Anita Lane - Sex O'Clock (LP)

Anita Lane always felt like the secret heartbeat of a lot of great music. Long before this record, she was co-writing with Nick Cave, helping shape pieces like From Her to Eternity and Stranger Than Kindness, and slipping her voice into projects that lived in the shadows of punk, noir pop, and cabaret. Sex O’Clock, released in 2001 on Mute, is the moment she stands alone at the front of the stage, cool as a cigarette in a quiet bar, and invites you closer. It is a small, late-night world of its own, and that’s part of its pull.

Mick Harvey, her longtime collaborator and fellow traveler from the Bad Seeds orbit, handles production with a gentle hand. You can hear the trust between them. The arrangements leave lots of space, so Lane’s voice can float just above the instruments, confident but whispered, confessional without sounding exposed. There is a Gainsbourg-by-way-of-Melbourne elegance at work here. Not pastiche. More like someone who speaks that language fluently and chooses each word carefully.

The pacing is unhurried. Songs curl into view rather than announce themselves, built from drum machines, guitar, organ, and little details that catch your ear on the third or fourth listen. Lane always had a knack for suggestive minimalism. On Sex O’Clock she leans into it, letting sly jokes and small barbs sit right next to tenderness. It feels intimate, but not diaristic. She sounds like she is sharing a secret she already made peace with.

Do That Thing stands out because it embodies the record’s sly charm. The groove saunters rather than struts, and Lane sings like she is smiling to herself, letting the rhythm do most of the flirting. The arrangement says modern lounge, though the mood is closer to a back room after the crowd has gone home. The rest of the album keeps that temperature. Hints of torch balladry slide into cool synth lines. Guitar parts show up, say just enough, then slip away. Nothing is wasted.

People often talk about Lane’s influence in relation to Cave and the Bad Seeds, which makes sense, but it sells this record short. Sex O’Clock has its own gravity. It rewards close listening and good speakers, or a quiet night with the lights down and a glass of something steady. It is a late entry in the family tree that grew from post-punk into noir pop and beyond, and it feels essential to that story. After Lane’s passing in 2021, the album took on an added ache, but the songs were always this tender, this sharp.

If you collect Anita Lane vinyl, this one is the prize. The production breathes on an analog chain, and the silences matter as much as the notes. The right pressing pulls the room tone forward so you can feel the air around the vocal. It is the kind of record you want to file next to your Serge covers and your moodiest Bad Seeds side, then pull out when the night asks for something subtle. If you stumble across Sex O’Clock vinyl in a Melbourne record store, do not hesitate. Copies do not sit around long. And if you need to buy Anita Lane records online, keep an eye on reputable sellers, since condition makes a real difference on this album.

Critics at the time picked up on the album’s smoky confidence and its sense of private theater. Fans did too. That soft chorus of approval has grown louder over the years, which feels right. Lane never shouted to be heard. She trusted her taste, trusted that the right listeners would find her. They did. And they will keep finding her as more curious souls dig through Anita Lane albums on vinyl or scroll through shops that specialize in careful curation of vinyl records Australia collectors love.

Sex O’Clock is small by design. It does not pretend to be a grand statement. It is closer to a conversation in the corner of the room, or the memory you cannot shake days later. The songs arrive on tiptoe, but they stick. Put it on late, let the world drop a few notches, and it will feel like Anita Lane is right there, unhurried and exacting, spinning her own kind of quiet spell.