The Triffids were the kind of band for whom, in retrospect, obscene cult appreciation seemed inevitable, even deliberate. David McComb’s monstrously passionate, unapologetically sincere, often very weird lyrics atop, the band’s songs blended country, folk, jangle and strings into a hyper-melodic, immensely scaled and fabulously well-crafted brand of post-punk. All that was likely further made distinct by geography: as many have noted before me, The Triffids’ hometown of Perth isn’t just isolated because it’s in Australia, it’s isolated even within Oz. For me, Perth doesn’t leave so much desolation, solitude or aridity in these tunes; it instead contributes to their outlook. Without feeling need to obey other post-punk trends in ‘coolness’ or ‘restraint’, the band could instead be as earnest and strange, as belting and untethered as they damn pleased.
Pick(s): ‘Place in the Sun’, ‘Lonely Stretch’, ‘Suntrapper’, ‘Blinder By the Hour’, ‘Falling Over You’