We wrapped around one another’s little fingers,
Stacked our hearts in photographs,
Inspired and desired each other’s ink.

We spoke —-
and re spoke,
Of our thoughts on sex and sadness,
Traced over them lightly,
Delicately; as if they were tiny silk threads,
Again and again,
Wearing them thin.

We played tug of war on butterfly wings,
Blinded bitterness with quick hits of honey,
I injected you with tenderness,
As you curled your bottom lip,
And dusted your lids in salt.

Again I’ve stolen an apology,
That was never ever mine,
In hope to resurrect.

Because as your lashes drip and drip,
All I do is remember,
A time when I never felt so safe;
Hearing those same lashes scrape on my pillowcase,
A whisper that you were awake,
And then a breath —-
And the sense of tiny silk threads,
Binding us together,
Well before they broke.

Someone once told me a cute fact about honeybees…They told me that when it gets cold honeybees huddle around their queen and shiver, creating friction to keep her warm. While keeping their queen warm is first priority, the bees also look after one another constantly rotating their position to ensure those bees situated on outer layers don’t get too cold. When told, I found this sense of camaraderie incredibly moving; it illustrated a fellowship that’s rare among the human race. While in many cultures there is an investment in patriotism and a willingness to protect those who govern, those who we see as our queen bees, our sense of togetherness is lacking and harmony is scarce. When we strive to protect our queens, we rally against one another creating distance through great conflict, and as we increase the gap between each other it only gets colder. Maybe where we went wrong was when we chose our queen bees. Maybe what we’re all protecting isn’t our queen bee at all. Governments don’t put the food in our mouths, they don’t provide us with the resources from which we live, and they don’t provide the air that we breathe. Sure they control the way we access these things, but they’re not the source. Maybe if we stopped to consider who our queen bee really is, if we took the steps together toward protecting the planet that truly nourishes us, then we could all feel a little warmer.

There’s a certain allure in freedom. Endearment immediately follows any person who wanders humbly without compass or direction. When such scope embraces music the result is kind of beautiful. Cue Devendra Banhart. The room is illuminated from the offset. Support act, Husky, leave the venue with adequate pre-Devendra radiance. Their recent trip to the states to record with Noah Georgeson (also behind production and collaborations with Devendra Banhart) is evident in their steady handle on uplifiting indie folk. As Banhart takes the stage the room immediately feels warmer, a combination of Banhart’s undeniably sexy swagger and a glow that blooms from the mass of coy ladies constituting the crowd.

Shabob Shalom is a toast to Banhart’s indiscreet curiosity, a Jewish doo-wop ballad and the first step of a journey that will undoubtedly traverse a gamut of musical terrain. Banhart’s band The Grogs offer evident boost and body. However, their exit for a solo rendition of A Sight To Behold and The Body Breaks allows room to appreciate Banhart’s hypnotic vibrato, making for a particularly moving performance.

At The Hop sows smiles like seedlings among the crowd as Banhart’s eloquence nurses upturned lips to beaming grins. It’s true, the man is a poet. A cover of Sportsmen by Yellow Magic Orchestra in combination with an earlier comical reference to Vybz Cartel’s Ramping Shop quickly confirms Banhart’s hunger for an array of musical delicacies.

Seahorse defines epic rock and releases the crowd from any hesitation to groove. And if there was ever any uncertainty concerning which direction to move our feet Devendra illustrates how, ditching his guitar in favour of a boogie for Long Haired Child. His footloose and unhinged presence onstage shadows his music perfectly. An encore of I Feel Just like A Child is perhaps the closest we will get to defining Banhart. He dodges any risk of seeming indulgent, of his genre hopping feeling tiresome, schizophrenic even, most simply with the abandonment and marvel of a child.

It would be near impossible to question Banhart’s skill, to deny he’s inspired. But I don’t think this is what mesmerises us. Rather it’s his vision, his rambling wanderlust and childlike idiosyncrasies that ornament his presence as a performer best. Devendra Banhart is free, so too is his music. And the result? Well, it’s kind of beautiful.

