The Triffids were the kind of band for whom, in retrospect, obscene cult appreciation seemed inevitable, even deliberate. David McCombās monstrously passionate, unapologetically sincere, often very weird lyrics atop, the bandās 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 Triffidsā hometown of Perth isnāt just isolated because itās in Australia, itās isolated even within Oz. For me, Perth doesnāt 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 ācoolnessā or ārestraintā, the band could instead be as earnest and strange, as belting and untethered as they damn pleased.
Pick(s): āPlace in the Sunā, āLonely Stretchā, āSuntrapperā, āBlinder By the Hourā, āFalling Over Youā