“DOLLS make me want to grab and shake you by the shoulders, demanding you go see them live”
It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon in Brunswick, and I’m at the Bergy Bandroom, sound checking with my band. We’re a couple of hours away from playing a show.
But goddammit, DOLLS are on the bill, too. And they might just be the greatest band you’ve never heard of. At least not yet.
Sharing the stage with a band like DOLLS has me awash in cognitive dissonance. I can’t wait to see them play, whilst I simultaneously dread trying to keep up, or even come close to matching the magnetic energy of the performance they’re capable of.
No time for Sunday laziness, I’m going to have to bring it.
Before their set I grab a drink and find a spot near the front.
“Jesus Christ, I’m gonna need to put this Jack and Coke down before I smash the glass—I’m gripping it so hard,” I think as that familiar primal surge electrifies the hairs on my neck.
It’s the kind of feeling only great bands can deliver; that call to the pit that hits like a drug you didn’t know you took.
All you can do is abandon your spot at the back, push your way to the front, and indulge your lizard brain in the sweat and beer-slicked hive.
It’s been a minute since I’ve felt that hit. At many a gig I’ve stood there, beer in hand, swaying and head bobbing as one song blends into the next, enjoying myself immensely, but aware on some level that I’ve sorta heard this before.
And that’s fine. But sometimes, on rare occasions, a truly brilliant band comes along and doses you with originality so hard you almost fall over. DOLLS are one such band.
As they take the stage, DOLLS’ presence immediately registers as that rare cocktail of band mates all in confident possession of their own unique style; each distinct, whilst forming a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.
Vocalist Lachie Gough begins the set kneeling at some kind of sampler, triggering a melee of nostalgic sound bites and irreverent horn blasts before the first buzz-saw riff kicks in.
So much hits you at once. The meticulously crafted, devastating tones from bassist James Francis punch through the mix, coupling flawlessly with the frenetic drumming of James Noonan, the two of them presenting one of the most fun-to-watch rhythm sections; Noonan somehow making the house kit sound miles better than the rest of the bands on the bill and Francis laying down the low end with the occasional trill and upper register lick thrown in for good measure.
Guitarist Phil Panting, gat strung up high, emits a slew of outrageously fun and unpredictable riffs. It’s one of the most mesmerising displays of creativity on the instrument I can remember seeing.
Just when a part starts to settle into a familiar pattern he’ll crowbar in a screechy, dissonant chord that throws off all sense of predictability, tones tightly dialled into a distinct, biting fuzz.
Tying the whole thing together is frontman and vocalist Lachie. Shouty, raw, and unapologetically real.
There’s no act, no front. It’s all grit, sweat, and anger, with a voice that rips through the room like a busted amp.
Every shout feels like it’s torn straight from the gut, and you can tell this isn’t just performance—it’s release.
The band are clearly having fun and not taking anything too seriously.
The camaraderie, the eye contact, the man-possessed stage presence, and the laughs between songs are infectious.
It’s hard to list familiar references to aid in describing their sound.
They’re fast, ferocious, dynamic as hell, heavy, incredibly creative and, more than anything, goddamn refreshing.
Seeing DOLLS live is to witness four dudes coming together to all masterfully execute their craft in a way that makes you laugh between songs because what you just saw was so damn good.
The songwriting on display is immense. Seamless time signature changes, a heavy helping of jank and fuzz, and call-and-response vocals turn each song into a standalone rollercoaster of episodic moments.
I’m never quite sure where it’s headed, but I’m fully strapped in. Each track feels like a manic journey—unpredictable yet perfectly controlled in its madness—while remaining unpretentious and accessible.
Between songs I find myself trying to catch eyes with those around me to share in an exchanged glance of “are you seeing this?”.
They end their set with their first single Point The Finger. A tumultuous showcase of many of the signatures mentioned above, with Lachie Gough pleading innocence despite admitting indulgence in a vapid existence, feeling bored and uninspired.
By the sounds of things he and the boys have been anything but. It’s a pummeling track that’ll have you shoving your adjacent mates in reaction to the energy being unleashed on the crowd.
DOLLS make me want to grab and shake you by the shoulders, demanding you go see them live. It feels almost naughty seeing a band this good so up close and personal before they inevitably blow up and draw bigger crowds, like you’re in on a dirty secret bound for inevitable exposure.
If you’re yet to catch them, do yourself a favour and get your ass to their next show. They very well might end up being the band you can tell your friends you saw in front of 30 people, before it’s impossible to see them in front of less than a couple hundred.
By Simon Lowther
Bassist from MILKSICK
All Photos by Tom Gosling
