Civil Union

***As if to mirror the ultimate series of drags on their first EP, CIVIL UNION's US tour in 2014 was, itself, a series of shit shows. Two separate vans with the same wheel trying to unhinge itself, and that was in addition to the break-­in and the hair loss. But at least everybody heard about it: the cassette they were touring on the only merch they brought with them, ridiculously ­­ found its way around the country just fine. (They never missed a show.) Like that justifies several near­-death experiences. Anyway, what an apt bummer for a band that could, by that point, already list an earthquake among its influences. It was in 2012 when PERRY MAHONEY first started playing bass in Civil Union; he’d moved to Auckland from Christchurch at a time when the city was about to become reduced to rubble. For all that was quickly ruined by the Christchurch earthquake, it catalyzed a spike in local creativity as stragglers turned into bands and their PTSD turned into music. Unsurprisingly, the new “Arson City” bands tended to have a bleak streak, deadpanned in a specifically NZ way ­­ the “Antipodean Gothic”, as Jasmine Gallagher put it ­­ and in Auckland, Perry came across its northern equivalent. For such a fucked place, New Zealand’s anxieties haven’t been advertised all that much. There’s hints within The Gordons' disembodied bass. Batrider's strangled emotions. The Skeptics, freakish in the mundane. And Civil Union’s snivelling pessimism, wretching at the real, unpublicized Aotearoa and all its neoliberal byproducts. In it, proof that this old “Land of Plenty” is finally beginning to export two of its most abundant raw materials: Guilt and shame. Ultra downer post-punk action. Edition of 300 copies. NZ import.