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Synth-Punk Cowboy Cong Josie Rides Again — Listen to the Dynamic Doo-Wop Swagger of “MOTO ZONE”

Australia’s Cong Josie roars back onto the scene with his sizzling sophomore effort, Moto Zone, a relentless rumble of EBM, synth-punk, and rock ‘n’ roll with a touch of doo-wop dynamism. Josie cranks up the intensity from his 2021 debut, pushing his M.O. into new, more audacious realms. The beats pound harder, the energy escalates, and a slow sleaze groove seeps in, wrapping listeners in a siren’s seductive embrace.

With rockabilly vocals clashing with EBM grit, Josie’s cheeky charm lightens the otherwise dark, noir-ish lyrics, inviting fans into a shadowy, sin-soaked sanctuary. His Aussie accent and eclectic influences carve out a vivid, surreal world, with echoes of Alan Vega, David Lynch, The Birthday Party, Fad Gadget, Adam Ant, Boomtown Rats, Deco, and The Gun Club weaving through his sound.

On Moto Zone, Cong Josie revs up a raucous ride through rock ‘n’ roll’s raw underbelly: a gritty realm of roaring motorcycles, sleek hot rods, and the sticky sheen of leather and pomade, all seen through a distinctly Aussie lens. His confessional lyrics lay bare a landscape of addiction and mental strife, a map of his jagged past. Cong claims the “Moto Zone” mirrors his manic daily grind: a life fueled by ADHD, late-night work sessions, and a relentless diet of black coffee. His music speeds through these shadows, seeking solace and a sense of connection. Ultimately, Josie’s tracks aim to hit the high notes of bliss and transcendence amidst the chaos, carving out a new world from the wreckage.

The album kicks off with Sik Sharp Stomp, a tune that slithers in like a back-alley deal, oozing sleaze with every note. It’s a filthy little dance number that makes you feel like you’ve stumbled into a David Lynch fever dream. The saxophone howls like a wounded animal, while the spoken word cuts through the haze, giving off a vibe that’s equal parts Lou Reed snarl, Gun Club swagger, and the caustic wit of The Fall. The sax wraps itself around the beat, seductive and dirty, while the vocals grind out like they’ve got nothing left to lose. This is no polite invitation—it’s a command to move, a call to get down and dirty, and a reminder that some dances leave scars.

1300 Scorpio lands like a left hook, fast and unyielding. The rhythm, pulsing with Adam Ant’s swagger and a Boomtown Rats bite, charges ahead like a bull gone wild. Steel guitar swirls through the chaos, lifting you up before throwing you back down. Cong Josie, caught between hating himself and selling himself, croons with reckless abandon, daring you to dial into his twisted world. The contradictions are stark, but he thrives in that tension, inviting you into the mess with a grin that knows exactly what it’s selling—a wild ride, no apologies.
Then comes Hot Hot Motor, a post-industrial beast barreling through like it peeled straight out of a Mad Max fever dream. It’s a raw, relentless ride across scorched terrain, channeling the hypnotic, pulse-pounding energy of Suicide and solo Alan Vega’s frenetic delivery, all while dripping with the swagger of a young Elvis. Cong Josie doesn’t sugarcoat it—he’s preaching a gospel of burning fast, living hard, and knowing full well there’s no cushy landing in sight. The high-octane rush comes at a price, and when the smoke clears, it’s always wreckage left in its wake.

Lucinda takes a step back, sliding into a slower, Suicide-tinged ballad with an echoing sax that lingers in the air like smoke. Cong Josie’s voice drips with desperation, pulling you into a trance with each passionate plea. Wild Light wades deep into Angelo Badalamenti waters, floating on synth pads that feel like an 80s fever dream. Chimes punctuate the air, adding a touch of whimsy, while the call-and-response chorus between Josie and the ladies gives the tune a haunting, nostalgic rhythm that hangs in the balance.