Today The Northcote Social club rejoices as the tail end of a brutal Winter is overthrown by what seems an early Spring. Consequently, the lower deck is left littered with exposed shoulders and frosty beers. To convince a group of vitamin D deprived Melbournians to substitute sunshine for a dim cold band room is a feat managed only by those most deserving.

Jimmy Tait are quick to dismiss any desire we may have for the outdoors. Front woman and self taught multi instrumentalist Sara Rettalick is at the source of Jimmy Tait’s appeal, her angelic frame shadowed by her husky vocals and haunting lyrics. The band’s first single Goodnight lifts mood through keys and ascending guitar riffs while sinister lyrics in The Pond prove Rettalick’s capacity to carry the band through a darker and less traversed side of pop.

Single Twin (AKA Marcus Teague) soon follows standing centre stage amid an assemblage of unattended instruments. Immediately we’re introduced to Teaugue’s dry humour as he tries to assure us that My Silken Tooth is about an Ikea delivery man assembling divans for midgets at midnight. Teague’s comical narratives begin before each song, the words “this songs about…” always followed by obscurity and giggles. Stories range from discovering rivers under the Amazon to having a chest infection so brutal you have to sticky tape ventallin puffers to every orifice on your body, definite confirmation of a vivid imagination. One can now understand where the creativity comes from that infuses his debut album Marcus Teague, a solo project self-recorded and mixed in the confines of his bedroom.

Fish In New Leaves sees Teague invite his band onstage in attempt to recreate those spontaneous sounds reached on Marcus Teague. Still, the real star is the onset of narrative. Each song is plagued by an intimacy celebrated through Teague’s tender poetics. Sparse instrumentation allows focus to fall on the hero that is Teague’s words. A solitary banjo played by Adam Donovan (also of Augie March) in Dirty Sleeves in The Salty Water give Teague’s lyrics room to breathe. In Long Wave Teague’s band is appreciated, specifically Dave McCarthy’s harmonies which give the track new body. Debut single Came Home Dead is the perfect companion to that Sunday feeling, acoustic folk never awry on a sunny afternoon.

The only shame here is that live the true intimacy heard on Marcus Teague is unattainable. The album has stumbled upon something resembling perfection through imperfection, impromptu sounds that can’t be recreated on stage only reheard with a pair of headphones and a stereo.

It’s easy enough to declare Jack Ladder an artist of mimicry; his brooding baritone the musical equivalent of a Nick Cave colour by numbers, that working class hooks trace an anthemic Bruce Springsteen, while confessions of love and loss are a mere extension of Leonard Cohen. But that’s just it, it’s easy. In truth, these superficial allegations are only a peripheral sighting of the vision that is Jack Ladder & The Dreamlanders, a shallow estimation of the depth and expanse that fills Hurtsville.

Hurtsville is the third album from Jack Ladder and the first that gives recognition to his band, now The Dreamlanders. A timely move as introduction of guitarist Kirin J Callinan allows Ladder to explore a more cultivated and generous sound; a far cry from that self-conscious boyish charm that laced Love is Gone and Not Worth Waiting For. Callinan’s liberal use of effects and reverb in combination with ornate production (Burke Reid) adds a thick layer of dust to Ladder’s once glossy swagger.

While lyrically Ladder has always sounded forlorn and bereft the induction of the ominous instrumentation in Hurtsville offers something more sinister. Tracks trace the cynical and desolate side of love, Cold Feet manages infidelity with unearthly guitar riffs and foreboding keyboard, while gutsy hooks in Position Vacant give the album backbone. Ladder’s shift toward a gothic sound is refreshing, and undertones of The Triffids and The Go-Betweens are appreciated. Alternatively, one can revel in the country cheer offered in Dumb Love, providing an animated respite from the albums usual heartache. There’s development too in Ladder’s vocals, Short Memory sees Ladder steer us through a new level of control sinking to the absolute bottoms of his voice with command and ease.

Hurtsville sounds like Hurtsville, it’s honest and rich and like nothing else. Opening track Beautiful Sound cries, “When the heart breaks it makes a beautiful sound.” That sound is Hurtsville, and yeah, it’s beautiful.