May 5th 2018

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Articles from this issue:

COVER STORY HECS: hastening our demographic winter

EDITORIAL Liddell is the 'fly in the ointment' of the NEG

AFRICAN AFFAIRS African Continental Free Trade Area ... in the spirit of GATT

CANBERRA OBSERVED Bernardi foray looks to be fading out of view

ENVIRONMENT Is a prolonged freeze on the way for the earth?

MEDICINE NaProTechnology: an ethical alternative in reproductive health

MEDICAL ETHICS Grounds for objection: a declaration on freedom of conscience

OPINION What a republic would really mean for Australia

LAW AND FREEDOM 'Rule of law' does not support exemptions: a reply to Robin Speed

INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS Saudi Crown Prince challenges Wahhabists

HIGHER EDUCATION Undoing the dis-education of Millennials

GENDER POLITICS Why are patients being denied freedom of choice?

ASIAN HISTORY Jinmen: the forgotten crisis that brought the world to the brink


MUSIC Grammy salute to Elton John: Revealing revisit to the 1970s

CINEMA The Isle of Dogs: Man's best friend in exile

BOOK REVIEW Australia, we need to talk about China

BOOK REVIEW Novelised life a vivid drama of survival



NATIONAL AFFAIRS Committal hearing dismisses main charges against Cardinal Pell

Books promotion page


News Weekly, May 5, 2018


Crashing Boars

Butt on y’ lip Discs AD1208
$24.95 (or $12.50 for good behaviour)

Reviewed by Sebastian Gunlighter

Where have these guys been all my life? Presumably wandering around in the forests of the world capturing the sounds that have been their inspiration.

To anyone who has been in a forest at night, the similarities in soundscapes on this disc will leap out at you like a jaguar from a tree onto the back of an unwary tapir. Or like the tongue of a chameleon flicking out to snatch a passing fly mid-flight. There are the same distant howlings and snortings, the same mid-range crackings and snufflings, and the same close-by buzzings and slitherings.

There is the aural equivalent of the ubiquitous stench of rotting vegetation and animal faeces. But above all, there is a musicality that can only fairly be described as being to the ears what would translate into the tactile experience of a 48-carriage freight train rolling casually over your thumbs.

The names of the tracks are as mysterious and, well, impenetrable as a cave full of bats at night. There’s the piece called Spaghetti Pants Albinos, which sounds like a cave full of bats at night; there’s Julia Canard Eats Vogan, a cute piece that sounds like a veterinary surgeon being consumed by jackels; and there’s Half a Potato Cracked My Back, which is nothing if not opaque, obscure and full of intimations of mortality.

I’m sure I have said enough here to entice the discerning listener to at least taste these raucous clangings and clammerings. I doesn’t get better than this. Thumbs up!

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Last Modified:
April 4, 2018, 6:45 pm