Died Pretty
Next to Nothing

The nostalgic rockers, in a panic, find a lifeline on the shores of California in the Paisley Underground (a revival of the psychedelia linked to the "Summer of Love" but ended within five years) and in the new scene coming from the faraway Oceania. Sydney, Brisbane, Melbourne, all the way to the far west with Perth, become the stage for Australia's most vibrant and exciting musical era.

An underground network of pubs, basements, garages, and venues so cramped that you can feel the alcoholic breath of the person next to you, hosts the first live performances of pioneers Radio Birdman and The Saints, and subsequently of the Triffids, Hoodoo Gurus, Birthday Party, Go-Betweens, and Died Pretty, five guys from Sydney who share votive shrines to the Stooges, Velvet Underground, Doors, and Suicide in their bedrooms, and the desire to resurrect the mystical sounds and psychedelic trips of their beloved sixties.

"Next To Nothing" is the title of the third e.p. released on the Citadel Records label in May 1985 (the following year they would give us the masterpiece "Free Dirt"). Darkness and light, "Ambergris," an immaterial grace that crosses the dusty deserted roads of a territory at the edge of the world, strums dipped in the ink of melancholy, a dreamlike vision dwelling in the recesses of the soul, brazen and real only in the choruses screamed to the sky by Ronnie Peno. A timeless gem that, unintentionally, overshadows the subsequent exemplary pastoral "Plaining Days." Tumbleweeds escaping to the steppe, materializing in the scorching sun of the day during the eight minutes of "Desperate Hours" where Brett Myers weaves with his Fender oriental tapestries of the finest craftsmanship. Vast spaces take shape in the concluding "Final Twist," the uncertain, undefined horizon line deceives the sight by projecting imaginary territories that vanish with the last note. Children of a bitter fate, Died Pretty fuel the ranks of the illustrious unknown, unjustly boycotted, especially in their homeland.

1985 is now light-years away, the talented lads have sheathed their instruments and dreams, but every time I place "Next To Nothing" on the turntable, I remember a magical time when a continent on the other side of the globe set its style, imposed its sound, and permanently captured our emotions.