Scribbling notes after being late to Dirty Secrets felt redundant in about two minutes. Mainly because I’ve seen Faker a few times… Though lacking the juvenile scrambling of Nathan Hudson, Jarrah McCleary’s epileptic dancing made up for it. Even the false British swing to his vocals only reminded me of what I had already heard before. However, despite all this, I must admit, I tapped my feet and I nodded my head. Their songs built you up and broke you down again like the melodies of an amusement park or fair, largely helped along by the prominent keyboard played of  McCleary and those candy coloured spotlights.

Having scrambled in I only had a moment to take in the second stage where the “entrance foyer” would have usually been. Suddenly it all felt slightly like a festival. The Shake Up took the stage. Then a hard blues sound started to burst from the three blokes on stage. The furiously paced vocals knocked like boots tapping on a patio. Also, I couldn’t help but notice too that their melody reminded me of Hot Hot Heat’s Bandages more than once… but it’s not about using a derivative chord progression but rather, how you use it. Oddly enough, the singer hardly stepped from one spot. The bassist was the one to watch, thrashing as if possessed.

The Exploders, turned out to be the perfect medium between The Shake Up and The Panda Band’s jangly pop rock. They purred like a Harley with a driver on acid. Partly psychedelic and slightly jazzy, yet one could classify it easily as guitar rock. TJ Allender’s raspy voice occasionally hit falsetto scratching the ceiling as their sound bounced around the bodies in the almost full room.

Before I get to the Panda Band I would like to mention the panda bath mat. Yes, a panda bath mat, floating ominously through the crowd during the set. There are a lot of things about the Panda Band that glows with the ecclectic zing of their unique personality. From guitarist Chris Callan’s mini-tie to drummer Gabriel Nicotra’s kaftan. Damien’s proclamations of love of Sydneysiders contrasted with the words on Callan’s guitar “Get killed. Get noticed”. And in a cocktail of sweet and bitter tastes, the Panda Band intoxicates. I’m not sure how anyone felt behind the moshpit of stranger love, uplifting themselves with those cryptic lyrics, those bouncing melodies.But they must have had a nice view, the band on stage and spontaneous performances in front.

Stepping out of the Annandale that night felt slightly like waking up from a dream.