Review: Permanent Residence All Dayer Vol. 1 at Buffalo Club

Permanent Residence All Dayer Vol. 1 at Buffalo Club
w/ Tee Vee Repairman, Cutters, Flesh Prison, Termite, Cold Meat, Zerodent, Sooks, Spacerhead, Pensive, Moyamoya, Worker and others
Saturday, November 1, 2025

Permanent Residence’s first crack at the all-dayer model felt like a blueprint: 10+ bands, both Buff stages in constant relay, two interstate punch-ins, and a crowd there for the music, full stop. By mid-arvo the rooms were already healthy, that sweet spot where local punk thrives—comradely energy, zero passengers, maximum purpose.

Downstairs opener Worker set the tone: a three-piece swapping vocals between bass and guitar. Old-school, punch-first punk—no frills, no winks. The Worker ethos matched the venue (a bona fide workers club) to a tee: the means is the message and the message is clear. A curious off-kilter tone in the second-last tune kept things from being too tidy, while the guitarist’s Monkees-revival coiff was its own small tribute.

Upstairs, Moyamoya—the self-styled “three wobbly boyas”—turned Talking Heads’ angular bounce feral, like Gang of Four with more fuzz and less politeness. A Spacerhead bassist cameo on synth added extra wobble; call-and-response bass/guitar lines were cheeky and propulsive. Between larrikin pisstakes (“girt by sea, girt by greed”; a righteous “Fuck Clive Palmer!”) and a Dismemberment Plan-ish closer, they walked the talk, leaving us with a fervent political mosquito in our ears, inciting us to join in with tearing a hole in the Australian dream long after the dance. These guys rip—catch them now.

Scheduling was relentless—dip-in, dash-downstairs, sprint-upstairs. (Apologies to Streets of Separation and Life Cult—timing casualties of the format.)

Pensive hauled a screamo/metal-adjacent catharsis into the upstairs room. Lead vox on the floor facing with us towards the band, the crowd in the blast radius; the driest of yelps from the guitarist on the left, guttural roars from the right. Mic-passing among mates (ladies too) made the release communal rather than performance-only. They fire on 11 most of the set, but the brief, breath-catching moments also mattered.

Back downstairs, Spacerhead arrived earlier than expected for a band this bruising. Slow, swampy oscillations to start, then the drums hit like a call to arms. Guitarist Lindsey Claridge dragged a drinking glass along the fretboard, later slashing cymbals with his axe to make his point; bassist Tyson Helliwell’s “Kettle Boils” remark seared through the fuzz, and then he promptly snapped his first string ever. The Buff’s system muddied their usual razor—less bite than Seasonal’s mix—but their punishing Shellac-fuelled intent cut through regardless. Other bands piling to the front to kick a pit into life said everything about scene chemistry.

Upstairs lift-off: Sooks. Pressure-cooker tempos; songs short, sharp, and bossed by a vocalist who disappeared into the throng yet could never be lost—far too much power in that mic and Drunk on Vitriol indeed. Circle-dancing finally arrived, a late-set flirt with a near-metal scream we didn’t hear at Strange; the band tightened and released the room like a conductor letting in just enough oxygen before the next slam. A slower feint set up the sludge payoff; casual, matter-of-fact lines dropped from on high into the mud. Gasoline to close? Felt like it.

Downstairs, Zerodent returned us to classicist lines: deep vocals, no shenanigans, and drums that refused to quit. Gravitas over garnish. A Sylvester detour—You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)—landed with punk stoicism (“Not like dancing,” a response to a heckler; the band volleyed back with revolution). A Wire Ex Lion Tamer closer with mics pointed to the crowd sealed it.

Then the crush: Cold Meat packed the entire downstairs to the back wall. Front-lady in nightie, Ash Ramsey, cradling a babydoll (mums on revolt—less of a Halloween costume and fair enough), Siouxie-grade bark with a British tilt, and a set that toggled their 2025 Cake and Arse Party material with oldies. Bodies, doll included, ping-ponged about: “Your body, your house, your TV set…” vocals blasted all the way to the back. And a kudos from Ash to Permanent Residence’s Greg for truly understanding a mixed bill.

Upstairs, Termite arrived like true believers: vermilion shock of hair, black jeans vacuum-sealed, nihilism palpable. The stage barely contained the four-piece, with beer anointing the guys in tribute. Fifteen minutes. Enough said.

Downstairs, our visitors from Naarm: Cutters. Power-punk with blokey machismo reframed through working-class rot: landlords, robodebt, depression and various psychic injuries—the A Ninch Tale lens. Shirts off early, gear borrowed (plane woes fitting for an Airport Smoking Lounge), circle-jerk energy unbottled. Beer and projectiles flew, the hazard tax of a good time.

Upstairs Flesh Prison escalated the extremity: Termite’s drummer reappearing and the guitarist/lead roaming the floor with a long-limbed stalk. Blast-beat speed with industrial abrasion; vocals so excruciating they tore the flesh off our prisons. Words optional. Impact definite.

Finally our downstairs closer loomed with NSW outfit Tee Vee Repairman: young, jangly, Television via early Go-Betweens via Buzzcocks-at-45rpm. After the macho surge earlier, their indie lean felt refreshing—until the Buff’s gremlins bit back. Tech difficulties rattled them (speaker repairman… apt), but they steered through with borrowed guitars, hand sanitiser sprinkled like holy water down front, and plucky quips about Metallica at “Optimus” (Cue class/culture aside: If you think you’re getting a more authentic cultural experience amidst 60,000, then you might just have to remember what it’s like being up-close to a local act hanging on to their bootstraps, sweat rolling down as they make art with very little. Punk thrives in the margins. It’s not the spend; it’s the stake. A less angular vocal in person than their recordings, their indie-retro punk interpretation rounded off the night with affable “Tune in, Drop Out” energy.

Permanent Residence’s All Dayer format proved that the Buff’s two-room ecosystem can absolutely sustain a mini-festival model: a punk smorgasbord that lets you snack or gorge. Yes, the back-to-back relay means you’ll miss something; yes, the Buff’s downstairs mix can get soup-thick; yes, the odd tech wobble can rattle unfamiliar bands. But the upside dwarfs the gripes: bands sticking around to watch each other, pits self-organising, politics threaded through laughter, and a scene that still feels defiantly DIY and neighbourly.

Standouts for the night were Moyamoya’s cheeky agit-funk, Sooks’ room command, Cold Meat’s packed-to-the-rafters revolt and Spacerhead’s weather-any-mix ferocity. But above all else, the community—bands in the crowd, crowd in the bands, and a worker’s club that still, gloriously, works.

Our verdict—this is a template worth repeating. Permanent Residence, please unleash Vol. 2.

CAT LANDRO

Photos by David Redding