Roaming Melbourne's Wayward West With Teether

As Teether and I meet near Footscray Station, the settings for our conversation seem endless. Do we explore the area’s abundance of diverse cuisines that make this suburb a cultural hub? Do we settle within the intoxicated walls of the neighborhood’s go-to watering holes, Sloth Bar or Bar Josephine? It’s also Labour Day, so we’re unsure if the moves we game-planned are even possible. 

The diversity of Footscray is similar to that of Teether’s duality. Unique flavours fill every restaurant, much like his combination of rap, industrial, and ambient on the Kuya Neil-produced body of work STRESSOR. The suburb’s scenery spans landmarks like Coode Island’s overlooking cranes and the calmness of Heavenly Queen Temple, akin to his versatile artistic expression across groups like Two Birds and Plea Unit. The booze-induced wooziness of Footscray’s beer gardens shares a striking similarity to his 2022 album MACHONA, where he slurs through vulnerable soliloquies like an open-book bard.

“Should we buy some drinks?” he asks me, and we quickly shuffle over to LJ’s Bottle Shop, purchase a very-well priced four-pack of beer, and settle on a bench, surrounded by the scenery of West Melbourne. 

“I’ve lived around here in the west just about a year now, but it feels like I grew up here,” Teether tells me, cracking his first can. 

Teether’s residence in the west lines up with the biggest year of his career: recently supporting cult-favourite New York rap duo Armand Hammer on an East Coast run. Our chat is taking place only a couple of days removed, an experience which summoned the presence of impostor syndrome. But as the sun soaks us and the bustling foot traffic of central Footscray tap dances around our bench-dwelling setting, Teether seems calm and content.

VICE: Can you talk me through that feeling of impostor syndrome, and how you deal with its defeatist presence? 

Teether: There’s this wholesomeness in continuing to make music and playing shows with my friends, where the goodness of the outlet overpowers those negative thoughts. 

I remember a moment on the tour, in Sydney, where I’m sharing the stage with the likes of Sevy and Bayang (Tha Bushranger), people who are friends that I consistently collaborate with, where the satisfaction of feeling accomplished really rang true. 

My brain is always going to try and punish that feeling, where my inner-monologue is laughing at that feeling of accomplishment, or it’s pointing out how I look really weird in specific photos. But there is also the feeling that even if it isn’t now, what we’re doing is something that will be celebrated later. 

It feels like, in this current moment, you’re content and at peace; a feeling that I often feel out here in the west. Over my 6 years in Melbourne, Footscray is an area that I’ve always returned to. Even sitting here now, I can’t help but appreciate the beautiful pandemonium that surrounds us.

For sure, you can’t imagine it being any other way here. There are so many different restaurants and small ethnic businesses, and it has become a destination because there’s nothing else like it in Melbourne. You have to come here to experience it. Getting back from the tour the other day, I didn’t fully feel at home until I walked through Footscray, and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else right now. 

Teether spent years traversing areas like Fitzroy and Collingwood, but often found himself returning to Brunswick, the place he “first lived as a baby”, and often associated with the idea of home. He recounts a story from his days there, where a nonna cleaning up her front yard kicked a gutter-residing nang towards him as he walked home from IGA. It’s a situation he describes as a “perfect encapsulation of clashing cultures.”

In the west, he feels this head-butting of different generations is nonexistent. It creates a backdrop where, in his words, “you don’t feel like you have to fit in.” This geographical change has led Teether to a gargantuan redesign of his mindset, where he’s separated his love of creating music from the idea of work. 

“Music, for me at one point, was very much an at-any-cost thing, where anyone or anything distracting from that could get the fuck out of the way,” he says. “But now I see music as an activity that I love, and that I have so many years to do and make work.” 

VICE: How has this reframing of music in your mind transformed your relationship with it? 

Teether: It’s allowed me to focus on being a human at times, like working and maintaining a stable income. I have three casual jobs, and now I can balance music with that, studying, and the social aspects of being alive, where I can now make time for those things without feeling like I’m falling behind on this abstract idea of being creative at all times. 

I have more structure now, and while money is still just as tight as ever, I can see that there is a way out, and a way out without having to compromise, because it doesn’t matter if music becomes a career or not. You can focus on finding a way to comfortably live and navigate this country, while the music keeps on happening. 

Footscray has been a settlement for immigration since the 1960s, housing Central and Southern European people post-World War II.  Since then, the area has welcomed people from Vietnam, Ethiopia, Somalia, India, and many other nations. Census data from 2021 shows that 41.6% of Footscray’s population were born overseas,with every subsection of culture forming the street’s shopfronts and the schedule at the Footscray Community Arts Centre. 

