Persistence in a music scene is often the most important quality to doing anything worthwhile but it certainly doesn’t guarantee taste or output. Few self-identify as lifers, and even fewer are characterised by others as such. The implication is rarely derogatory although I’ve met my fair share of scene animals that should be put out of their misery (of which they’ve inevitably and irreparably caused). In the case of The Native Cats ‘lifer’ conveys more a sense of dogged service than imminent decay. It’s knowing the names of the regulars and more importantly which deserve a free drink and which don’t; of having been there and done that but waking up with a frequent enough urge to do it again. It’s one thing to do so in a city like Melbourne where the alleged lifers coast on a vibrant local infrastructure, and another to do it in Hobart where venues aren’t saved but simply beg for a quick death and their kids looked after. This may seem like an awful lot of waffle for two songs and you’d be right. But Chloe and Julian deserve the half-cut complementary drivel, especially since music writing has entirely transitioned from publication to comment section.

The two songs sit at opposite ends of The Native Cats spectrum, a distinct and ineffable Hobart quality oozing out dreary synths and stoic lines in all directions. Chloe is one of the best Australian lyricists going I reckon, up there with Jonnine et al. In the booklet accompanying the 7” she talks of synthesising place and style, of slow-burn complexity and complexity ‘in a flash’, and offers an interesting frame for both tracks. ‘Loose Count’ is classic material, Julian never over-playing, knowing what the track needs, robust and becoming, drum machine swapped for Zac Blain on the kit, the seemingly simple hook of “lose faith, lose track, lose count” quickly opening up into layers of squirrely ambiguities. I always appreciate how her lyrics worm their way into my head and gestate overtime, straightforward language giving way to fragments of a bigger story. ‘Aces Low’ ends with “kings wake up in pieces in the snow/there’s only one way this can go”, and prefigures the closing verse of ‘Lose Faith’:

“Act 1 she’s sweating, act 2 she’s wrung out/act 3 the motorcade takes its fateful alternative route/the cast takes a bow, and your chest gets tight/as you try to tell your friends what the tear in the curtain is supposedly about”

Through the two songs we get images of a king’s assassination, the inability to confess, the need for change, the strange inevitability of collapse – whether of body, faith, love or institution. You can really get into it with the words in front of ya and needless to say it clears the vast majority of songwriting you’re liable to hear from any of those supposed post-punks on the mainland. But this isn’t a competition. It’s just good stuff. Thoughtful and well-crafted, the mix is barely noticeable which means it’s perfect. Chloe’s delivery always seems searching for a new, more appropriate meter, gaps between words emphasised, then soared over. Repetition and rhyme, melody and substance. We know what is good but it rarely dulls the discovery. Underground music in Australia can feel happenstance and amnesiatic, its disparate localities as quick to produce meaningful sounds as they are to forget them. But the consistency and persistence of groups like The Native Cats are what remind you of those Lilliputian threads which form a broader sound and disposition beyond local scene or Instagram feed, but within shared cultural experience.