Posts Tagged ‘Breakfast With Barr’
“That’s Un-Australian,” you hear it all the time
But it bothers me our nationhood is so often defined
By the things that it is not
Instead of all the traits we’ve got…
Is it standing by your mate
When he’s in a fight
That he started with no provocation
With a brown man looking for an Aussie education…
Or just Vegemite
Which is owned by a US corporation
That went messing with our icon
For the iPod generation
And to sell more cheese (or cheese based products)
Once a livestock thief
Took shelter by a dirty creek
And killed himself when the police arrived…
Yes, we like to break the law
And never be accountable
We might say ‘sorry’, but it might take some time…
You might think my national pride
Is lacking in a way you can easily define
But when you call me Un-Australian
What you are really saying
Is that it’s Un-Australian
To a country where our dignity
Is inclusive and guaranteed
I won’t mind, I’ll be the first to fly the flag
When it is that time
I take responsibility
For working toward that reality
That’s what I’d like to leave behind…
AUDIO courtesy of your (my) friendly community radio statio… RTRFM
There’s an old man in my neighbourhood; his name is Ray
He can talk for half an hour; He can talk for half a day
Standing by the side of the road
Complaining about the green collection
He can talk your bloody arms off while you make a cup of tea
He says he doesn’t like the Council, but he likes community
He’s got an answer for everything
But he won’t run in the local election…
‘Cause Ray is the captain of the Neighbourhood Watch
Which means he watches the neighbourhood turning to pot
He seemed so happy when he signed us on the spot
But I hope he don’t expect much ’cause he will not get a lot…
We’ve all joined the Neighbourhood Watch
If you ever see our bins you’ll see the logo and the swatch
But we keep the bins inside, cause our neighbourhood sucks
We sit in our house; Afraid of all the sirens
And the hoons in stolen cars; and the burglar alarums
It’s a piece of paradise
Who’da thought it’d scare me quite this much…
But Ray is the captain of the Neighbourhood Watch
Which means he watches the neighbourhood turning to pot
He patrols by day, which doesn’t help a lot
When the neighbours kids are in your fridge, ’cause thieving’s thirsty work…
Right click on the icon on the left to download the audio, courtesy of RTRFM.
This song is the result of an internal conflict about the way MJ’s death has been received around the world… and in particular, this strange phenomenon whereby people have claimed that it is ‘too soon’ to make jokes at the man’s expense.
My gut feeling is that he was a lot funnier when he was alive. The tragedy is that a wellspring of weird — the stuff upon which some comedy careers have been very healthily sustained (think Eddy Murphy in ‘Raw’) has run dry…
On to the song…
There’s nothing very funny about Michael Jackson’s death,
It’s not like he was wrestling monkeys
In his oxygen tent
When Captain Hook let loose a broadside
From atop the highest ride in Neverland
And put an end to Pop’s own Peter Pan
It’s just a heart attack — and there’s nothing very funny about that.
I am saddened by reactions
To the death of Michael Jackson
All the jokes and hype flying around the ‘net
But the part of it that I did not expect
Is the people who say it’s too soon
To laugh before the final tune
As his family puts his body down to rest…
I suggest… [I Want You Back].
Thanks to Sarah Church for giving me the following….
I think she got the frown just right….
Trying a new format…. Right click on the icon on the left to download the audio, courtesy of RTRFM.
You get more from the audio… it’s not always funny, but it is always recorded at 7.15am, Tuesday mornings… and that’s a weird time.
In this instalment (a day late, a buck short), thoughts on exploding tables, Today Tonight, cockfighting and the importance of good nasal hygeine.
Thanks also for your enquiries about last night’s stand-up gig… I had fun and learnt more about what to do next time…
LYRICS TO THIS WEEK’S SONG BIT
Somewhere, there’s a swine
Who gave a human the flu
Next thing, pigs might fly
Now the virus is airborne too…
We’re all gonna die
Says the lady who reads the news
Better not get it,
The Avian Swine Flu…
Don’t leave me hanging
No chance of happy endings
Imagine the scene
The death of David Carradine
Was he trying to rub one out or tie one on?
