In his “mongrel memoir” How To Make Gravy, Paul Kelly has a chapter on circle songs – songs that are built on a chord progression that cycles in the same order from beginning to end. The melody may vary, but there’s no bridge or change in the chorus to break the circle. Wide Open Road, by the Triffids, is a circle song; so too Kelly’s Careless. A lot of folk music, Kelly observes, is like this: “We just pick it up and pass it on.”
The Opener, by Camp Cope, is another circle song. With it, and their defiant gesture at the Falls festival – calling out the organisers in front of a jam-packed tent for their lowly placement on the bill, in keeping with the song’s theme – the Melbourne three-piece instantly stamped themselves as the Australian band of the moment and the #MeToo generation. They resonate because they are so real.
Even if not for singer and guitarist Georgia “Maq” McDonald’s pedigree (she is the daughter of the late Hugh McDonald, formerly of Australian folk-rock band Redgum), Camp Cope’s second album How To Socialise & Make Friends would sound like a baton being passed to a new generation. It couldn’t be in better hands. Everything about this endearing band and record is unvarnished, from the production to McDonald’s raw vocals.
Like the young Liz Phair, McDonald writes with insight into intimate gender and family relationships while always getting straight to the point. On the title track, you’re right in the action from the opening line: “He left a key in the back door but I never showed up / There was something sleazy about him that made me want to rob the place and run.”
The Face Of God is a clear-eyed story of the lonely aftermath of a sexual assault, full of self-doubt and the doubts of others who don’t want to believe that people we admire can behave in ways that reflect their own sense of entitlement: “Not you, no, they said your music is too good.” The music builds slowly but never quite resolves, because there is no resolution, only questions. The melody aches with hurt.
She’s hardly pitch-perfect, but that’s not the point: it’s impossible not to be drawn into the conversational style of the lyrics. McDonald’s singing, to quote Lester Bangs, is “a raw wail from the bottom of the guts”, a perfectly imperfect instrument for an unstable age. Bass player Kelly-Dawn Hellmrich and drummer Sarah Thompson provide a sturdy framework and, crucially, just enough colour to hold the songs aloft.
Musically, it’s Hellmrich’s bouncing bass hook that keeps The Opener stuck in your head and coming back for more, while Thompson’s drumming is as bold and splashy as her Twitter account – her sudden switch from cymbals to toms on UFO Lighter as McDonald sings: “I wasn’t the one that was unfaithful / But I can see why people thought I was / Sometimes making love is the only time I ever feel loved,” is one of this album’s highlights.
The album’s final song I’ve Got You is a tribute to McDonald’s father, who died in 2016. It’s another circle song, played on an acoustic guitar. “I’m so proud that half of me grew from you / Even all the broken parts, too,” she sings. If Hugh could hear his daughter singing it he’d be just as proud.
For a generation that’s grown up watching vocal talent quests, hearing the unrestrained gusto of McDonald singing these simple, direct songs will be empowering. In 20 years, young women especially will approach her and thank Camp Cope for encouraging them to pick up a guitar and tell their own stories. And so the baton will be passed, and picked up again.
First published in The Guardian, 2 March 2018