Anyone unfamiliar with Amyl and the Sniffers could learn a lot about them from the fact that when an acoustic guitar appears nine songs and 20 minutes into their third album, it feels genuinely jolting. Thus far, the Australian quartet have dealt in a brand of punk that carries with it the distinct whiff of the pub and the roughhouse pop-cultural heritage of their homeland. (There’s definitely something of the sharpie, a peculiarly Antipodean youth cult/folk devil, about their haircuts.) Blessed with songs called Blowjobs, Gacked on Anger and Don’t Need a Cunt (Like You to Love Me), their oeuvre has treated the concept of subtlety in much the same way as most people treat spam emails promising immediate bitcoin windfalls or sexual congress with lonely Russian beauties: just ignore it and move swiftly on, no good will come of engaging.
They are very good at what they do. Singer Amy Taylor sounds like X-Ray Spex’s Poly Styrene might have had she hailed from Bundoora or Wonga Park, and the band are on the brink of transforming critical acclaim and cult status into something much bigger. For their forthcoming UK tour, they have sold out three nights at London’s Roundhouse and added a fourth at the 10,000-capacity Alexandra Palace.