Either way, it all went wrong
Grasshopper has come and gone
But then again, maybe he’s just gone
Now here’s a random thought;
The French call orgasm ‘la petite mort’
In English that means ‘little death’
Try telling that to Michael Hutchence
Carradine was not the first
But at 72, it seems a little worse
Nothing like the humiliation
Of death by auto-erotic asphyxiation
Except for trying to tell your Mum what it is and how it works
While watching your nephew celebrate the two years since his birth
Happy 2nd Birthday Maxie!
There’s a time and place for everything
A hotel wardrobe was the place for Carradine
His hourglass is out of and
And that’s not a pebble in his hand
At least he’s out of the closet now
And on the internet – he would have been proud
Celebrity ain’t that much fun
When your private life comes undone
Last night’s gig went swimmingly… very happy to be amongst it again.
For the record, my setlist was as follows:
Autopilot: What You’ve Got Pt. I & II
Red Jezebel: Find Our Way Back Home
Fourth Floor Collapse: Primary School
Highlights (of the rest of the evening) include my first chance to see a young singer/songwriter called Timothy Nelson, appearing around the traps with The Infidels. What a great voice, and some neat chops on keys and guitar.
Jake Snell went even more retro than me, with Header, Ammonia and Flanders — luckily, I had decided not to play Anky Fremp — how embarrassment would that have been… would have been worse than me turning up in the same outfit as Abbe May.
Also noteworthy, Ms May — one of the only people who didn’t appear to have pneumonia (rocking or otherwise), according to my guestlist — played a cover of Eskimo Joe’s Liar that inspired a strange reaction from the audience… finger-snaps are percussive, yet these seemed imbued with sarcasm as expressive as the lady’s voice.
Apparently there’s a desk recording that will be available in the near future…
In the meantime, here’s a desk recording of my RTRFM appearance yesterday on Breakfast With Barr, covering Halogen.
Clumsy’s an odd looking word, really when you look at it. Is there a word for ‘visual onomatopœia’?
CLUMSY CLUMSY CLUMSY.
And of course, rescpect to Tania, who has been keeping the flag flying at the Hydey up to this sad point.
Eternal thanks also to Hayley Beth for giving me the spot (get up and fight, kiddo) and to Nick Taylor, for loaning a guitar worth more than my life and far beyond my ability to play with any sense of justice.
Thanks also to Steve and Hugh, who turned up too late to hear me murder their song. Sweet kids.
Well, let me just say: Bob gave rock’n’roll to ya…
This week’s song is inspired by this news article about the most popular songs for funerals (‘My Way’ remains the stand-out fave, but there are some up and coming challengers).
Of course, the irony of having someone else singing ‘My Way’ — in itself a song about someone else, written by that person and made popular by yet another person — would be anathema to me.
So, I wrote the following song to be played at my own funeral — preferably through speakers set into my coffin, which I expect to be fully pimped and tricked out by The Parisite.
Or the attendees will have to listen via Silent Disco headsets so my voice goes straight into their brain.
If you are hearing this it means that I am dead
Or missing and I’m not expected to turn up again
I wonder what I did this time; Did I do it to myself
But I’m glad that I pre-wrote this song, so I get to toast YOUR health
I bet you’re all pretty glad you’re not me
I mean… even more than normally
So raise you’re glasses, unless you’re not allowed to drink in here
Would it bloody kill them to let all my friends have a beer
As they remember me?
You’ll note I’m speaking of you ‘plurally’
In the hope I haven’t driven you all away…
With one notable exception, and that’s YOU, Dave… I mean it, get out of here.
So now I’m dead; what became of all my dreams?
My bright burning ambitions; Did I buy Playstation 3?
I can’t bite your head off
So now’s the time to tell me…
I’m assuming I failed to create the virus
That would turn us all into zombies,
But now’s the perfect time to tell you
Dave has herpes.
What are you still doing here Dave?
Except for giving me the chance
To kick your arse from beyond the grave?
It’s possible I’ve died from my own bitterness and rage…
But the important thing is I fit in the box
And I still look good on the stage…
This coffin doesn’t make my arse look fat, does it?
And if you think that does, well screw you, you can kiss it
In truth I’m sad that I’m gone, life is short so don’t miss it.
Except you, Dave.