ET Recommends - 31: Witch Hats

Where are my home-boys now I need them gathered around me? Where are Stevie Chick, Ben Myers, Steve Gullick, John Robb? Where are my home-girls? Where's Jennifer Maerz, Kathleen Wilson, Jessica Hopper, Cathi Unsworth? I want to shout this band's name from the treetops, proclaim in every fetid barroom and unfinished street in the land, bow down to their vicious, sullen beauty and insouciant swagger, fuck with the dregs of humanity and call it a new religion. I want to roll through the crowds, ducking weaving, belly-punching and scowling, pushing aside the chaff. I want to dance naked in the fire-light, calling and carousing, giggling insane as the house comes collapsing round my feet. I want to lie, sprawled out on the stairs at The Venue, silence pounding a rhythm to my brain. I want everyone to know, everyone to know about The Majesty That Is Phill Calvert. I want to roll, roll, roll. I don't ever want this feeling to die away again.

I've spent the past two hours with Melbourne's Witch Hats. Two fucking glorious hours. What do you need to know? They rock, like few rock, like few ever rock.

I like. I like a whole fucking lot.