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There are some days when you feel like a real wanker for not investing more in the local rock scene of Sydney. A breezy Sunday afternoon at the Annandale Hotel is one of them, as the ludicrously successful My Filthy Riot festival showcases all those hard working groups that have been spamming you on Facebook to get you to come to their gigs. And my god, does Sydney have some talent! For the city the entertainment Gods forgot, we’ve got some outfits here far more worthy of radio play than Empire Of The Sun or Andrew Stockdale’s latest attempt at Wolfmother. It’s a fantastic affirmation of the kind of quality many of us forgot our bands have, all helped along by a buoyant crowd and – œmy mates are your mates’ atmosphere.

In the recesses of the pokie room (ah, the irony of live music in a gambling den), 17-year-old champions Papa Vs. Pretty blast the living shit out their instruments while sweating blood to make a large audience adore them. It’s not a difficult proposition; the lead singer and guitarist of this band has more personality than Paddy from Ghostwood and a young Daniel Johns put together. Shredding like a kid who beat Guitar Hero and then moved onto the real thing, he commands a phenomenal stage presence and proves to be one of the early highlights of the day.

Rising out of the semi-ashes of Some for Kinder come the adorable, swooning, post-everything band Sherlock’s Daughter. With more instruments on stage than the Opera House, epic ten-minute songs and one hell of a frontwoman, these guys are a force to be reckoned with. Singer Tanya is instantly gaining comparisons to the Howling Bells Juanita Stein, both in vocal tone and stunning good looks. But Sherlock’s Daughter are more than that; they provide the kind of music you’d love to sit back with headphones and immerse yourself in, so watching it live is even better. Changing grooves, delayed endings and band handclaps all make this group worthy of repeat viewings.

Back on the My Filthy Riot stage, lauded act Songs (try finding THAT on Google) continue the theme of – œthy band must possess an extremely sexy and understated female’, in the form of a waif-like bass player who looks like she stepped straight out of Cruel Intentions. At times, this band use repetitive motifs that hark back to the sound of early Kyuss, aided by a killer drummer who pretty much plays his whole set without stopping for breath. A curious proposition, the band is a combination of age, sex and ethnicity that is as striking visually as it is sonically. It seems that Sydney bands are beginning to dispense of the verse/chorus structure in favour of slow build-ups that come to fruition around the four minute mark. It requires a longer attention span, but it’s worth the wait.

Perennial favourites Lions At Your Door get a look in, boasting a new drummer who isn’t a psychopath and some ripper material, aided by the lovely Sweetie rocking out on violin. Brag New Girl Vivian Huynh’s project No Art are also surprisingly entertaining, even though they seem a bit nervous at first.
The night belongs to only one band, and that is Philadelphia Grand Jury. I have never danced, laughed or screamed so much in my entire life, so engrossing is the power of this trio. Busting on stage to a pre-recorded introduction of themselves, this group soon establish themselves as the party of the century.

Boasting songs that rarely go over 2 minutes, they are aided by the supreme chops of drummer Dan W, as they bust out punk-rock-hillbilly-pop tunes that are as indebted to – œ50s legends as they are to modernists like The Hives. The dual frontmen (both of whom go under absurd fake names) are dangerously OTT, with the singer ditching his guitar when it breaks a string by throwing it into the audience, while the bearded Yogi Bear bass player is the most intense thing on two legs.

With a 45-minute set of songs mostly dedicated to horrible ex-girlfriends, these guys are honestly the funniest and most engaging act I’ve seen all year. I’m in love, the crowd is in love, everybody’s dancing like they’re at a nightclub and that’s before two members of The Scare come up to join the mayhem and Yogi (eventually I’ll get his real name) goes on a whirlwind spree and trashes the entire stage. I can’t believe I even managed this many words, because all I could muster at the time was – œOh.My.God’. See this band before you die – hell, see them tomorrow. You won’t regret it.

A great festival full of like-minded people, My Filthy Riot is testament to the camaraderie and good nature of our music scene. So next time someone tells you to go to Coldplay, fuck it off and see a local band instead. They will rock you, and probably inspire you too.