Zingers

Obscured under an array of familiar textures lies the hooks, distant intonations and unmistakable pop sensibility of Milk Teddy’s debut LP. Keeping the marks of its two-year germination, time is given to building its rich lo-fi tapestry with samples appearing fleetingly amongst seas of synths and jangling guitar hooks, all of which act to ground it amongst contemporaries. But Zingers* is often too varied to be lapped into any growing Melbourne sound, at any time crossing from trebly guitar-pop to ?80s synth balladry or songs with New Wave and post-punk influences. *Zingers is a dreamy haze that reaches broadly for its inspirations, all floating amongst a shallow-fried, lackadaisical mess.

It’s this embrace of so many usually foreign sounds that makes Zingers a great record. In a year where tapping into the Flying Nun sound seems the prerogative of so many local acts, it’s refreshing to see Milk Teddy make some subtle variations to the formula. Milk Teddy do fit into that aesthetic, with tracks like ‘I Can Hear It When You Sing’ and ‘Zingers’ sounding like not-too-distant cousins of a Twerps recording, but it’s not long before a driving synth recalls something from a slightly different place, like that of Geoffrey O’Connor’s yearning nostalgia. It’s clear that they’re close to, fond of and familiar with many of Melbourne’s growing names, but their ability to find an able middle ground whilst flavouring it with their own character is the record’s true achievement.

Milk Teddy – Zingers by Lost And Lonesome

Thematically, you’re left only with clues. There are hints at the mundane, the fantastical and the desperate, but there’s nothing clear enough to delve into; it expresses vague sensations rather than specific feelings. ‘Going to Sri Lanka’ feels less about an international journey as it is a general bewildered feeling of going astray. The specifics of the song are smeared by the arrangements, and the lyrics are almost always indecipherable, with the caught moments only giving hints at what might come. ?Where have you been…/You’re spreading yourself thin,? sings Thomas Mendelovits on ‘Michael?, with the ensuing words smeared under his long-drawn delivery. After another bar or two, you’re lost amongst noodling guitars and a far-away snare drum that keeps the time only to a vague plea for reclaimed normality.

Zingers is a playful record. If there’s ever a moment of darkness, it’s swiftly swept away by one of the threads of their muted tapestry. Reverberating guitar, delay-heavy vocals, sustained synths and canned-sounding bass-lines all merge into a blanket of soft edges, leaving little to grab onto. Ultimately, the way these songs tend to wash over you is as much the album’s strength as its weakness. Clutching at so many sounds and grinding them into homogeneity makes for a gorgeous middle point, but for a band who can so ably craft a hook, they’re so obscured that you’re likely to miss them.

This in itself is commendable – this is a band more than capable of writing a pop hit, but they never stray from their manifesto of obscuration amongst psychedelic adventuring. The heavy-handed approach to Zingers*’ arrangements may be a death knell for any kind of widespread success, but it makes for a truly unique record. It trades on the charm of Twerps, the lethargy of Mad Nanna and the homage-driven emotion of Geoffrey O’Connor, but it never pauses long enough to stumble into a pigeonhole. You can file it wherever you need to. *Zingers is a smudged portrait of its time and place – a snapshot of Melbourne in 2012 that’s as good as anything it takes inspiration from.