2 hours ago
1
It’s Saturday night in August and I’m standing in a packed bandroom at Singing Bird Studios in Frankston, waiting for the return of Eddy Current Suppression Ring. It’s been a long wait. Apart from a couple of festival appearances in 2016, the beloved garage rock band’s last proper headline show was 2010.
But earlier this year, smoke signals: a secret set in a Prahran skate shop. A surprise single, Swimming Hole, and a new EP. A one-off at Melbourne’s The Night Cat that instantly sold out. Then the announcement of a free all-ages show at Federation Square on grand final eve, flanked by a couple of small gigs in Anglesea and Frankston. The chat groups go into overdrive.
For the first few songs at Singing Bird, nothing much happens. Tattooed drummer Danny Young chugs to life in lockstep with his brother, guitarist and bandleader Mikey. Bassist Brad Barry happily twists like a screw trying to find its groove as frontman Brendan Huntely, in his oversize shirt and trademark black golf gloves, scans the crowd – looking for a spark.
It sound goods – like a fun garage rock band. Nothing special. The crowd nods. Then a few songs in, it starts to happen: an energy shift. The band does nothing different. There’s no one song they play, no forced egging on; just a subtle recalibration. Suddenly the band are bouncing, people are hugging, Huntley has climbed into the rafters to sing, and I can’t remember smiling so much at a gig. It sounds like some mystical bullshit. It’s not. The mystical bit is how this moment always happens at an Eddy Current show.
Formed in 2003 at the staff party of a vinyl pressing plant in Highett, the members of Eddy Current Suppression Ring grew up in Frankston. So did I. An hour south of Melbourne, Frankston is a rich-poor town built with its back to the sea. On clear days you can see the Melbourne skyline shimmering through the haze across Port Phillip Bay. Close enough to long for, but distant enough to make you question leaving. The subcultures here are staunch, based on the DIY tenets of graffiti, skateboarding, metal bands and mischief. If you get good at any of them, don’t get a big head about it.
From this melting pot Eddy Current emerged, home town codes intact. Record and release your own albums. Book your own shows. Don’t do it if it doesn’t feel right. This attitude was imprinted in their music: garage rock with speak-sing dramas that gently escalate. They famously recorded their 2006 debut LP in four hours. It’s a classic. Small, catchy songs about suburban dreams: cool ice-cream, insufficient funds, going to work. On record it can pass you by, but shoulder-to-shoulder in a crowd it turned cathartic. Noble, even. Eddy Current lit a match and everyone wanted to be near it.
By 2010 the band were anxious about the increasing demands of their popularity. The previous year they’d collected the $30,000 Australian Music Prize for their second LP, Primary Colours. In April they played a sold-out show to 1,800 people at the now defunct Palace in Melbourne. I was there – it felt like a victory lap. It’s just the band were far away. “I had to question whether I’d want to go see a band like mine at a show that big,” Mikey Young told the Guardian about it. They went on hiatus soon after.
Fifteen years after that headline show – one month after seeing them in Frankston – Eddy Current returned to Melbourne on Friday night at Federation Square. The programming team at the outdoor venue have been on a tear here, hosting free gigs for the likes of Kneecap, Caribou and Robbie Williams that have drawn 10,000 people. Mikey told a friend he thought only 2,000 might show up. Instead the crowd stretches as far as the eye can see.
They start with Memory Lane. “I took a walk down memory lane, where everything looked quite the same,” sings Huntley, wearing a long coat and those black gloves “People smiled, people waved. They told me ‘bout the road they paved.” It sounds good. You can’t see the band for the bright lights behind them, but they look awesome on the big screen. Now they’re playing Wrapped Up – Huntley’s coat is off and he’s doing his funny nervous dance, eyes clamped tight, concentrating hard about jogging on the spot.
The band hits the last chorus and it happens, the huge crowd lifts to join in: “I’m wrapped up in you.” Everyone around is beaming. Huntley climbs up on to a shipping container. Unrelated fireworks go off in the distance. The mystical bullshit. The Melbourne skyline shimmers – not hazy in the distance, but all around.
