At the beginning of the band’s rise in the late ‘70s, The Saints had the odds stacked against them. Locally, the stifling control of Queensland’s Joh Bjelke Peterson government, coupled with overseas Ramones mania, prevented the band from gaining the recognition their material deserved. Overseas however, the (I’m) Stranded single had exploded in popularity, with British and American critics gushing and copies flying off the shelves.

Since the inception of the Saints’ varied and distinctive sound, the band slowly earned a reputation for being a major driving force behind the Brisbane punk scene. While providing music that bravely genre-crossed before it was hip to do so, the Saints played also played an integral role in ensuring Brisbane’s underground music scene did not fall victim to a right wing anti-youth government and a corrupt police force. Now, the band’s guitarist Ed Kuepper has a long-established solo career and current residency at Brisbane’s Troubadour club.

Everything about this album is iconic. From the front cover – the band posing in front of the fireplace of a decrepit Paddington house – to the wonderfully fuzzy production, and of course, the songs themselves. The album was recorded in two breakneck days by frontman Chris Bailey in 1977, resulting in a style described in the liner notes as “so primal it should have been carrying a club”. Most iconic of all has to be the opening to the title track, heard in thousands of living rooms across the country as Rage switched to a new batch of songs:

It’s one of those songs inescapably tied with the band, a growling mess of guitar distortion, hook-laden chords, obnoxious vocals and that trademark descending bassline anchoring down all of the fuzz.

One Way Street sounds like it could be the song structure bible for new punks The Hives. Tight yet messy and very dance-floor friendly, it skitters about gleefully, striking a perfect balance of pop sensibilities and punk style. Meanwhile, there’s no better song to hold a lighter in the air than Messin’ With The Kid. With it’s gently rolling verses and anthemic chorus, it was sonic proof that The Saints weren’t about jumping on the gravy train of the other leather-clad punk bands of the time.

Erotic Neurotic enjoyed – and continues to enjoy – a similar widespread success to the (I’m) Stranded single. It’s just as pleasing to the ear with its insistently chugging guitar riffs, crash cymbals ringing, and – finally – a guitar solo. Chris Bailey’s sloppy vocals are just right, hinting at something sexual but veiling any overt emotion with bored aloofness.

The distortion is cranked up to eleven for No Time, a raw-as-fuck punk gem that’s performed as though it hurts. It’s the kind of song you’d imagine fifty people crammed into a lounge room, obscenely drunk, pogoing around seemingly oblivious of ensuing injuries. If there ever was a song to capture the violent love for punk music Brisbane’s younger residents had at the time, No Time is it.

Very early in the band’s career, The Saints were often accused of lifting the Ramones style, despite the fact that they had produced a record way before the US group. The Ramones similarity becomes most evident (and even then, the link is fairly weak) in the band’s take on Elvis classic Kissing Cousins. It’s that timeless call-and-response thing with the vocalist vying for attention with the guitars, but it’s incredibly effective and heralded a move that is so prevalent today. How often are punk bands now seen paying tribute – and sometimes annihilating – pop songs?

Story of Love is a beautifully dirty masterpiece, and the crudeness of the performance lends a real richness to the track. The extended guitar solo doesn’t seem self-indulgent when put into the context of the rolling melodies under Bailey’s nasal vocals. It’s enviable that the band can slip with such dexterity back into punk mode. Demolition Girl contains so many of the trademark sounds later heard in bands from the grunge era it’s quite unnerving.

Nights in Venice wraps up the proceedings with flair. It’s pulled along with chugging bass and a primal, incessant snare drum attack, before sliding into a faux-jam with Bailey muttering nonsensical phrases under his breath while guitars wail above. It’s all quietened to barely audible levels before the explosive encore section of the track, where Bailey sings like a man possessed, the rhythm section is upped and the guitars combine to a nauseatingly dizzy finale.

Perhaps one of the most important and timeless albums to emerge from the less-than-encouraging cultural surrounds of Brisbane in the ‘70s, (I’m) Stranded provides as much social commentary as it does fantastic music. Despite Australia’s cultural cringing resulting in the band’s superstardom in a foreign country before being recognised in their own, The Saints provided obnoxious evidence that a revolution was growing in our own backyards.