The songs that belong to The Freeloaders and are here as a tribute to the memory of Guy Lucas- musical luminary, inspiration, wit, and a dynamic and propulsive force on the Australian independent music scene, bursting out of the garage in a veritable paint-cannon spray of psychedelic sounds and left to an an undeserved obscurity. 
He has left us way too soon.
 All of the songs of mine were recorded using Audacity, the free, open-source, cross-platform, sound editing program and were all, in them main, constructed from guitar parts which I recorded at home on an XP windows pc..
Where samples have been used i have made an effort to credit their origins.
   I decided to start to try and create 'songs' when i suffered an illness that left me visually impaired for a year or so, during which time i realised fairly early on that my future hopes as a successful visual artist weren't looking too good at that point and perhaps i should try to find success in some other field equally as difficult and nigh on impossible to succeed in as a way of receiving public notoriety and in making a living.
   It is impossible for any artist to create a truly great piece of work unless they are creating it solely for their own personal satisfaction with no regard for the reception it might have amongst others. 
    This is what makes the artist so often seem 'weird' and 'crazy' to people who do not understand the process of artistic creation and what inevitably must lie at its fundamentalist core, the dismissal of  the value for praise and esteem in the eyes of the society within which the artist finds their self living, and because of this indelible notion this is so often their source of the artists' isolation and alienation.
    The genius of the artists work is inevitable, since they are catering to their own tastes and so, when successful at this, they cannot fail to create a masterpiece.
   It was Gustav Flaubert who wrote that if a writer were to approach the act of writing of a novel with absolute and complete honesty then it would be impossible for that writer to fail and to not create a masterpiece.
The true artist, therefore, is born, not made. The true artist can fall into a puddle of mud and will walk away having created a work of Art., and though the skills of the artist must be honed and refined by the ongoing practice of those abilities, they may lie dormant (even if needs be, for years) and yet will always resurface undiminished. Sometimes they will be even greater for their fresh approach, unrestrained by what has perhaps become to them 'de rigeur' and a threat to thread what is repetitive, unoriginal and stale into their work.
   These inherent qualities,which make the true artist what they are, exist in the exact opposite, and often in greater proportions in what the sociopathic, fame-seeker and the 'wannabe' exhibit as their work and through it quite obviously hold so dear. 
   A single moment of observation exposes the evidence in it that a desire to be  greatly esteemed , honoured, (to the pint of being worshiped) and remunerated to a far greater extent than is fair and  just sadly, screams with the howling chorus barks of rabid dogs through the narcissism in their work so very obviously.displays.
This is not Art.
   In the field of artistic creation, my personal motto  is this:
'If you're going to try and go for the impossible, then you might as well set your sights on everything!'

Blackbreaks combine alt guitar rock, industrial tinged electronica, and a proudly politicised message.  They want to make you angry, make you laugh, make you dance, and generally aim to be an excellent and highly entertaining musical performance group. With waistcoats. 

Maniacal.  Brilliant.  Belligerent.  Legendary.  Comprehensively in your face.  Like a Muppet with a real bad attitude.  These are just some of the words used to describe the utterly intoxicating Juke Baritone as he's been travelling the world with his rascally troupe of manic noise-makers, assaulting audiences with his tall tales of bad love, good times and the evils of the world.  Accordions wail.    Horns scream.  Guitars screech.  And the room goes wild as they dance and chant along to this uniquely Australian sounding psycholonial stomp.  It's certifiably, incurably insane and it sounds bloody marvellous. 


Followers of anthonymatters