Oil Slick Kiss shifts into high gear with a pulsing synth and wailing sax, while Cong Josie whispers his hushed invitation, urging to “grease the metal.” There’s something raw and reckless beneath the surface, the song toeing the line between sensual and sinister. The beat howls like a caged animal, laced with urgency, giving the track an unhinged, animalistic twist on seduction that leaves you hanging on the edge. It’s a wild ride, part dance floor seduction, part back-alley deal, and Josie’s voice, low and dangerous, makes sure you feel the tension in every line.
Crime Time TV steps into Bowie’s more experimental terrain—think Blackstar colliding with Earthling. Yelps, eerie whispers, and distorted samples from television flicker like static, while a Middle Eastern-tinged melody snakes through the track. The result is both unsettling and hypnotic, like the strange, surreal moments that creep in just before sleep when anxious thoughts refuse to let go. It’s bizarre, disjointed, and pulls you into a fragmented world where nothing quite adds up, leaving you lingering in a space between dread and fascination.
Julee, My Baby is a haunting homage to the ethereal siren of Twin Peaks, straddling the veil between the Red Room and the Roadhouse. The call-and-response vocals echo James, Madeline, and Donna crooning Just You, pulling listeners into that dreamy, otherworldly space. A saxophone cries out in the night, as if whispering a message to the Angel of Love herself in the spirit world. It’s so perfectly Lynchian, capturing that strange blend of innocence and darkness, where every note feels like it’s floating in from another dimension.
A new shimmy’s slithering into town, and it’s set to hypnotize your hips and head alike. They call it The Turantula, and Cong Josie’s got the moves mapped out. Joined by Athina Uh Oh of Gut Health, her sultry tones and Patti Smith-esque poetry lace the track with a simmering allure. The rhythm? Swampy, slinking, with a Greek zebekiko beat that channels ancient spirits to stir. Athina draws on those deep roots, while Cong croons and wails, chasing the “sweet bliss” of oblivion. The Turantula spins its web—a rhythm that pulls you into its eight-eyed, eight-sided reality.

Razor Stepper Racer is  a stumbling, disoriented haze, leaving you dazed but grinning like a fool. It’s got that eerie psychobilly edge, with hushed whispers and manic panting creeping through the track like secrets shared in the dead of night. The whole thing smacks of Alan Vega’s chaotic cool, as the horn section wails like banshees, adding a manic energy. It’s unsettling, but there’s a delirious joy in the madness, wrapping up the ride with a sly wink and a final, twisted groove.

The album concludes with Angel Heartbreaker, a languid and Lynchian dream. It features minimalistic and melancholic tones, pulsating with a bleeding heart. The song’s nervous beat, clicking sounds, and almost a capella vocal delivery, along with soulful backing vocals, create an unsettling atmosphere. It concludes with whispered spoken word poetry, serving as an unnerving denouement to Cong Josie’s finest full-length outing yet.

Listen to the album below and order here.

Cong Josie is the hedonistic alter ego—and anagram—of Nic Oogjes, best known as the bandleader of the heat-beat ensemble NO ZU. Nicolaas describes embodying the Cong persona as a chance to dive deep into his own psyche, unearthing whatever lurks beneath the surface. It’s a plunge beyond the realm of the ordinary, dragging reality into the wild, exaggerated world of hyper-reality where anything goes.

A number of collaborators, known as The Hell Racers, return for this round. Cayn Borthwick, aka Johnny Cayn, co-wrote most of the tracks and played a wide array of instruments throughout the album. Mona Reves (Simone Page-Jones) and Milla McQueen (Camilla McKewen) lend their powerful vocals and heavily influence the album’s overall feel. Athina Uh Oh from Gut Health adds her voice to the zeibekiko stomper, Do The Tarantula, while Con Kalamaras, Naarm’s Greek rebetika hero, brings out the bouzouki for Crime Time TV. Madoula Mouskouri (Maddie Otto) and Sashi Dhahrann round things out with their contributions on Lucinda, 1300 Scorpio, and Crime Time TV.

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Alice Teeple

Alice Teeple is a photographer, multidisciplinary artist, and writer. She is not in Tin Machine.

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