Stale Meatloaf served cold

Australian rules football is a unique sporting spectacle. Played through the antipodean winter months it conjures a fervent passion for the game and the participating clubs that borders on religious fanaticism. Played over 26 brutal weeks it rises to a thundering  crescendo with the two best performed teams playing off in the Grand Final, for all the marbles, on the last Saturday in September. Near 100 thousand people have  packed themselves into the Melbourne Cricket Ground hungry for the contest. Suburban and state rivalries dating back to a time when America was fighting for her life in a civil war are open like raw wounds. Game on... But first things first. As this unique Aussie "Footy" league has evolved from a parochial love fest into an internationally televised event, the suits at AFL house and their CEO Andrew Demetriou have decided that the old pre game rituals of little leaguers chasing the pigskin, retiring players doing a lap of honor and a 100 yard sprint featuring Stawell gift hopefuls is passe. Because this is the big stage, and as such, the suits decree that a pregame concert is in order for which only a truly international act will suffice. So here we are...  2011 has waned into the history books and my team came up trumps against very stiff and worthy opposition and I am rapt, but I have an axe too grind. I am sitting with my American family and they are laughing at the grotesque spectacle of Meatloaf, washed up, fucking stale Meatloaf. The question is pointed at me. "Don't you guys have any good legendary rock n roll bands in Australia?? Did the AFL suits really fork out 600 grand for this crap??"  Ah yes, we sure do have some talented musicians, says I, and they could sure as shit use 600 K. So, today a little hungover, I am hoping that my good friend WAZ owner of Greville records, can drag that fucking  idiot Demetriou, with all the money too splash on "Talent" down to his shop and give him some musical coaching . The AFL’s talent buyers, so it seems, need a big pre season.  MY A TO Z OF AUSTRALIAN BANDS WHO COULD USE 600 K TO MAKE VITAL NEW MUSIC,BUY A FEW ROUNDS FOR THEIR  MATES WHO HUMPED THE GEAR, AND EVERYTHING WITH A PULSE , AND DEFRAY THE COST OF LIVING AGAINST THEIR MEAGRE  PENSIONS!!  

A: The Allusions. They could play Gypsy woman with seductively dressed woman peering into the cup too divine the winner. BETFAIR could sponsor the odds swirling in the cup live.

B: The Band that shot Liberty Valance. Fred Negro @ the G rocking out with his cock out.

C: Chris Bailey: He could crank out "Stranded" for those who cannot manage to go back to back. (My mob included.) 

D: The Dingoes. They could play "way out west "when the Dockers eventually  make a run at it.

E: Emmanuelle: Tommy & Phil. For some shitkicking virtuosity.

F:  Fish John West rejects. Because they are from Tassie and Tasmania deserves some God damned respect on the biggest stage of all.

G: Geyer, Renee. Just because, unlike Mr. Loaf, she can really sing. She could do "heading in the right direction" to assuage all the loyal club men with their heads on the chopping block)

 H: The Hollow men. Billy Baxter at the G. He coulda been a champion.

I.  Icehouse.  Just to see if Bob Kretchmers still got it.

J: Jo Jo Zep and the falcons. The classic Wayne Burt era lineup playing "Beating around the bush." (Where all the real coaches used to come from.)

 K: KUSH. Because seeing Jeff Duff in a leotard singing MacArthur Park would be beyond priceless.

L: Little River Band. Because some American sideman ripped off the name in the board room and the royalties from "Help is on the way" will eventually give comfort to the starving ex sidemen, of whom there are many, and Pies supporters.

M: Mad Turks from Istanbul. We fought there in a war and it's been good business pimping the "Great war" for the AFL over the  years.

N: No fixed address. A nod to the pioneers of indigenous roots music would be nice, and Demetriou's suit could trot out Kev, Archie, and Paul Kelly too.

 O: Olympic sideburns. Because hearing Maurice Frawley again would be worth the corporate price of admission.