Teether’s music possesses the same medley of culture as the suburb he now calls his stomping ground. His fandom of Metallica and Trivium rings through the grimy distortion of songs like ‘RENO’. His days trawling the internet and gushing over mid-2010s trap like Young Thug’s Barter 6 emerge in the bounciness of ‘INSTRUCTIONS’. 

Last year’s project MACHONA was an exploration of his heritage, delving into the Tumbuka people from Malawi that make up a part of his ancestry. 

“This is a trial generation for most people, where those around my age are the first ones to grow up here,” he tells me. 

“Music has allowed me to represent Malawian people and my ancestry of people that didn’t really get the benefit to represent themselves, because they were busy trying to survive. As time goes on, there are going to be more people that contribute to the overall story of the community, where everybody who needs a voice, will have a voice.” 

However, there are still challenges that threaten this sense of solitude. Above Teether and I is the looming presence of new, high rise apartments. Broadsheet recently reported Moon Dog plans to open a brewery in the infamous Franco Cozzo building, pointing to the lingering gentrification of the area over the last decade. This was discussed in a 2018 panel hosted by Time Out Melbourne, where Burn City Test Kitchen’s Steve Kimonides urged people to get to know the locals first in a quest to prevent gentrification’s effects. 

Teether has always treated his artistry with the same care, aiming to shield it from the presence of the music industry’s corporate components as his popularity grows. He outlines this perfectly in a recent Instagram post celebrating the Armand Hammer tour, writing “12 years/20 releases deep in this realm, first tour of many more, and it’s forever fuck the industry.” 

VICE: What threats does the ‘industry’ part of music here in Australia pose to the art? 

Teether: I think it relates to what we were talking about before. It pressures your passion into a career, and the result of that is a hollow version of something you once loved. I’ve at times felt like the shit that was being chosen in the industry to represent this shit was very excluding of anything that didn’t fit in a box that didn’t already exist overseas. The music industry and people that create art are two different things, and it often seems like the industry is dictated by people who don’t make music. 

I think now we’re collectively getting to a point of more awareness, where different styles are becoming more accepted, and that sounds new because we exist in an untapped part of the world. However, it still feels like all the same people get the money and resources when it needs to be distributed throughout everyone so that all these voices can be heard. This way, the people that are still really out in the suburbs making music, who can’t afford to get to the studio or find the right management, can finally be heard. 

A decade ago, Australian hip-hop found itself in the depths of a radio-friendly sound now often referred to as ‘BBQ Rap’, a movement which held established acts like Hilltop Hoods, over blossoming talents like Remi. Around then, you were an outlier if you didn’t indulge in labeling the suburb by its nickname “Footscrazy”, where tales of crimes and drugs were often highlighted over the grassroots growth of the community. Now, Music in west Melbourne feels more appreciated than ever. Every question I asked Teether was accompanied by people passing us by. This bench-bound chat began to feel like the epitome of a time where phrases like ‘BBQ Rap’ and ‘Footscrazy’ no longer exist. Instead, we bask in the beauty of the suburb we call home, and champion the talents that live beside us.

So what did Teether have planned after our conversation? Well, we went and got food at Sunny Nguyen Bakery, across from Footscray Station. I chose the cheap but undeniably hitting Bahn Mi, Teether copped spring rolls and some bread to bring home. We ventured the same way home, trading observations about the Uncle Toby’s Silo and the seemingly endless railways that make up the industrial scenery of Sunshine Road. He let me know that he was going away with Kuya Neil that week to create an album, alluding to the fast-paced workrate he has become known for. He also hinted at his now-confirmed appearance at Melbourne’s RISING Festival, reimagining the score for the Safdie Brothers classic Good Time alongside Big Yawn. 

But, lingering on my mind throughout all of this, was the meaning of Teether’s legacy, and the potential mark he may leave on artists of the future.

VICE: How do you want to be remembered? 

Teether: I just hope people can relate to this shit, and it helps them get through the day; that honestly means the world to me. I’ve always viewed music as a personal soundtrack and coping mechanism. I don’t care if I don’t influence anybody or if nobody likes my shit, because I’m going to keep making music anyway. But the coolest shit to me is the prospect of making someone’s experiences in life a little bit easier. But also, I’ve just loved making friends, touring the country, listening to music, and taking part in this culture and world. 

The fact that we can all exist here and have some influence on the customisation of culture is amazing. We’re all taking a shit in and using both our own and our ancestor's experiences to shape the way music is received here. If someone can remember a song or a lyric from what I’ve contributed to this, that means more than making money from this journey. Knowing that, I’d happily just go to work and be a fucking civilian for the rest of my life. 

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