Kirin J Callinan, Rinse & Repeat, BONAVEGA
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All doors & show times subject to change.
It's 2017, and as a fresh tide of Australian acts froth across the world, charming international audiences with their rough & ready style, we have a major source to credit with that Australian brand of obscene confidence so frequently on display. Kirin J Callinan.
It's fair of you to wonder where a man like Kirin J comes from. What mix of lust and love, violence and tenderness; what strange turn of events lead to this apparition riding into town?
Kirin is an Australian Man. He's heat shimmer on a road and waves white against ocean blue. Built like an amateur boxer, long and strong, and dressed like a toreador. Tiger blood and a dick like a chair leg. Drinks salt water and holds eye contact after offering you a sip.
This is a man who could have settled for a life of patronized excess. Been a kept man on any continent on earth. Lying poolside, skin browned, slick with sun oil, a drink in hand, fucking some poor shmo's grandmother and living like a prince.
And yet he's here, stood on a stage at midnight, surrounded by drunks. A fantasy creature existing firm in reality. And when he takes to his guitar, flanked by amplifiers, girt by Boss, cables growing and spreading like vines from out around him; he produces sounds at once captivating and beautiful for their violence and creativity. It's hard to explain the feeling. The tension in your heart. The strange, sexy feeling you get from peeling a banana. Melodies make you wince at their pure creativity. Euro trash is another man's treasure. Beyond pastiche. Sonically out amongst the corpses and flying bullets; not stooped in the trenches. A man on the front line.
Kirin J Callinan is an apex predator. A butterfly. A grassfire. A beautiful baby boy wandered curious into the gun safe. You're listening to something very specific when you're hearing Kirin J express himself. And you're right to be wondering if this mania, this insanity, this total abandon exists within all of us. Makes you wonder if you've just missed out. If you're a coward for never trying. If you were ever on the field in the first place. Out there is a pendulum that swings recklessly between madness and delicate precision.
But what is recklessness without talent? What's a prisoner without his trade? A maniac without the voices in her head? What do we work with when the world puts too much space between us and our treasured visions of the future? Bravado.
The New Parish
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