LOW LIFE PASS PORT

Visceral with banale urgency, staccatic in rhythm, dead burning on the water of the disparate 00 s Sydney punk scene. Constantly showing neither a desire to arrive nor leave, but never looking to stay. Like a rabid dog at an obituary, low life have more or less been the soundtrack of a decade of decay in this city. But like an eel in the Cooks River, their dogged sound continues to move against the current, through the mud and beneath the surface, the light that does find it