One of James George Thirlwell’s earliest memories is of the autumn 1964 day at kindergarten in Camberwell VIC, when he approached a classmate named Vegas, to whom he was quite attracted, and proceeded to serenade her with a rendition of Elvis’ “Viva Las Vegas.” Whether or not Jim was wearing a little black suit with a red shirt opened to the waist is lost to the vagaries of time. But this innocent (and, let’s call it what is—damn near adorable) image is almost impossible to envisage for anyone who experienced the perversely stellar mania of the live shows Thirlwell did in the guise of Foetus during the 20th century’s final decades. Whether playing alone with backing tapes or surrounded by all-star scum-rock heavies, Jim’s approach to stagecraft was beyond intense—so far over the top it was like some really fucking evil, scary pornographic cartoon. If Thirlwell may not have seemed quite as dangerously insane as Alan Vega did in the early days of Suicide, he was clearly begging for the same straitjacket.