Dan Sultan – Get Out While You Can (2009)

It’s funny how the internet works (note: I have no idea how the internet works) (other note: I decided to embolden the first sentences of my posts to give them a bit of intellectual punch – consider yourself punched in the brain).

I’ve been thinking about this for at least a few minutes now, since the conclusion of yet another riveting family dinner conversation (topics covered so far this week: taxes; urinary tract infections; the state of NSW hospitals; which parts of a human would be best to eat). Mum was telling us how my Nan likes to read the paper from cover to cover, including shipping news and court schedules. While my mind was conjuring up reasons for my Nan’s weird interest in legal cases (secret litigator? nonagenarian crime lord? a fluffy wig fetish?), the following exchange ensued:

Brother: Why would anyone read that?

Dad (sagely): Well, back in the days of yore (*brother tunes out*) before electronic communications (*Mum tunes out*), people had to read the paper (*I tune out*)…

I consider my friends and I to be members of the luckiest generation, by which I mean those born between, say, 1985 and 1990. Children of that era (yes, I consider 5 years an era) are old enough to have the pleasure of boasting that they were around before the internet but young enough for it to have kicked in before adolescence. Our memories are redolent with childhood images of Aggro’s Cartoon Connection, classic Simpsons, Captain Planet and the immortal sounds of the Spice Girls, may they rest in peace (‘I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna really really really wanna zigazig ah’ – unbridled genius). Back then there were trees to climb, not power lines, and we frolicked through lush meadows untainted by global warming. Disney, in the first flushes of its renaissance, lovingly crafted movies that entertained and educated us, providing a hand-drawn backdrop to our primary school years. The boys had multitudes of strong-chinned heroes and the girls (and some boys) had intelligent, pretty princesses of various ethnicities. There were never photos of Jasmine flashing her training bra posted on Twitter. Nala never made a sex tape. Gaston never boasted about his purity ring. Our heroes weren’t junior high tweens who blogged about, like, their varsity crushes (I assume that’s what iCarly is about) or three stupid-looking brothers who formed a band (uh, except Hanson); they were tiny blue-skinned gay people, or the kids who managed to get onto A*mazing, or anime characters who went around trapping cute animals in tiny balls and forcing them into ferocious battles that I’ve only just realised are pretty unethical. But that was the early 90s, and people didn’t really know what ethics were yet. How could we? We didn’t have Wikipedia.

By contrast, our teenage years were a jumble of horrible email accounts (lollipop_smileygalz88@yahoo.com – DISCLAIMER: this is a joke example email address, do not try to email it because I get enough spam already), ICQ, and the strange, exciting and sexy (right?) world of online chatrooms. We all had mean facial tans from basking in the light of our hazy, boxy computer monitors. Girls delighted in barraging everyone in their contact lists with chain emails, especially ones that predicted your future domestic situation. Boys feigned exasperation and secretly completed them (or this boy did, anyway). Common but unwieldy phrases like ‘rolling on the floor laughing my arse off’ were handily abbreviated. As a generation we turned our backs on traditional television in favour of watching our favourite shows in smaller, slower, more expensive, more pixellated form.  Truly, it was a time defined by LOLs and WTFs.

All of which sort-of-but-not-really brings me to this life-altering video:

That’s right: John Butler, Missy Higgins, Megan Washington, Katy Steele, some chick with tattoos, a ranga behemoth that can only be Clare Bowditch, Paul Dempsey and Dan Sultan sharing the one stage (with Paul Kelly, kinda). It’s an Aussie folk-pop fan’s wet dream (except for the glaring absence of Sarah Blasko and Holly Throsby). It’s everything the ARIAs could be if they stopped inviting Jessica Mauboy, The Veronicas and that one random bemused American B-lister who can’t figure out what level of hell she’s been condemned to.

