There are a few indelible qualities unique to the Whitlams, detectable from their first days as a trio playing university bars around Newtown, and still there now as they play their back catalogue of gutsy ballads with orchestras to boot. There’s Tim Freedman’s distinctive voice; somehow as plaintive and clear as when he started singing, despite now pushing 60 years old. Then there is the wry cleverness of the lyrics, often focused on long nights (and mornings) out on the plonk, chasing elusive women and troubled friends. And Freedman leading from his piano, which feels almost old-fashioned for an alternative rock band – though that label has never felt like a comfortable fit for a group that dips in and out of blues, jazz and pop, from song to song.
I was six when their breakthrough album, Eternal Nightcap, came out; You Sound Like Louis Burdett will always hold a fond place in my heart for allowing me to say “fuck” in front of my parents for the first time. They are the first band I ever saw live and by far the band I have seen perform most often. That is to say: I have never felt so prepared to write a piece, or agonised over one so much.
