the Gold Coast, the splendour of the surf is lost in a sea of cheap and nasty glitz, glamour and narcissism. Mother and Son’s indulgence of the surf style cuts through the glistening white teeth and Californian mythology of Jan and Dean and indulges the seedy underbelly that feeds the American surf dream. On ?Mosquito?, Jarman’s razor-sharp surf lick walks the line between exhilaration and danger, like Charles Manson taking Dennis Wilson for a drive to his favourite Hollywood haunts.

?Mother and Son find both refuge and inspiration in the depths of the musical swamp.?

In a subliminal flash, the scene has changed, and ?Dengue Fever? drops a tab of brightly coloured blotter paper and the party is on for young and old. It’s an angular blues track that makes Jon Spencer seem like an ageing Vegas crooner in comparison. Later, ?Savage? takes the blues down to the edge of the ravaging surf and gives it a serious doing over that’s still illegal in most southern American states, before ?Surfswing? takes the legacy of Dick Dale into a world ruled by Stacy Sutherland.

After the album edges to its resounding close, Jarman leads the listener through the dark, threatening narratives of ?Johnny Boy? and ?Closing Theme?. Like Edgar Allan Poe’s descent into to the maelstrom, or Bram Stoker’s frightening portrayal of the Carpathian mountains, you’re on a journey into unknown territory, where every moment could be your last. And if it is the end, at least you’ve had the chance to hear Mother and Son. This is one shit-hot record.