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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“The Hole-Up”: a poem by Matthew Sweeney

“You could taste the raw / seagull you’d killed and plucked, / the mussels you’d dug from sand, / the jellyfish that wobbled in your / hands as you slobbered it.”

Lying on your mouth and nose
on the hot sand, you recall
a trip in a boat to the island –
the fat rats that skittered about
after god-knows-what dinner,
the chubby seals staring up,
the sudden realisation that a man
on the run had wintered there
while the soldiers scoured
the entire shoreline to no avail –
you knew now you had been him
out there. You could taste the raw
seagull you’d killed and plucked,
the mussels you’d dug from sand,
the jellyfish that wobbled in your
hands as you slobbered it.
You saw again that first flame
those rubbed stones woke in
the driftwood pile, and that rat
you grilled on a spar and found
delicious. Yes, you’d been that man,
and you had to admit now you
missed that time, that life,
though you were very glad you
had no memory of how it ended.


Matthew Sweeney’s Black Moon was shortlisted for the 2007 T S Eliot Prize. His latest collection is Inquisition Lane (Bloodaxe).

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt