Indie Rock

There’s a tender, unmistakable charm that lingers in the work of natural-born storyteller, Patrick Wilson. Rich in craftsmanship, Wilson’s trademark sound and approach to songwriting are gifts only strengthened by the life he breathes into performance.

His is a befitting narrative. It was in 2010 that Wilson, a Torquay tragic and lover of community life decided once-and-for-all to satiate his own creative hunger. Channeling the intricate romanticism of a small-town upbringing into writing, recording, and a debut EP, Anywhere With A Rooftop (2017), Wilson began the painstakingly slow but ultimately revolutionary process of personal reinvention.

It’s not often that audiences witness an artist whose output is so grounded, personable, and heartrendingly honest. As it happens, there’s a distinct warmth and benevolence sewn deep within the lining of Wilson’s craft. We’ve seen it with the likes of Marlon Williams, Kacey Musgraves and Roy Orbison, all stars in their own right, but it’s in Patrick Wilson that this unique class of alternative, old-time Americana finds its true north.

Wilson’s rich, even-flowing voice tempts light to even the darkest corners of rooms and implores us, above all, to place trust in the hands of its owner. Make no mistake: Patrick Wilson is a man of his word.

A true musician of the rarest skill, he remains in demand as a drummer and long-time guitarist for a conglomeration of Australian acts including Fanny Lumsden, Henry Wagons Georgia State Line, Lachlan Bryan and the Wildes, Ben Mastwyk and his Millions and many more.Wilson has - in newfound resonance supported The Bellamy Brothers (USA), Australian country heavyweight Bill Chambers (Dead Ringer Band),and has travelled internationally playing shows alongside James Ellis and the Jealous Guys.Appearing onstage at some of Australia’s best festivals on offer including The Tamworth Country Music Festival, Deni Ute Muster, Gympie Music Muster, Falls festival.

“I heard Patrick Wilson sing for the first time in a small studio in Melbourne. His voice and his songs just blew me away.”

- Bill Chambers

It’s fair enough, too, because here is a reborn and beautifully mature musician now hell-bent on satisfying our cravings for a damned good tune. It’s in Wilson and his craft that we arrive home.

Since their formation in 2019, NO CIGAR has rapidly established themselves as one of New Zealand's most promising musical acts, captivating audiences with their infectious grooves and compelling storytelling. The release of their first single Tickets To Space at the end of that year was just the beginning.

In 2020, NO CIGAR released their critically acclaimed EP Radical Road which showcased their unique blend of psychedelic rock and groovy guitars. Their growing popularity has been fueled by their dynamic live performances, which have earned them a loyal and enthusiastic fanbase.

With the recent release of their debut album Bienvenido in September 2022, NO CIGAR has solidified their position as a major force in the New Zealand music scene, earning airplay on popular radio stations such as ZM, Radio Hauraki, and The Edge. They have also played to packed crowds at iconic venues and festivals across the country, including Rhythm and Vines and That Weekend.

'Waliens' are a four piece indie-rock band from the bayside area of Melbourne. Their brand of music is bright and upbeat, and they will be celebrating the release of their first EP 'Line and Length' on April 20th, which is the product of over 12 months of work.

The Twigs are legends – teen sensations, k pop stars, BrotherLovers, Twiggy Cola Lite. Their songs exist as cultural freebase. Cocaine, water, baking soda, and DNA. (o.k. )
While the White Smile Face People appoint Garage Girl, Digital Bass Face or Shitbag Boy as the new FreakoftheWeek, the Twigs have lived 26 cat lives from here to japan making real life bonafide Humans rejoice in the pagan art of Magick Pop Freebase. There are millions of fans, You see; the twigz are more Popular than You, they are Greater than Your Favorite Band, they are a phenomenon.
And now it’s been more than three years since they showed up with their masterpieces and the kids went berserk.
You loved “Meet the Twigs,” you loved the fucking monkey.
Well Music For the General Public is the ultimate ride cocksucker.
Because the Twigs heated up the bottom of their spoons and let their chemicals morph into oil-slick-rainbow clumps. 12 of them. Each song is Twigs from concentrate: seven times more concentrated than the initial juice.
A noseful for every junkie, sparkling as the cream smeared across the mythical holy Ghost-Teen’s high waisted vintage-ass JEANS.

THE TWIGS are celebs. They are in Rado’s dusty bat cave, one of several spots they’ve been chipping at their fuck puzzle. They have nothing to prove. They don’t care. Everybody who’s the face of a designer clothing campaign is because the twigs passed first.
//~ Michael lives in the studio and lays down his tracks at night. He has become a reluctant studio engineer in the Twigs’ home studio in Long Island and can run the machines himself. He is working on the album’s opener, ‘Hell on Wheels,” in which His searing cartoon visions of dirty screaming teenage deathkids ripping down the Strip parade us into into the throb of the album. He mopes around. The subject matter of his songs is dark. His songs are Masterful and bombastic, exploding and shining black, while his lyrics seem preoccupied with incest, broken homes, loneliness. Welcome.
Now It’s daytime. Brian’s in love. He and his girlfriend Anastasia have shown up after her shift at Squaresville vintage clothing store. Brian sprinkles sweetgrass around. Brian’s songs have become Too Good – they are DMT jesters of themselves, cartoon crack. You can wind a Brian Song up and watch it go BOING BOING BOING down the hallway with art deco birds towering above, snirting their snorters into snakey red inkwater.
And here you are, in your stupid fake clown costume, with your Twigs merch, hitting your vein again.
You clown, you fanboy. you love this shit.
Admit it sucker. you need this shit.