The Holy Soul is Trent Marden, Jon Hunter, Kate Wilson and Sam Worrad, and they've got a new album called Get Old!

Get Old! was recorded at Lost Sound in Marrickville by David Akerman and Toby Baldwin. It was produced by Robyn Hitchcock (The Soft Boys) after he and the band had bonded over some rosé and Roxy Music LPs.

Robyn says:
GET OLD! Sage advice from my pals from the Inner West of Sydney. The Holy Soul fall into the un-niche that is Art Rock: they are blissfully genre-free, though you could safely say they aren’t pop music.

It’s the sound of four musicians being themselves, reacting to life as they effervesce in the glass of life, right next to God’s dentures. Not always pretty, but invariably some kinda fun.

Aside from grooving with them in the Newtown/Marrickville area of Sydney, my point of intersection with them is the electric guitar: I love to hear two axes in synch, be it in The Stones, The V.U., The Magic Band or Television. The Soul have this in abundance, all scranch and no sludge: Trent setting the rhythmic course with Jon adding the superstructure, blossoming into waspish lead at times. Sam anchors the bass and Kate expresses the drums bigtime, yet somehow keeps the beat.

Trent’s primo dystopian lyrics ice this mental cake and the whole gang clatter off to meet you at your stereo, arms akimbo.

Born in Sydney / Dharug country and based in the Illawarra on Dharawal land, Expensive Music Band’s Troon Lienad has been honing his melodic sensibilities over the past fifteen years, self-releasing several avant-pop projects, shifting sound and style from album-to-album.

Recorded by Troon Lienad alongside a wide-ranging cast of collaborators, including Annabel Blackman (Body Type, Solo Career), Chet Tucker (Uplifting Bell Ends), Luke Player (Tropical Strength, Pinheads) and Bowen Shakallis (Big White), Things to Say at a Barbecue is a testament the power of an artistic support network. Written and recorded by the group at Jez Player’s Pinhead Shed, the record is a collegial cosmophage of goofball humour, with farcical yarns and meditations on cosmic despair, caressing the ears of the purposefully distracted and willingly vulnerable.