Despite my undying love for Missy Higgins’ nasal drawl and my occasional love for John Butler’s chilled-out swagger, Dan Sultan’s smoky pipes own that stage. It doesn’t help that Missy’s dance convulsions and spazz hands make it look like she’s been tokin’ from Johnny B’s stash. Dan Sultan’s little charades gestures are much cooler, at least until John Butler sings ‘beef was his business’ (I can think of some actions to that!) and he can only clasp his hands together in graceful capitulation – almost as graceful as this segue into my review of his album, Get Out While You Can.

I’m a shit first-time album listener. Usually I’ll get the album, excitedly load it up on iTunes, click play with baited breath…and then get distracted by reading about like ‘Space Jam’ or ‘Canadian people of Norwegian descent’ on Wikipedia. The tracks zoom past and 50 minutes later I’ll notice the awkward silence (I sometimes share an awkward silence with myself) and think, ‘Well, I don’t remember anything from that album. Must’ve been shit.’ Which is why I’ve instituted a policy of not making a firm judgement on any album until the 4^th or 5^th listen – and even then I’ll keep changing my mind about it.

GOWYC surprised me because it hooked me pretty much straight away – and then sort of lost me again. I added it to iTunes, sent it over to my Splendour playlist, pressed play…and found that I suddenly couldn’t pay attention to the YouTube video of a cat riding a turtle that I was watching. The only thing I knew previously about Dan Sultan was that he was half Aboriginal, so naturally/racistly I assumed that his music would include didgeridoos (or half didgeridoos) droning away in the background somewhere. Thankfully, his music is didgeridoo free, but what it does have are funky ‘get down tonight’ guitars, gentle, soulful melodies and Sultan’s impressive voice, which can leap from gravelly power to delicate sweetness within the span of a chorus. He’s like the thinking man’s Daniel Merriweather (minus that t-shirt-and-waistcoat thing that all the kids are into nowadays). But better.

If rock n roll and country had a head-on collision and kind of partially fused with each other and then fell in love (it was inevitable) and gave birth to 13 songbabies, that family would be something like this album. A few of the babies are charismatic and loveable little scamps, the kind that win your heart with their twinkly eyes, cheeky ways and awesome toys. Some are the shy, retiring types that never impress you front up but gradually win you over through intelligence and quiet persistence.

Then there’s…the others. Obviously rock n roll and country are a little too closely related, because these are some inbred babies. They cry and wail for attention and all you can do is fix your mouth into a frozen rictus of false appreciation and subtly try to break your own arm so you have an excuse to get out of there. You never insult them in their presence – that would be inappropriate – but once you leave you turn to your friend and say, ‘Awww. That’s a shame.’

Alright, none of the songs are quite that bad. But there’s a bit of a disparity between the hits and the misses. Obviously. Goddess Love, a hit, is an ambling country number with layers of funk and soul and funky soul and souly funk that amiably eases you into the album. Dingo is a rollicking Western romp with echoes of Charlie Feathers; I can imagine it swinging and bumping along in the background of a Tarantino film, the musical equivalent of a khaki-clad sheriff driving along a lone desert road with his aviators lined up across the sun-soaked dash. Old Fitzroy has a beautiful nostalgic feel to it, the sound of beers and wistful reminiscences shared between old pals, and Cadillac and a Mustang is an awesomely jazzy, toot-flutin’, reet-pleatin’ way to round it all up.

None of the songs are particularly bad; there’s just quite a few that aren’t especially memorable. Much of the album dawdles by in the background, which, to be honest, is the best place for it. That probably sounds a lot harsher than I mean it to be, but it’s not really a criticism. GOWYC doesn’t try to demand your attention – it’s quite happy to cruise along and entertain itself while you check your emails (in vain) or Google image search ‘wardrobe malfunctions’ or maybe even talk to real people. Don’t ask too much of it and it won’t ask too much of you. Sounds like a pretty good philosophy to me.

Standout tracks: Goddess Love, Dingo, Old Fitzroy, Cadillac and a Mustang