Punk’s not dead – These New South Whales keep the flame stoked

The band has reached new heights and gosh does it sound better than ever!

Since its feral eruption in the mid-seventies, punk has worn its defiance like a badge of honour. Born from the snarling streets of New York with the Ramones, sharpened by the tartan-clad menace of the Sex Pistols, and tempered in London’s gutters by the politically charged Clash and the audacious Damned, punk was never meant to play nice. Even Brisbane’s own Saints carried the banner with ragged glory, stranded but undaunted. Over decades, the scene has sported a thousand faces, battled countless ordinances, and probably funded more chiropractors than hard yakka labour.

Punk has always been more than frenetic riffs and hammering 4/4s. It’s a movement—a voice that has steered social, political, and cultural revolutions with as much weight as fury. And for the past decade, that voice has lived loud and unflinching in These New South Whales. On Friday night, in a dimly lit, sticky-floor room at Barwon Club Hotel in Geelong, it was clear these lads still bite.

These New South Whales

When: Friday 1 May

Where: Barwon Club Hotel, Geelong

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Walking in early, I felt that familiar pang—an ache for live music—as the room greeted me with generous gaps between bodies. Rinse, the support act, took the stage at 9pm, and I felt that collective, slightly embarrassed sigh for the state of our live scene. But the crowd that did gather—TNSW members cheering from within, a handful of steadfast punters ready to carry the night—proved resilient. Rinse’s set was ambitious, veering from Nine Inch Nails-inspired industrial grooves to surprisingly tender melodic love songs, anchored by a frontman and guitarist who owned every inch of their performance. If they were on the rise before, this night cemented it.

By the time These New South Whales hit the stage, the numbers were modest but the energy was ferocious. A hundred punters packed near the front, and from the first note, the room ignited. Mosh pits erupted, bodies sailed through the air, and heads banged with ecstatic abandon. A particular nod goes to the younger contingent driving the chaos—they embodied the reckless joy that punk demands.

Nothing screams authenticity more than wearing your own merch. Frontman Jamie Timony stepped forward in a bright yellow GODSPEED tee, while drummer Frank Sweet peeled his off mid-song, a silent promise of chaos to come. The set did not disappoint. New tracks—‘ECSTACY’, ‘INSTINCT’, ‘PIG’, and ‘NOBODY LISTENS’—sat shoulder-to-shoulder with classics, each hit intensified live. Timony’s delivery was razor-sharp, each lyric spat like a challenge, venom lacing every phrase.

The band roared through ‘Bending at the Knee’, ‘Under the Pressure’, ‘Win’, and ‘In the Light of Day’, with Timony egging the crowd on with a guttural, “Let’s Fucking Go!” Sweet’s drums pounded like artillery, Todd Andrews’ guitar carved through the air, and Will Sherperd’s bass was a relentless hammer. Timony prowled the stage, a tempest of attitude and intimacy, spitting in the face of authority yet never losing the band’s signature humour.

As the set hurtled to its finale, the intensity surged to eleven. ‘R.I.P. ME’ shredded, ‘Rotten Sun’ ignited a riot, the titular ‘GODSPEED’ rocket-launched across the room, and ‘Changes’ tore the roof off. Timony plunged into the crowd, his voice mingling with the chorus of punters, an arena-scale catharsis distilled into a cramped club. When the final chord hit, the release was absolute. The room exhaled together—frustration spent, tension dissolved—but the grins left no doubt: punk had delivered its promise, wild and unrelenting.