Tom Ravenscroft's music blog

Drunk pirates or sombre storytellers? Listen here to Australia's most enchanting new band.

Over the past few years there has been a steady and rather welcome increase in good music coming from Australia, a country that previously was either failing to make much of note -- or, as I suspect, was just not bothering to tell us about it or send it overseas.

Recently the likes of C W Stoneking, The Drones, the Middle East, Circle Pit, Civil Civic and Fabulous Diamonds have been filling my ears with joy. But until now I have never heard Australian folk. And I have yet to experience anything else that sounds so very Australian as the Doomed Bird of Providence.

The voice is slightly startling at first. I think this might just be that I've never heard an Australian group that retains their accent; I wish it would happen more, there is nothing more annoying than groups that adopt ye olde English folk voice, a voice that only a small number of people in the West Country and people that name ales still actually speak.

Their album is called Will Ever Prey and recalls tragic, dark tales from Australian history with a strange sort of snarled beauty. It does at times sound like the work of drunk pirates and I won't lie: not all of you will like it. Here's a track from the album:

The Doomed Bird of Providence - Fedicia Exine by frontandfollow  

There are long periods in which the music on the album sounds very traditionally folk, but the dramatic periods of awkward, slightly out of tune, bowed strings are what I was so enchanted by. At times it's a little frightening and I don't get to say that often. More Australian music, please.

Tom Ravenscroft's radio show is on BBC 6 Music at 9pm every Friday. He writes a monthly music column for the New Statesman and blogs here every Wednesday

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood