VADA VADA: ROCK MUSIC CONTINUES TO THRIVE IN THE GARDEN

ROSINA CARBONE COMPELS ROCK FANS TO MOVE ON WITH A SPRING IN THEIR STEP, A GRIN ON THEIR FACE AND A MAROTTE TWIRLING IN THEIR HAND 

I have a long history of making myself suffer. Whether it’s plunging myself into the reductive swirls of really-unnecessary anxieties or taking an ultra-steep route from Redfern Station to Main Campus purely to avoid crowds, some masochistic turn to embracing the worst has always riddled my tendencies. Of all these self-imposed torments, my deliberate dedication to rock music has truly been the most torturous.

An all-consuming cynicism and sense of defeat lays a heavy wet blanket over any optimism seeking to break through and suggest a fresh act set to breathe new life into the very dry, brittle bones of the rock genre. While certainly not new, The Garden have been consistently delivering energised offerings to our disenfranchised youth for the last decade, occupying enough genre conventions to rope a whole slew of music enjoyers in with something cumulatively esoteric. Dodging the usual accusations that pin contemporary rock acts as derivative, insipid or just plainly not good enough, The Garden openly despise mediocrity and barrel forth into the unsafe territory of musical innovation, confirming the speculations that rock music needn’t be steeped neck-deep in nostalgia and tradition to keep its identity. The Garden’s discography urges critics and cynics alike to drop their iron styluses and laugh again. Preferably, maniacally. 

Natives to the “surf, skate + punk rock!” subculture of affluent Orange County, South California, The Garden is the dear opus of identical twins, Fletcher and Wyatt Shears. Their family is part of the informative rich musical heritage of the O.C., with father Steven Shears being the ongoing drummer of culturally neglected punk band Shattered Faith. It’s obvious that the Shears twins have soaked in the contextual energy of SoCal with its extensive cast of punky alumni that span Black Flag, Minutemen, Middle Class, The Offspring, even No Doubt; all generations of genre-defining acts hailing from the same stretch of beaches. Having played in small projects since the fifth grade, Fletcher and Wyatt departed from their previous band M.H.V. (Ms Hannah’s Victims) in 2011 to pursue their defiant creative ambitions as a bass-drums duo on Burger Records. 

Yes, they’ve been carefully crafting experimental rock records since 2012 and are now tentatively pushing their thirties, but I sincerely believe The Garden remain with their fingers on the pulse of youth and consistently assume the aesthetic, sonic, and maybe most importantly, moral embodiments of true alternative culture. The anti-commercial creed observed by true “indie” bands and independent labels is evident in The Garden’s non-conformist disregard of music trends and charts, and a refusal to pander to industry inflation. Their five studio albums, while cultishly beloved by fans, seem to have avoided any overt mainstream success or critical acknowledgement. Put that down to the indigestibility of their hardcore electro art punk or straight refusals to consider such perceivably flippant experimentation as “real art”, maybe it’s for the best that rock culture lives on just outside of the palatability of the mainstream. It’s certainly true to the form of their groundbreaking predecessors.

The Garden’s 2013 debut establishes the rapid drumming, reverberating bass melodies and the vocals which flirt with a purposely flat rap delivery that have come to be identified with their oeuvre. As experimental as they start out, The Life and Time of a Paperclip is the closest project the Garden has to traditional punk rock, harnessing what I consider The Ramones-ian attitude of songs that barely break a minute and a half. “I Am A Woman” flaunts the concise but abstract lyrics that fans are easily empowered to holler back at the twins in live settings. It’s their sophomore effort, haha (2015), that sees the duo come more into their own as tracks lengthens, tempos slow and that signature synth incorporation begins stepping into the glorious light of stand-outs “This Could Build Us a Home” and “All Smiles Over Here :)”. 

Some (most definitely me) might argue that The Garden’s most pop and satisfying offerings are found in a set of orphan singles from 2016 and their Clay EP (2017). “Call This # Now” has slipped into the mainstream with its literal gimmicky bells and whistles, as novelty soundbites punctuate a grooving tempo prone to collapse into unhinged screaming whenever the Shears twins feel inclined. The “California Here We Go” bassline revels in golden sunshine and insouciant surf rock sensibilities, while tracks like “Clay” and “All Access” bang out high energy with earwormy nonsensical lyrics.

Proceeding albums, Mirror Might Steal Your Charm (2018) and Kiss My Superbowl Ring (2020) keep me occupied as I try to make sense of the synth motifs reminiscent of Yes’s prog rock efforts turned up to eleven and spacy guitar tones that feel like they might be straight off a Third Eye Blind record. The half-ironic hip-hop swagger of The Garden never feels forced so it wasn’t improbable when they fully committed to the black and white face-paint and jester garb. The Garden see it as their civil service to perform just out of the sphere of reason in a similar vein of the royal servants of old.  

Horseshit on Route 66 (2022) was the first album release from The Garden that I could experience as a real fan, one might even consider its high ranking to how personally I’ve seen this era unfold. My favourite rock release last year, trumping Fontaines DC’s Skinty Fia (just a little) and Wet Leg’s eponymous debut (by a whole lot), Horseshit feels like the most intentional set of artistic directions taken by the duo with a sonic palate consistently characterised by hypnagogic audios spliced between lyrics more frequently screeched than sung. Tracks are so realised with every song occupying a hilariously macabre O.C. ghost town. Fletcher’s drumming persistently evolves to the sluggish bass melodies Wyatt rolls through, allowing for established fans to feel at home in their bass-heavy sound. “Haunted House on Zillow” and “At the Campfire” bookend the unhinged status quo of the album with lunacy-inducing laugh tracks acting as their own rhythmic contributions. More hardcore offerings are found in “What Else Could I Be But a Jester” and “X in the Dirt” but “OC93”, “Orange County Punk Rock Legend”, “Chainsaw the Door” and the album’s title track sink comfortably into surf rock elements, permitting a physical response that isn’t straight moshing. You can safely groove to The Garden too.

Like most Aussies, watching Coachella at home caused indescribable pain, but seeing The Garden deliver phenomenal sets on both weekends as pit stops in their American tour is pure agony. As a surprise guest, Mac DeMarco joined Wyatt in singing their hit collaboration “Thy Mission”, with the two unceremoniously ambling around stage through a nursery recital of “scum shit, dumb shit, drumstick vanilla”. The Gobi tent was relatively full of young faces entranced by what one goer described as “whimsical jester music” and a series of conscientious mosh circles broke out in the middle of crowds in celebration.

Now that The Garden have wrapped up their tour of the States promoting Horseshit, there’s unending praise from those involved. Ticket prices stay cheap and spirits soar as the twins take turns stage diving into a sea of similarly painted faces. The clownish black and white makeup of most attendees is often blurred and running by the end of each set, but fans aren’t fussed as they line up to meet the maestros of the organised chaos right after. Much to my delight, their concerts revitalise the concept of the rock gig where participants are tossed from each corner of the pit. There’s no elbowing to get to the front and see the twins as goers have come to experience the event and music and not to lifelessly ogle at some celebrity spectacle. A strong sense of camaraderie within The Garden fanbase prevails as the long-lost phenomenon of a non-barricade hogging audience remarkably comes to fruition. 

The Garden have since cut ties with Burger Records and released latest music on their independent label Vada Vada. Dually coining the term ‘vada vada’ as the genre under which their own art punk and avant garde signed cohort subscribe to, the movement is categorised as total creative freedom with a lack of artistic boundaries. The solo projects of Fletcher and Wyatt which I personally adore, respectively named Puzzle and Enjoy, also release under this label with albums of fantastic abstract hip-hop and committed electronic experimentation, joined by hyper-pop act Cowgirl Clue, beat-maker and rapper Slater, and lo-fi instrumentalists Macabre Plaza among other forerunners of pop and rock innovation. 

Vada Vada revitalises the punk ethos but knocks down barriers restricting where that innovation has to end. Once discovered, there’s reason to rejoice as The Garden are done reinventing the wheel and find their time better spent on the development of something a little more hi-tech. And what’s for sure, rock fans needn’t soothe their suffering with vinyl re-releases and 40th anniversaries. We can rest assured that The Garden is patiently sowing the seeds for a new wave of audacious rock acts to take stage.