This is a spoken word poem to which I’ll probably get Tony and Bill to play a little hep jazz backing. At one stage I worked on it with Tim Farriss with an idea of him recording it but like the woman in the poem I ran out of time.


This is a song about a woman who drowned in her own apartment
She knew the value of a sou but she didn’t know what art meant
Sure she could plot its return on a comparative yield curve
But her heart remained empty though her fridge was full of Veuve
She wore smart suits to the battlefield of the Nikkei and the Dow
She rode a dow in Aswan and a swan in Macau
She was a woman of the new millennium but despite all this
She drowned in her own condominium

This is a song about a woman who drowned in her own apartment
It began with a leaky tap, just a drip, no great excitement
It was beneath her to call a plumber and anyway their prices were too high
She thought her brains would keep her rich and her pride would keep her dry
Hey “Wd’ya W’d’ya” she was a woman in control
She’d golfed from Gaza to Ginza to the Plaza del Sol
So though her shoes were damp from this strange irrigation
Still she felt no panic at this minor irritation.

By the time she called her broker, nail-artist and her shrink
The contents of her flat were under threat from the contents of her sink
But in the executive mind common sense abounds
She stripped her wet clothes from her body moved her CD to higher ground
She glad wrapped her Walkman and Kelvin Klein raincoat
She floated her Sondheims on condoms inflated
She refused to call for help – what would her friends say?
And so she drowned at 1p.m. on a Wednesday.

They say as you drown your whole life flashes before your eyes
So what she saw was no more than she could buy
And did she fret and pout that Death had called her to his disco?
No though she was pissed now she miss that ball in San Francisco
Her crowd were an unforgiving sort, they’d not forget the snub
She had clubbed with the Trumps and trumped with clubs
But prestige doesn’t help when you’ve run out of headroom
A fireman with tatts found her bobbing against the ceiling of her own 2 bedroom.

That was a song about a woman who drowned in her own apartment
She knew the value of a sou but she didn’t know what art meant
She tried to buy the meaning of life but won only the meanness of death
She rode a dow in Aswan but she ran out of breath
In her own condominium
At 1p.m. on a Wednesday
With barely a sound
She drowned.


So there’s Larry, Des and me. We’ve come from a great time in France with my old uni colleague, Peter Verreck who is staying at a little farmhouse in the Dordogne. While there, every bank we went into was the Banque Nationale De Paris, so naturally when we wired money ahead to Barcelona (none of us had traveller cheques) we wired it to that bank. It took us three days to locate the bank, which wasn’t a branch, only some tiny clearing office with no ability to process transactions. So then we had to contact our Australian bank and have the money wired to Bank di Bilbao or some such, in Barcelona. We were down to our last bit of money, sleeping three to a room in a pensione run by gummy old women. Finally the money came, which was a relief because if it hadn’t the only way out would have been to start a romantic liaison with one of the gummy ones. The melody for the first verse came to me while we were doing just what is described. I then had to keep the melody in my head for months until my keyboard arrived from Aus and I could write it.


Well I’m cruising at night on a ferry
Down Barcelona bay
Though I’ve got my problems they seem
Like a mile away
My car broke down in Toeldo and my money hasn’t come
I’m dirty and hot I don’t know what I got
But I still got some, still got some.

I was riding my bike in Holland
When the chain broke and I fell in
To a bummer one summer with a girl
She was trying to lead me into sin
Well I don’t know if she succeeded
But I’m quite sure that I failed
For the things that she taught me they quite overwrought me
And I ended up in jail, up in jail.

Now I’m drunk as a skunk in London
On a train called the London tube
I’m all alone and I’m chilled to the bone
And my rent’s overdue
Maybe the story will end right
Maybe it won’t end at all
Maybe I’m stuck in a bad run of luck and I’m
Stuck here till next fall, till next fall.


I thought I’d put up lyrics to material we’ll be doing at the gig. If you’re coming you can run over them or if you have the Suburbs in the 70s CD you will find it on there.

AROUND THESE PARTS was the first song we rehearsed in The Suburbs. It was a sort of mix of Desert with Ulysses. Stuart Davies-Slate did some really neat drumming and I knew the band was going to work.


Around these parts
There’s nothing but cowboys’ graves
And burnt out Chevrolets
Both tell the story
Of broken men who played their days away.

Wheels turning, wheels turning in the clay
Hope spurning, all is gone and drift away

River Thames, now coloured purple from the blood
Of King and Cromwell’s men
Suppose they chose to go wherever flows
Regardless of the end?

Wheels turning, wheels turning in the clay
Hope spurning, all is gone and drift away

Who am I
To think that ever I could come to something more than this?
The browning stains
On urinals where dead men used to piss.

Wheels turning, wheels turning in the clay
Hope spurning, all is gone and drift away.




Before Iggy Azalea, before Tim Minchin there was another Australian artist who could weave words into a flying carpet. Now The Monster Is Back. Dave Warner returns to the Caravan Club inviting you to join him in an intimate night around his metaphorical Red Laminex Table with musicians Tony Durant and Bill Beare.
At the Caravan Club’s 2012 Carnival of Suburbia Warner and Durant performed this acoustic style extravaganza of words that features classic Warner material like Half-Time At The Football, Suburban Boy and Bicton v Brooklyn; early gems like These Parts and Silver only exposed to the aficionados who caught live gigs at the likes of Martini’s, The Tiger Lounge or Bananas; readings from his books; humourous short-short-stories and bravura live performance recitations like Australia 11 and My First Game of Football.
Bob Dylan nominated Dave Warner as his favourite Australian songwriter and the reason will be on display Friday November 28 at the Caravan Club, Drummond St, Oakleigh.
Come and hear the heartbeat of Australia Howard Arkley sought to paint.

Tony Durant’s legendary British psychedelic band Fuchsia will support.


Perth Suburbs fans etch the date now AUSTRALIAN MADE – SUMMER OF MUSIC JAN 24 2015 at BENDIGO BANK STADIUM Rushton Park, Mandurah we’ll be on a bill with Mental As Anything, The Whitlams, You AM I, Daryl Braithwaite and Pete Murray – we’ll be on early at 3PM so bring the sunscreen! And my new novel BEFORE IT BREAKS will be published June 1 2015 with a new edition of CITY OF LIGHT, almost certainly a gig will be arranged in Perth to celebrate my return to the crime genre. Melbourne and Sydney Suburban Soldiers stay tuned I am trying to pull some gigs together either late 2014 or early 2015.


There was a young fellow James Hird
Who like Icarus soared as a bird
But the torch of ASADA
Made him fall that much harder
With irreversible damage incurred


Given Australia’s skin cancer problems shouldn’t the cancer  cancer council being endorsing the burqa?