The jittery glam pop quartet Terry comprised of the power couples Amy Hill and Al Montfort, and Xanthe Waite and Zephyr Pavey — was born on a holiday in Mexico, right after one of Zephyr and Al’s other bands, Total Control, wrapped up a tour.
Each Terry-er is a mainstay of Melbourne, Australia’s vibrant music scene in their own right (at last count they’re in 11 bands total, including UV Race and Dick Diver), but this time they sought to wield instruments they didn’t usually play in any of their other groups. “I think it sounds better when someone doesn’t totally know what they’re doing,” Montfort says. Their debut LP, Terry HQ, released last month on the taste-making U.K. label Upset the Rhythm, is full of shambolic country ditties and smart post-punk bangers that feel loose and fun, removed from inhibition and doubt. The Terry operation is firmly rooted in D.I.Y., from the songwriting process to the band’s distinctive swagger-y uniform of Terry-emblazoned denim jackets and fringe shirts. “Me and Al, we always wanted to have nudie suits. And of course we couldn’t afford to do that, so we tried to make our own,” Hill says. “Then it got a bit mutated,” Montfort chimes in.
They Say: “It’s all pretty relaxed. We kind of make demos at home, and then send them off [to each other]. And then we all get together and figure them out,” Hill says. “Zephyr wrote a few songs and wasn’t sure what to do about lyrics, so we said, ‘Just write all about your Uncle Greg who’s a bus driver. Like, who the fuck is Uncle Greg? What was the story?'”
“He always tells these stories about this Uncle Greg and we’re like, ‘Ah yeah, he sounds like such a prick,'” says Montfort. “So [Pavey] wrote all these lyrics, heaps and heaps. Too much for one song. Uncle Greg got in trouble on the bus … but also Zephyr had it in for him because he stole Zephyr’s wah pedal to sell. Zephyr’s got a lot of stories from his childhood about people from the Blue Mountains in Sydney that kind of sound like fictional characters.”
Hear for Yourself: The galloping country ditty “Hot Heads” flexes the band’s talent for deadpan harmonies.
The Fat Angel Sings 