Big Scary - Me And You (LP) - Gum-Leaf Green Vinyl

Big Scary’s Me And You lands like a quiet conversation between old friends. The Melbourne duo of Tom Iansek and Joanna Syme have always dealt in restraint, but this time the restraint feels more like confidence than shyness. Released in 2023 through their Pieater camp, the record leans in close rather than reaching for spectacle. It’s the kind of album that lets the room do some of the work, trusting space, texture and a pulse that sits in your chest rather than racing your heart.

If you have followed them since the piano-and-ghosts hush of Not Art, you’ll hear a throughline. That album won the Australian Music Prize a decade ago and set the template for Iansek’s careful production touch and Syme’s unfussy, human drumming. Animal stretched things into a suite-like shape, almost like four rooms with different lighting. Daisy brought a brighter, pop-adjacent sheen. Me And You feels like the answer to a simple question they might have asked each other in a rehearsal room in Collingwood. What happens if we stop chasing and let the songs arrive at walking pace?

The production sits right on the skin. Iansek’s voice is almost conversational, sometimes layered in soft doubles that feel like a memory humming along behind him. Guitars are clean or gently overdriven, never flashy. Pianos live in their familiar Big Scary place, half lullaby, half lighthouse. Syme’s kit is tuned warm and low. She has a knack for playing only what is needed, and the small choices matter. A crisp hi-hat pattern opens a window; a kick on the one and three makes the song feel like it’s leaning forward. Subtle synth beds fold in like a late-night tram gliding by outside, and once in a while a drum machine ticks in to keep time with a heartbeat.

Lyrically, there’s a lot of looking across the table. The title hints at it, of course, but the record spends its time on the everyday negotiations of closeness. Who holds the silence. Who breaks it. The songs ask how creative partners and long-time bandmates keep choosing the project and each other when the touring schedules, side gigs and life stuff pile up. It never feels like diary-entry confession. Instead the words read like sketches, trimmed back until only the essential lines remain. That restraint lets small images hit hard. A late train. A kitchen light. A missed call, not returned because the feeling says wait.

Iansek’s ear as a producer is a known thing from #1 Dads and No Mono, and you can hear that discipline here. The mixes are clean but not sterile, with fine-grain detail around the edges. You catch the creak of a piano bench, a brushed cymbal tail, a finger slide on a guitar string. That kind of intimacy rewards repeat listens. On headphones, the record feels like a room you recognise. On speakers, it fills a space without hogging it. You can cook to it, or put it on late and actually listen. There’s a faint lineage to The National’s patience and the delicate math of early Bon Iver, but it still sounds like Big Scary, the band that made Twin Rivers feel like a creek at dusk.

As a piece of their story, Me And You sits neatly beside the rest of the stack. Not Art gave them a prize and a clear identity. Animal proved they could build a bigger structure and still keep the quiet parts intact. Daisy reminded people they could write earworms without breaking character. This one circles back to the core idea that less can be plenty. That might read as modest, but it is brave to avoid the obvious crescendo and trust a syllable held in the throat.

If you collect Big Scary vinyl, this is a record that makes sense on wax. The low-end bloom, the gentle stereo image, the way the cymbals breathe, all of it feels made for a stylus. If you’re hunting Me And You vinyl or looking to buy Big Scary records online, you’ll find it sitting comfortably next to their earlier titles. Big Scary albums on vinyl tend to age well, and this one has the same slow-burn quality. I picked up my copy from a Melbourne record store after hearing it piped over the shop speakers, and it sounded as warm on the turntable at home as it did between the racks. For folks browsing vinyl records Australia wide, file this with your tender, late-night spin pile and let it do its quiet work. It’s a small record in all the right ways, and it rewards anyone willing to lean in.