P: Painters and Dockers. They could present the Norm Gallagher medal for slowest midfielder at the stoppages.

Q: Quill, Greg. He could play gypsy queen for the all the young draftees rocking off to GWS.

R: The Radiators. Because like the players they are warriors of the road and unlike Mr. Loaf, their rider strictly stipulates. “A dozen tinnies chilled. Thanks." 

S: Salmon, Kim because blokes like him are the reason I am really composing this novella of information for the empty suits @ AFL house.

T: Taman Shud.  Because they could play Morning of the earth on the Jumbotron score board, surely a world first. 

U: Uncanny X men. There are really that few U bands in Australia. 

V: The valentines. Because they gave the world Bon Scott and could sure use a victory lap and some of Mr. Loafs 600 K.

W: Warner, Dave.  Half time at the football, mugs game = priceless. 

X: X. Because we could confuse newly rocking Andy D’s suit. Get him thinking he was really booking Exene, John Doe and Dave Alvin. (The American X.) Steve Lucas could pocket the 600K and tour the world setting the record straight.

Y: Young Home buyers. Because that’s where Greg Champion got his start and a young homebuyer could not afford the price of admission to the game that is required to provide for the upkeep of Meatloaf’s ranch in Texas. 

Z: Zoot. Because they won the Hoadley’s battle of the sounds in 1969 in pink tutus and it would be wonderful to see the worlds most well preserved man, Rick Springfield, bring his American soap opera voice back to Australia one last time before oxygen tents and  golf carts impinge on the performance.

So, there you have it. About 160 Australian musicians more worthy af a tilt at the 600 K than the faded and unfortunate Mr. M Loaf. To quote Gary Gray. “Nothing grows in Texas” Feel free to forward this to Mr. Demetriou’s suit. Thanks, this has been a public service announcement. Hey, and if he still has a hard on for American bands from back in the day, I can set him up with a Beat Farmers reunion tour. They don’t suck ass.

911,Dan Quayle and me.

911 remembered. It was our generations Pearl Harbor, but it was different. It was not an attack on a military installation by a nation state, it was an attack on civilian aviation and buildings of commerce. Orchestrated by, if you believe the 911 commission, a bunch of well financed lunatics drunk on their religion.  Or, if you follow other more skeptical lines of enquiry, anyone from the MOSSAD and Larry Silverstein, to nebulous cells within our own nations governance. Heavily cloaked and hidden from scrutiny, hopped up on a desire for revenge and control of far flung oil fields and their black gold. No matter how you slice it and dice it, what you choose to believe, or choose not too believe, it was a gob smacking human tragedy, especially for the children orphaned on that bitter day.

    A beautiful clear morning, full of promise 10 years ago, turned into fire and hatred that endures and intrudes daily into our lives a decade on. We all have that “where were we” moment etched into our memories and thankfully for most of us they are remote and not personal beyond the impotent rage of seeing the nation attacked. This is my memory, of that ill fated day.  I had just moved in with Graces mum and our future was bright and hopeful. I was working on a luxury condominium conversion in the Peoples Republic of Berkeley. Grace's mum was working as an architectural designer doing work for financial leviathan Morgan Stanley. I hit the radio in the shower and heard the first reports of the attack. Quick i said. "Turn on the TV, a plane has crashed into the World Trade Centre." (The Television was all snow as we were waiting for the cable guy who was scheduled to come sometime between 12 & 6 PM.)  Gracie’s mum says to me. “Oh, they are not going to be happy with me, I did not Fed EX my plans to the WTC yesterday.”   “Honey”, I said, divining the scope of the unfolding emergency from the snowy TV screen. “They have bigger problems than your FED EX boo boo.”

