Roll up, roll up. The filthiest circus of them all is in town
Sydney’s Eightball Junkies are men of few words, clearly. When this arrived with us, it did so with no preamble, no fanfare and absolutely no information beyond what was on their Facebook page (which isn’t much!).
In truth, though, when you call your band Eightball Junkies you kinda know what’s coming next. Indeed, the 11 minutes that this EP contains says more about the four piece than a bio ever could.
20 years ago before the internet had really taken hold (and I am going to put it out there that if there was good porn to be found these days, these boys know where to look!) the only way to hear underground music was to be involved in a record club. MV was in a serious Hellacopters/Backyard Babies phase in about 1993 and ended up with a load of stuff by reprobates with names like Crank County Daredevils.
Who knows, Eightball Junkies might have to? And if they didn’t, they’d have damn sure fitted in.
Loud, snotty and crude – and that’s just the opener. Indeed, the title track’s key line suggests “go kill yourself, I’ll take the blame” and this is what it probably sounded like when Nicke Andersson made those early demos, assuming he did it in the dark for a week, without sunlight and with only cheap vodka and rancid Chinese food for company.
“Once More From The Top” gets cowbell bonus points and explores strip clubs – lets assume they aren’t the Spearmint Rhino type either. These boys belong somewhere a little more backstreet, where the women are a little more warts and all no doubt.
They end with perhaps their most punk rock effort. “Psycho Holiday” will sound magnificent on their natural habitat. A small stage in some Sydney bar where the drink is flowing on a Friday night.
And whats more. If they weren’t playing, you can bet Eightball Junkies would be in the crowd. This is their show and they’ve made it superbly.