Matt Corby – 'My False'

Matt Corby – My False (mp3)

Let’s be frank here. Reality TV hasn’t bred much musical goodwill. Apart from John Foreman’s attempts at matching an Andre Rieu face, Marcia Hines using any opportunity to wear a jumpsuit on live TV or watching Bug Eye introduce every song with an expression that looks like he’s being constantly raped from behind, I’d rather digest my dinner with some with something of substance. Natalie Gauci? Anthony Callea? Can’t forget my personal favourite, Casey Donovan. I’m sure they’re all forging their music careers fronting 80‘s cover bands out in the eastern suburbs, frying fish and chips for the local community or gatecrashing the e-grade social pages at the back of the Herald Sun.

So what really does come after the big hoo-ha of winning a crappy Hyundai and a big ass record deal that requires you to personally polish Jay-Dee Springbett’s bald patch and shit out an album in three days? Mass rotation on the generic Kmart store CD, perhaps the 5 dollar bargain bins at JB, regular Westfield gigs maybe. If you’re lucky like a former top 20 contestant your track may get the opportunity to feature in a UK laundry detergent commercial. Contest me if I’m wrong, but if I was a muso, the thought of a domestic British female scrubbing the skidmarks off her toddler’s cloth nappy in perfect 4/4 time to my my track probably wouldn’t measure the crux of where I’d want my career to be heading.

It was inevitable that when I went to a gig when I was visiting Sydney earlier this year – and saw that Matt Corby was on the bill, I smirked a very wry little smirk. However, hidden away at the back of a Spanish restaurant, walking into the intimate, amber lit gig space was something on an entire different level.

I’ve never used the words ‘moving’ to describe a gig. For me, going out to see bands in Melbourne means having drongos spill beer on your good pants and watching incompetent garage band vocalists abuse sound dudes. Gigs are usually brash, raw and somewhat energetic, but far from compelling the shudder-and-goosebumps sort of thing.When I walked in to this Syd gig, Corby was already in the middle of his set. Although I’m quite fond of hyperbole, I’m far from exaggerating when I say you couldn’t hear a fucking pin drop in the place.

The great thing about Corby is that this guy can sing. You could feel each tempered phrase and each swathing falsetto engulf the tiny, dimly lit space in some sort of creepy supernatural aura. Could have been just the combination of some eerie Bon Iver-esque sample cues, a heavily potent glass (can’t you Sydney people mix drinks?!) and a hazy cloud of smoke billowing from the Spanish kitchen next door – but Corby’s set was incredible. I’ve seen a lot of bands try and compensate for the meagre skills of their frontman by recruiting an attractive female to hit a triangle in the background, whacking in overbearing solos or donning hideous matching outfits to fill the void (you know who you are).  At the end of the day, there is nothing more refreshing than a voice that compels and convicts. There are no wasted phrases here.

‘My False’ kicks off with a ghostly call to arms, before moving into a wave of pastoral nostalgia. The progression of the melody has a beautiful folk-hymnal quality to it. It’s all angelic falsettos, gospel stomps and cascading vocals, so if you were looking forward to a thorough Idol bashing, you probably won’t find it here from me.

(For the record, I still own two copies of the ‘Angels Brought Me Here’ (limited edition, mind you) I purchased as a completely clueless thirteen year old.The first copy sits at the bottom of my wardrobe filed next to Delta Goodrem, Evanescence and a wad of tragic So Fresh compilations, while the second copy doubles up as a coaster.)