A Quick Chat with Invasion Skies
What are the origins of Invasion Skies? Where and how did the project start?
Invasion Skies is essentially the fallout of two failed bands, a friendship forged over years of partying and seeing gigs in Melbourne's thriving late-2000s indie rock scene, and two ridiculously productive Saturday afternoons.
Daniel Mullens (guitars) and I (Ben Rechter, lead vocals and keyboards) first crossed paths through a mutual connection but eventually bonded over a shared love of music and life on the Melbourne gig circuit.
When our respective bands, Chase Ego and The Smoke, bit the dust, we decided to try writing together. Two magical Saturdays in the winter of 2012 produced an album's worth of material and then some.
Daniel recruited The Smoke's Ryan Ferguson on drums, and the three of us began recording a string of garage-rock-inspired short players in dribs and drabs.
I eventually brought in Chase Ego's Rob Meerbach on bass, and we set about turning the accumulated chaos into a cohesive full-length debut, released in 2019 and road-tested at all the usual Melbourne haunts.
Tell us a bit about the new single ‘Never Really Starts’. What’s the meaning behind it?
We are all rushing about, waiting for something to happen, or perhaps for it all to end, despite this nagging suspicion that nothing really got going in the first place.
The lyrics say just that. It never really starts. Living for the end.
So, there’s some modern paranoia in there. Existential dread. I’ve always liked M.C Escher’s impossible staircases. Or that sequence in Nightmare on Elm Street Dream Master, where Freddy winds the same scene back with his glove. So, the illusion of progress. A comical helplessness that distorts us all.
Are there any inspirations you look to beyond music when writing or performing?
It’s mostly the chemistry of common life and the absurdity of modern existence. We’re fascinated by how a completely ordinary, mundane situation can suddenly pivot into something ridiculous or sinister. It’s like Edgar Allan Poe drunk on Curb Your Enthusiasm re-runs.
In terms of visual and structural inspiration, literature and art, of course. I love the grotesque. Francis Bacon. Goya. Noah Hawley’s writing is unnerving but perfect in its presentation of the untruths we swear by.
Name the five songs that have informed the band’s song writing more than any others.
The Verve – ‘This is Music’
It's only about three and a half minutes, but it feels enormous: distorted bass, primal drums, a mix of textural guitars and very direct riffs, that continuously escalate to an almost religious experience.
The Beatles – ‘I’m Only Sleeping’
It’s a song that manages to sound almost completely effortless while being extraordinarily sophisticated. It’s experimental and disorienting, but also pure melodic pop genius.
The Vines – ‘Get Free’
A reminder of the volatile, Melbourne indie-gig era where we all met, and a blueprint for letting a track unhinge itself completely without apology.
New Order – ‘Ceremony’
The bridge where driving post-punk rhythm meets bittersweet electronic melody. It represents the ongoing internal debate between guitar riffs and keyboard textures in our rehearsal room
Stone Temple Pilots – ‘Vasoline’
A masterclass in heavy, melodic songwriting with dynamic push-and-pull rhythm work that we constantly lean into.
What Australian artists are you listening to at the moment?
The Vines, The Church, Rocket Science, Eddy Current Suppression Ring, The Peep Tempel, The Drones, Black Cab, Ponyface, Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, Snout, Bitumen and ourselves when feeling self-indulgent.
How do you hope your music might impact listeners?
We're not chasing accolades or trying to build a brand. We make music together purely for the love of the craft and the relief of the noise. There's immense freedom in making art when you stop worrying about commercial viability or trying to please an algorithm.
Never Really Starts, and the album as a whole, were forged out of years of personal chaos, trial and relentless self-production. It became the best album of our lives because we gave ourselves permission to make exactly what we wanted to hear.
Ultimately, we'd love for listeners to find something of their own in it. Maybe it's a moment of recognition, a place to lose themselves for a while, or simply the catharsis of something loud, messy and unapologetically human. We're adding our own bleak, loud footprint to an impossibly vast musical landscape. If that footprint resonates with someone else, then that's a fantastic bonus.
Even if it just stays our own secret classic, we've already won.