    We drink some coffee and eat some cereal, without saying much, probably just like all the folks whose lives have just been devoured on the East Coast, had done a scant few hours before us. It was scheduled to be a busy day on the job, so I kissed my girl goodbye and went about my business. There really was not much else one could do in far off Berkeley, California except try to glean some perspective and carry on. The news on the car radio is not good. The South tower had just collapsed, the Pentagon is on fire and it is obviously an overt act of war.  Confusion and speculation that planes are missing over the pacific bound for the West Coast is being reported as fact.  I arrive at the jobsite and it is mad confusion, outrage and anger. The guy I work for, Seth, is an interesting mish mash of personalities.  Part hard nosed businessman, with a portion of mystical Buddhist by way of Berkley yoga dude, with a splash of sinister sauce.

    He is arguing with Pat Downs an old Vietnam Vet as the Nth Tower crumbles into oblivion.  Pat wants to fly Old Glory above the building and is already talking about “fucking rag heads” and payback. Seth does not want to fly the flag as, in his mind, it would appear nationalistic and perhaps be offensive to the uppity, yet progressive neighbors. The ones who have already had enough of this awful construction nonsense intruding into their specialness. Seth, with an eye, as always, on the clock and the dollar, is trying to rally his shell shocked troops. “We don’t know that it was terrorists, let’s just do a good days work men” No one is buying it. This is a national tragedy.  We can already see that it is right up there with the Kennedy shooting and Pearl Harbor. Some of the crew have family on the East Coast and Levon Carters Dad even works at the Pentagon.   All of a sudden the boss mans phone rings; he steps aside to take the call. He is quiet, and this is the first time I have ever seen motor mouth Seth with no words tumbling from his lips. He calls my name and throws me the keys.  He says. “I don’t care what you do, just lock up the building.” He has a strange sad frown and takes off running at a good clip. We don’t see him for days and only find out later that his best friend and neighbor has been killed on flight 93.

   We agree to call it a day and head home to our loved ones. Just in case our dose is still coming I stop for Gas, which has already spiked 35 cents in a matter of hours and get last into line for groceries at Andronicos. I make sure too buy  beer, for today we will drown a lot of sorrows. I get home and there is no cable guy and we are stuck with sleet on the screen while history is smacking us hard in the face. Grace’s mum is worried about her colleagues working for Morgan Stanley at WTC 1. Not surprisingly they are not answering their phones. Beers are cracked and I am happy to be sitting safely in our house, on our purple couch with the woman I love.

    We have KTUV 20 on, as it is a little less hyper than the networks. A nice lady is interviewing a man I do not know, but he is calm and reassuring. He is talking about how the POTUS will immediately have to re task satellites over global trouble spots to gather intelligence. The need to get the air corridors on both Coasts secured. He yalks of the strategic capabilities of carrier strike groups, air wings and the scope of the various cabinet portfolios and the critical roles the will play in the dark days we have ahead of us. I say to my girl. “Hey this guys on top of it, he should be in charge. He should be POTUS” ( At this point George W Bush was MIA in Nebraska.) He sounds so poised and resolute, some how hardened.  The interviewer concluded the broadcast. “Thank you Mr. Vice President. “  And advises viewers that her interview subject, the engaging and wise in the way of international affairs and the nation’s governance, former Vice President Dan Quayle, has cancelled his speech at the Commonwealth club in San Francisco in light of the day’s tragic events.  My girl and i who have both been paying rapt attention  say as one did she just say Dan Quayle? Yes she did, and on September 11, 2001 the nation could have done far worse than have him in the oval office based on what i heard with my own ears.
   The day wears on and the unfolding horror of the event begins to shut down the senses. The catastrophe and its consequences, and hopefully the TV picture, will surely be clearer tomorrow. The cable guy never comes, we’ve given up on him, but do not bother too call a complaint in to his bosses. How could you?  It is obviously a small inconvenience that can wait until tomorrow. A new day whose challenges and frustrations I am yet to aspire too, and I realize that thousands of the yet uncounted dead will never know its promise.  About 11pm the phone rings and it is Graces mother’s MIA colleague. Some folks are still not accounted for, but he has temporary offices in mid town Manhattan and wants his plans. Hell, he wanted them yesterday, and he’s in no mood for left coast slackers. The sun rises, life goes on and a bruised nation endures. But for some, the widowed, the orphans of 911 and the wars that will soon follow that day of rage, nothing will ever truly be the same again.

