I was the “Rat” in the “Bin” that was Jim E Brown at Mary’s Underground

I expected Friday the 26th of June 2026 to be about a lot of things: The last gig at Mary’s Underground ever. My friends’ dual birthday party. Faux-Pom post-punk synth-pop. Millennial-style self-deprecation. 9-11. (All things hyphenated to death.) Instead, my night was about the pristine McChicken I had in Circular Quay. And for that reason, my review is immensely less glazed than I initially anticipated. 

To set the scene: Dismounting the train, I was under some kind of illusion that a Maccas dinner would occur pre-show, but what appeared to be a group beeline to the Golden Arches belied a heart-shattering sharp left-turn at the doors. After abandoning my Shiraz in an alleyway, my friends and I lined up too late in a winding queue of tweed and adult acne to descend into what I will now refer to as the cramped smoggy hellscape of pre-mortem Mary’s. Security took a look at the four of us and lovingly dubbed our posse “the cast of Stranger Things” on our way in. Spirits were high, hunger aside.

my friends and I lined up too late in a winding queue of tweed and adult acne to descend into what I will now refer to as the cramped smoggy hellscape of pre-mortem Mary’s.

For a musical comedy act that played the humble Lazy Thinking only a year ago, the sold-out basement venue was pandemonium. It was difficult to breathe, with neither twirling room nor any prospects of a drink at the bar. As Andy Burns took the stage for a round of woozy chamber pop, I realised this show was going to be a purely auditory experience for me. I spent his surprisingly enjoyable melo-operatic support set staring into the backs of people much fortunately taller and nearer to the stage. Burns wrapped up his set with an adorable cover of Roy Orbison’s ‘You Got It’, observedly going wildly underappreciated by the crowd.

As Jim E Brown took the stage, (or as I assume he did, because, once again, I could not see) a roar of applause and heckles rose to meet the singer-songwriter. A steady consumption of dark and light beers accompanied self-sombre tracks like ‘I Urinated On A Butterfly’ and ‘I’m an Obese Alcoholic’; all rather pedestrian Jim E Brown cuts to warm us up for the far more wordy and geo-specific ‘Someone Left 4 Chicken Fillets in Marie Louise Gardens’ and ‘I’m About to Fall Over in Asda’. The audience were ravenous for interaction, prodding our personally-assigned lolcow with items to sign and Anglo-coded taunts. 

The true test of fandom would shortly follow the recitation of the spoken-word ‘I Can Smell the Mice Having Sex Behind the Walls’. The melancholic arpeggios and defeated slur of bass ushered in ‘Rat in Bin’. Below, an excerpt: 

“Rat in bin

Such a ugly animal, but his life is actual

Rat in bin

Can’t escape the rubbish bin, living is his only sin.”

As the dirge faded out, a beat. And the dirge faded back in: “Rat in Bin”, Round 2. I, and all surrounding, were delighted at this comedy feat. 

For ‘Rat in Bin’ Round 3, because it did return, I was jaded but tolerant. After the 4th rendition of ‘Rat in Bin’, I was nigh suicidal. Around half-way through ‘Rat in Bin’ Round 5, I desperately had to escape to slump in a bathroom cubicle (from which I could hear ‘Rat in Bin’ Round 6 start up). I wanted to throw up. I wanted the bar line to shrink. I wanted a McChicken now.

A song that was clearly a metaphor for the depressing, cyclical confines of capitalism––or, just as importantly, Jim E Brown’s fictional self-hatred––had taken on a third and possibly more powerful meaning to me. I was the “rat” stuck inside the “bin” of ‘Rat in Bin’ sixfold. Existing in this crowd was my only sin. For the rest of the night, I disappeared from my friends and lounged across some of the sidelined chairs, holding my head like a sick person. Jim E Brown had defeated me. From my vantage point, the crowd were far more forgiving, dancing exuberantly despite the onslaught. “They are all on drugs,” I concluded.

A song that was clearly a metaphor for the depressing, cyclical confines of capitalism––or, just as importantly, Jim E Brown’s fictional self-hatred––had taken on a third and possibly more powerful meaning to me. I was the “rat” stuck inside the “bin” of “Rat in Bin” sixfold.

Despite being personally defeated and starting to form lofty music-journo opinions on how many encores of a song cross from comedy to unprofessionalism and straight-up torture, there was still much to enjoy from Brown. Particular tracks such as ‘I Opened My Mouth Too Wide Today (And It Hurts)’ and ‘I’m Writing Love Letters At McDonald’s’ reminded me of my goal (McChicken) and I got rightfully enthused for the sparkling synth and graphic lyrical nature of ‘The Queue at Greggs’. 

Following covers of Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’ and the Cranberries’ ‘Linger’, I literally wanted to peel all my skin off as I heard the condemnation of ‘Rat in Bin’’s opening minor chord. And then, again. Closing my eyes to what capped off a total of eight ‘Rat in Bin’s, I lay catatonic for the death rattle of ‘I’m Not Perfect (I Am Pure Shit)’, a sentiment I had originally thought was a joke but was now interpreting, after this endurance, as an honest confession from Brown. 

There was a knot in my throat for the succeeding five minutes I frantically searched for my friends to escape the basement. There was an evil part of me that was glad Mary’s Underground was going to burn after this. 

Was all set right when, 30 minutes later, I had a perfectly-sauced, crispy McChicken in palm? Alas, I felt like Frodo in post-Ring Shire, carrying the scars of something invisible while the rest of my company emerged largely unharmed. “Alas! there are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured,'” said Gandalf. To this day, any mention of rodents and municipal waste makes me claw at mine throat and run for the bathroom.