Concrete Playground

Strange but delectably true: just a week ago, if you looked in the front window of the right three-storey terrace in Surry Hills at about 4am, you would have seen several twenty-somethings dancing intoxicatedly (it was a word then, at least) to the vintage-warm strains of Midlake. Now, while this is the only recorded instance of such a happening in recent times, it would not be a gigantic surprise to this writer if in the early hours of Sunday mornings everywhere, young, hip things could be seen lolloping about their low-lit lounge rooms to The Trials of Van the Occupanther and The Courage of Others.

Midlake have that thing about them that encourages dorkish, retro shape-pulling from otherwise appropriately self-conscious youths. It's a heady nostalgia, best consumed after several gin and tonics, with your blinds half-drawn and seven or eight of your bestest friends. You listen on vinyl (obvs).