or anyone vaguely interested in penetrating the musical sphere we hacks deem worthy of acclaim, Australian bands have always had a tough ask on its hands. Without many identifiable and celebrated artists (INXS? AC/DC?!) emanating from its city centres, there really are no places of modern musical heritage or influence that have made themselves heard around the world - unless you count the didgeridoo motif in the Crocodile Dundee theme tune and worthy 'World' artists like Yothu Yindi. Traffic, for the most part, has been one way. So Aussies look to the US and UK rock and indie glitterati for all their cues. Which is why we have suck-ass noise pretenders like The Vines, enriching our lives with awful rock cliches. But what of a band as hyped to hell as The Sleepy Jackson? To start with, their head honcho Luke Steele is another tortured genius on (insert a cornucopia of drugs, both illegal and prescription, here). Then they're country rock tinged Mercury Rev and Flaming Lips copyists with a penchant for sky-kissing fantasias. Those things might not be necessarily insidious or even mildy off-putting, but really, the attention lavished upon them here is a sad reflection on the search for the next big things from anywhere.


I blame the NME of course (is that any surprise?) and then, the UK music press for following up. The magazine had their curiosity piqued by Craig Nicholls and now they've dug deeper into the antipodean hinterland, 'uncovering' long standing bands like Jet and You am I, just like they did with New York and Detroit - all because of a concept which capitalizes on finding hip, cool locations, then strip-mining the area for anyone with a smattering of dress sense and a questionable ability to strum a guitar. This pioneer logic is quite simply detestable. It assumes The White Stripes and The Strokes are at the vanguard of 'New Rock Revolution' (an insanely stupid phrase which brings to mind Voltaire remarking the Holy Roman Empire was 'neither Holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire', though the rock part is vaguely right) heading up burgeoning music meccas where there are none or have already been long established, thus elevating mediocrity because of its mere address. The mortal music journalism sins I cite are laziness and lack of judgment. If they were emphasizing labels, then at least they would be highlighting the ethos and unity of a record company's roster and staff, but they never seem to do it (oddly, style magazines such as The Face do this on occasion). It seems musical genius is piped in through the city's water supply.


As for The Sleepy Jackson, they're ... okay ... errr ... nothing special. I'm really struggling here. I'm trying to find adjectives that stir some emotional cauldron in my inner being, but I just can't. What disheartens me most of all is their blandness. They certainly do not deserve such outlandish attention. 'Good Dancers' with its hazy waves of falsetto moaning and mock-orchestral knob twiddling has all the hallmarks of the neo-romantic-psychedelicists I've already cited. And so, I'm spent before I've even made it halfway through. Their 8 song compilation debut leaves me indifferent, and profoundly so. Too many of the songs are half formed and wanked off with the carelessness of a band yet to find its feet. Luke Steele has talent, I admit, but it's talent for pastiche of a good standard, flecked only intermittently with true promise and fashionable melancholy.


It does have its moments. 'Caffeine in the Morning Sun', is what I'd call a very attractive groan sounded by people whose brains have been fried by the oppressive Aussie heat, but the doubts still permeate. Perhaps it’s my fussiness or my seething distaste for the state of the UK music press that brings me to this juncture of intolerance. Maybe I think only Americans should be allowed to use slide guitars. I could, of course, be pressing the same type of snobbery upon these subjects that was evidenced by all these sniffy hip hop afficionados who thought a skinny cracker runt from Birmingham, England called Mike Skinner had no right to rap, when his life wasn't made of bitches and Cristal, but Playstations and kebabs. And contrary feelings do take hold in my gut. Now that spring is filling our limey lives with badly missed sunshine, I can see songs like the aching daydream of a tune that is 'Miniskirt' cracking my winter hardened and bitchy cynicism, in a way I would have not thought possible a few, frosty weeks ago.


But my main problem is this: Sweep the States from Louisville to Austin to Modesto, or dive into a copy of The Big Takeover or Magnet and you will find dozens of bands which deserve more praise. These bands are and will always be ignored because of a few dubious editorial decisions. As slumber happy, pick 'n' mix students of the most beautiful music we have been blessed with during the past few years, growing years and global escapades will undoubtedly invest their music with proficiency and a mind of its own. For now, I'd like them more if they said 'fuck off' to those writers have elevated them in such a short space of time (all of whom would be calling them alt-country were it not for their lives having cultural markers such as Victoria Bitter and barbies instead of grits and Jim Beam). That way, perhaps they could rise above hype which can only do them irreparable harm.


Footnote (with reference to opening paragraph citing, quite lazily in retrospect, Australia's lack of impact upon our musical consciousness): I do not think such paragons of musical excellence as The Dirty Three or Nick Cave (Birthday Party et al) suck, but they have never been presented to me the way The Sleepy Jackson have.