SixThousand is a weekly snapshot of Perth's subculture - a Perth guide to film, music, design, books, art, goods and links for people who realise that the best things in life are often hard to find. Below you will find the latest additions to our Perth guide.
Nobody writes letters anymore. Except Luke You. This week I picked up the latest issue, sat down with a tea and read for the first time about how he's been plagued with crippling doubt. Unusual, I thought. At some point he realised he would be playing the first gig in a long time as lead guitarist and my anonymous hard working zine hero has appeared to suffer a freak out.
Thirteen years is a long time to go without releasing an album. Thirteen years ago I had just discovered the joy of self-love. I had just stopped being afraid of the dark. I had just learned how to take those massive bong hits like Ghostface Killah. Back then, flute solos were a serious and beautiful component of a song.
No matter how many mint acts are on the bill, there's always going to be "dead festival time". Not familiar with this concept? Well - you've just been blown away by Black Lips when you consult your crumpled timetable and note the next decent act is a lifetime (20mins) away. The intermediate period is called "dead festival time" and SixThousand is murdering it.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, 'that's not a pet, that's a piece of cardboard'. And yes, it is true, but before you scoff too hard, let me tell you a little something about pets.
I had a real cat once. He was pretty good. Went by the name of Charles, had a lustrous black coat and a scratch that meant business.
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