Jimmy's gone for a Soldier.

The Coffin ship is found

Ahoy Shipmates. Most of you who have played music with me over the years, or been to a Rubbles/Starboard watch/Cactus 5 gig somewhere in my travels, have probably heard my song "The Wreck of the Steamship Coramba". This song has always been very dear to me, in part because it links me to a part of my family that is forever lost to me, and yet keeps that history and family alive in my heart. It also allows me to share with the listener a story from a different time. A time of hardship and deprivation: the Great Depression. When the Coramba was lost seventeen men never came home from the sea, seventeen families lost their sole economic support and over 70 children were orphaned. Uncle Henry Jensen, who raised my mum as his own ,and her sisters, was, sadly among the doomed crew of the little ship when she disappeared on the perilous night of November 30th 1934. One of the great tragedies of the wreck of the Cormaba is that she was safe in port at Warnambool, and her Captain was ordered to put to sea, despite his expressed concerns about the approaching storm. Thanks to the dedicated efforts of Des Williams, Mark Ryan and southern Ocean Exploration the ship has been found. Her find bringing peace and closure to the surviving orphans of the Coramba. I've attached an article and a video of the first dive to the wreck o f the Steamship Coramba. Enjoy.  http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/sweet-relief-as-wreck-find-ends-76year-mystery-20110604-1fmal.html

The Coffin Ship:Shipwrecked.

Shipwrecked.

“I was the convict sent to Hell, to make of the desert a living well. I split the rock, I felled the tree. The nation is because of me.” Mary Gilmore. I wrote this song when I was reading Robert Hughes’ book “The fatal shore”  A lot of folks probably don’t know this, but Australia was founded as a British penal colony when the crown was no longer able to ship it’s felons to the plantations of the Carolinas during, and after the revolutionary war. Now ‘felons’ is a big word. It conjures up in the contempary mind visions of dope dealers, gang bangers and corrupt politicians. But way back in the day they were usually petty offenders. Many simply trying to feed families in difficult times, a great number having served their King in a time of war. These poor battered hopeless souls may as well have been sent to the moon for all the hope they had for their future. The first fleet was nine months at sea before running up the colors at Botany Bay. (The effect of this action on the indigenous peoples is a whole other can of worms and songs.) For the convict, transportation was in most cases, effectively a life sentence, for many a death sentence. Like the crew and convict freight of the Neva. The Neva sailed from Cork, Ireland for Sydney on 8 January 1835 carrying 150 female convicts with 33 children, nine free women (probably wives of convicts) with 22 children., and 26 crew, under the command of Captain Benjamin Peck. With the deaths of a crewman, a convict and a free woman, and one birth, during the voyage, by the time the Australian coastline was reached the total complement was 239. Hells’ gate too far for these lost souls.

Shipwrecked.

Me babe was so hungry I’d of slit your throat for a shilling there was no work for laborers even those that was willing.

Who’d work for a pittance shoveling dung, the great Lord said. “I’m sorry, but jobs there are none.”

I was a gunner with Nelson, I smashed our enemy’s to Hell, and all this before the Kings’ court I did try to tell.

Too explain my folly to the high magistrate. “Our bellies was empty and our need was great.”

But stiff back he sneered. “I’ll reward your crime, I’ll sail you to Hell for fourteen years time.”

Cut up on the coral and dashed on a reef with our timbers stove in and our bones bare and bleached. Shipwrecked, shipwrecked we be, shipwrecked, at a loss on the great Pacific sea.

 Shipwrecked, shipwrecked we be, shipwrecked, at a loss on the great Pacific sea.

England so far for us good men in chains, us felonious thieves all branded with blame.

