By Xavey Bzdek

I have never done this, bear with me; writing album or concert reviews is a task that I haven’t previously thought to attempt. But, lo and behold comrades, I am here writing this review because I have mustered the desire to spoon-feed you all some immortal knowledge: DOPE LEMON is a phenomenal band. 

The 3rd Sunday of October 2023 was the day my friend Ben and I experienced greatness in the form of sound. We were rattling our way up I-5 to see this posse of Aussies, though at the time we thought it was just the one dude–the humble Mr. Lemon–who we would bear witness to that fateful night. Out of curiosity on the drive Ben looked up more on the amoeba that is DOPE LEMON. In doing so, we found out that it was indeed a band and not a man. This herd of dingo are led by the head-dingo, a man named Angus Stone. Not, to my dismay, “Mr. Lemon.” Chance missed. After finally arriving at the venue, we found incredible parking, which is irrelevant except for the fact that it put me in an extraordinary mood. Never having been to this fabled tune-room called The Showbox, we ourselves, grabbed some drinks, and stood around to survey the crowd. Older, slightly less older, and younger-than-us spectators filled the space, and Ben and I people watched until the opener mosied on out.

Now you get to hear about music. Y’all ate your veggies, and scanned your beady little eyes over that last part, sifting through brainless muck like that can take years off your life, maybe decades. Anywho, keep on shoving those unbearably large noses y’all have into this next part. I’m projecting. The opener was good, definitely the fourth Jonas brother, no doubt. He waltzed onto stage in a full-blown rat costume and gyrated until his set was over. I loved that about him. He brought a less-fucks-the-better philosophy that I like to think I myself convey. A couple truly good songs stood out among the antics; “Cocaine” was my fave, a rock ‘n’ roller twang of a classic. As I threw my hair back and forth on to the people around me, I could see a couple of other die-hards white-knuckling the stage-bar. The vibe was up.

Angus took his sweet time getting to the stage, and, oozing and salivating for this man, I was slightly ticked off. Cmon Cmonnnn, Shit! Where is this Aussie fuckwad!? I had no patience, my legs hurt ‘cause I’m old, I needed my instant DOPE hit. Finally, like the rockers they truly are, a group of men floated one by one to the stage. To my surprise,  Mr. Lemon was much more than one dude, this group looked ready to rip shit up. 

I’ll back up a little for context; DOPE LEMON is an Australian indie group parking the kangaroo (I hope that’s not offensive) that is their musical seed in the garden of oxygenized–that means airy–psychedelic vocals, paired with a decanted hard-rock, ear-infesting electric guitar that rolls over you like a red smoke of nebulous sound waves, throwing you into a sense of falling. The falling was all Ben. When he said that I thought, “shit, why the shit didn’t I think of that, Ben’s so brilliant I’m gonna kiss ‘em.” This is the sound that I was itching to see. 

Songs one, two, three, and four may have been the best sequence of music I have ever seen–top 3 at least. Our mass quieted as the lights dimmed. Thus began the fall. A chord of pure ecstasy trickled down my spine. Eyes closed, I leaned back and forth as plucking turned into strumming. Waves of sound stretched out and pulled away like tides in our minds, lulling my body senseless. I was falling. Entranced by that rolling smoke beating bright red and low from the stage lights behind, silhouetting the group, my consciousness was halted for an instant. This is what it’s all about, man. The youthful bliss reawakened in my stretched-out mind. 

I watched the lead-guitar man grate his fingers on the metallic ax bound to his torso, undoing the strings in my brain that kept it solid until it had been reduced to liquid mush. I forget where song one ended, and where song three began; all I know is I was a part of the soupy continuum. The crowd was in sync, and when one hand went up, the rest followed. I can’t overindulge in the extraneous imagery enough dudes, this shit was so good it made me write a damn UNPROMPTED paper on it. So again, bear with my indigestible prose for a moment and try to picture what I’m hearing.  The opening was followed up by a few little interjections by our beloved Mr. Lemon and the gang. Celebrating the new album they dropped – chillustreous if you ask me – we heard a combination of soft-desert hippie rock with a real beach-ness to it I cannot explain. The song “Slinging Dimes” was a circular haze of rhythm. The build up of perpetual positivity by Angus provided the people with a peaceful protest against stress. I myself felt as though I’d been swaddled and burped by canción. I loved it. If you want to find more about the actual sound behind these words, go look up “Stonecutters,” “How Many Times,” and “Marinade” and listen to ‘em in that order if you want me to shut up. Then go listen to the album Kimosabé. That’s your homework. Nerd. 

Music makes you lose control, eh? Si o no? I only have good shit to report about this concert. Sure there are always things that are a bit sucky about concerts, and albums, and this was no difference. The thing is, that shit is boring. I didn’t come here to vent about ooooh they didn’t play the music rightttt, it wasn’t EXACTLY what I wanted, wahhhhhhh. Fuck that. We keep a positive attitude when we talk about music and art over here. So, 10/10 in my book, shoutout Angus Stone and his sour-citrus’d oval-headed compatriots. I got nothing else for you cuties.