James Alderman: drums/percussion
Andrew Dalziell: keys/cello/vocals
Sam Fiddian: bass/guitar/vocals
Tex Moon: vocals/guitar/author
Davey Warnock: guitar/vocals/author
A good friend of Melbourne rock’n’roll five-piece the Rostovs once memorably suggested that, to coin a phrase, transience breeds wit. Our propensity for perceiving death as but an opportunity to be reborn, to live life anew, and to, thereby, not succumb to morbid despair he claimed as proof of this. As an association now in its fourth incarnation, having risen from the ashes of its three former line-ups and Canberra band the Ashburys, so too are the Rostovs.
Certainly it’s been in the last year that the Rostovs have finally found their feet. With a trunk of new songs and fresh arrangements of their old, singer/guitarist Tex Moon, keyboardist/cellist Andrew Dalziell, bassist Sam Fiddian, drummer James Alderman and guitarist Davey Warnock have been dragging their sound around Melbourne’s northern bars in recent months supporting the likes of Downhills Home, Cash Savage and The Last Drinks, Pony Face, and interstaters Mexico City and Peabody.
It’s a rebirth, then, that’s worked well for the five young men; that’s allowed them to all grow just that bit. Theirs is a sound now with a loose gait, as fluid and corporeally affective as Molly Bloom’s soliloquy – as self-reflective, too, though perhaps more punctuated. They now weigh their rhythms at one end like the teardrops on a paisley tie.
They’ve now a particular way of juxtaposing a similarly weighted musical climax with lyrical denouements which fail to draw neat conclusions and list bluntly into the next song’s semantic and phonematic patterns. And it’s with a new confidence and maturity that they draw, reflect upon and articulate their impressions of their small pocket of this world.
All in, the Rostovs is a pursuit of visceral delights; an effort to turn lives to staggered beats which turn and tumble and, with designs on enunciation, edification, education, enlightenment and (mind!) escaping ennui, may languidly pour across leather chaise-longues in the pungent, heavy air of the southern city… it’s been my pleasure – let it be yours.