Bound for Port Jackson, manacled as one, chained ‘tween the decks soaked, frigid and numb. Whores, poachers and bandits transported in tears, away, away from Portsmouth for fourteen grim years.

Cut up on the coral and dashed on a reef with our timbers stove in and our bones bare and bleached. Shipwrecked, shipwrecked we be, shipwrecked, at a loss on the great Pacific sea.

 Shipwrecked, shipwrecked we be, shipwrecked, at a loss on the great Pacific sea.

We crossed the line they gave us a tot of rum that burned  a hole in my belly like a frigates great gun.

Then the decks they plunged and creaked, as our little ship did start to leak, when the water rushed up around our guts the captain had the chains struck off of us. For we were aground in a great filthy squall and an old sailor cursed: “Death is equal, let God judge us all.”

The Coffin Ship. (The wreck of the steamship Coramba.)

The wreck of the Steamship Coramba.

  The SS Coramba was a costal trader serving the communities of the Western districts of Victoria, Australia. She was a lifeline of prosperity to the isolated coastal ports, as she plied the treacherous waters of Bass straight, four round trips per month.  Melbourne, Apollo Bay, then to Port Fairy: her port of registry.  Warnambool to Portland and back again. She was a workhorse of trade, bringing raw materials and the fancies of city living to the country, and then returning with the bounty of farm and foundry.

  She left Apollo bay in November, 1934 steaming to the East, fully laden with seventeen hands to work the ship. She was last seen standing off from Westernport bay in a storm whose fury was, at the time, the worst ever recorded in the region. During the perilous night of November 30^th the Coramba foundered with all hands. She is believed to lie in deep water to the East of Westernport bay off the Nobbies. For nearly eighty years she has kept her secrets and her crew in their iron coffin, among them our beloved Henry Jensen

"The wreck of the Steamship Coramba"

D / A / G /D /A / G /D

D                                                                              A

Henry Jensen was a stoker who worked below the water line.

G                                                         A

He fed the boilers black coal between swigs of red wine.

D                                                         E m                 G                          A

As the wives, and the children, waved bye-bye Papa from the old stone quay.

Bound for Melbourne four times a month, with a family man in every bunk,

The Cape Otway skies already grey, as the steamship Coramba left Apollo bay.

Lade up with cargo and fuel for the trip, with srventeen men to handle the ship.

But wild Bass straight would not be calm and the old ship shook in alarm.

The decks awash with the company’s tax dodge. Well insured and all a sea in the lap of the Gods. With no wireless between the ship and the shore, seventeen men caught in a gathering storm.

D / A / G /D /A / G /D

                 G                               A                              D                              Em                          G

Chorus... Westernport bay is a sailors grave, for seventeen men buried under the waves, in the wreck

A                           D

of the steamship Coramba  X2

The captain shouted. "Stoker Jensen. She's taking it rough...douse the fires, get a lifebelt and haul your arse up. I'll put her head to the wind and get the boats away. We'll stand away from the land till the break of day."

The Argus reported the worst storm since federation and posted the missing men lost, at their destination.

The merchants and wharf rats gathered at the quay but the old ship had gone well astray.

Chorus... Westernport bay is a sailors grave, for seventeen men buried under the waves, in the wreck of the steamship Coramba. X2

Break.  C / D / C / D / E m / D /

My Grandfather Weir, Henry Jensen’s best mate, could not abide the little ships fate.

In a dory he searched along the rocky shore but only pulled in a lifebelt off of Cape Woolamai. The seaman’s' union established a trust. The kin buried no bones or scattered their dust. Of the Captain and crew, it seemed only God knew, where their drowned bones did lie.

D / A / G /D /A / G /D

Yes, Westernport Bay is a sailor’s grave for seventeen men buried under the waves in the wreck of the steamship Coramba... For the word all abroad, was that insurance fraud, lured the ship from the safety of shore. To the wreck of the Steamship Coramba

D / A / G /D /A / G /D

                                                                       C & P ARONSONG