WARNER LYRIC QUIZ

Rather than continue song by song through the Caravan Club set I thought I’d do something a bit different and offer you the set via a 20 question quiz.  Each song is one we’ll be doing Friday week. Answers below

1 `Then I spewed my self disgust up at the finish of the dust up with the train conductor wearing stripes and strands of minestrone in his moustache.’

2 `I’m a no one in my loungeroom but I’m sure I’d be a someone in New York.’

3 `Bjorn Borg and Vitas Gerulaitis don’t come down with serum hepatitis.’

4 `I’m a Colonel Sanders Chicken mauler as well as a Falcon staller’

5 `He swung that guitar lethal like a Gattling gun, he played the music with his soul, gave the kiss to rock and roll, took the blues and holler and he make it fun.’

6 `Broadway’s pumping like a heart at the end of a marathon.’

7 `He saw the semi-trailer just before he karked.’

8 `That’s the final straw he said, give someone else your maidenhead. She laughed “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

9 `I know what it’s like to be rejected every night’

10 `There was a bit of blood right across the bumper I wiped it down with my Christmas jumper.’

11. `She was a woman of the next millennium but still she drowned in her own condominium’

12 `Who am I to think that ever I could come to something more than this?’

13. `But I wouldn’t trade him for the world and he loves me more than any girl’

14. `Come to Perth where we’ve got the Edgleys and two pedestrian malls’

15. `I drained another pastis, searched in vain for an accomplice.’

16. `I like my beer after work and my four on the floor.’

17.`Our fathers put the desert into desert rats’

18.`We’re the smile on Maggie May the chalk marks where John Lennon lay’.

19.`Maybe I’m stuck in a bad run of luck.’

20.`They’re in love with the sound of their own voice, swamped by a wave of intrigue.’

 

 

ANSWERS

  1. China Town.
  2. John Arlott Makes Me Chuckle.
  3. Wimbledon
  4. Lonely Bar Room Crawler
  5. The King and Me.
  6. Bicton v Brooklyn.
  7. Car Park
  8. Nothing to Lose
  9. Suburban Boy
  10. Strange Night
  11. Woman Who Drowned in her Own Apartment
  12. These Parts
  13. Silver
  14. Phantom
  15. Million Miles From Home
  16. Suburban Rock
  17. Convict Streak
  18. Old Guitars.
  19. Barcelona
  20. Girls Wank.

CARAVAN DRAWS CLOSER

Of all the songs we are rehearsing, this little devil written around August 1976 after my return from London, creates the most difficulty. It’s been the same with every line-up. It is a great groove though and worth the sweat.  It’s on the Suburbs in the 70s CD the compile of the original blank cassettes we used to sell at gigs.

 

KNOW WHAT I FEEL

I come home what do I find?
My house is empty and my friends have all gone
All alone but I’m able to see
The path they took when they left without me
Married to the enemy
Married to the enemy

They say I need stock grain to sow,
The nomad has no place to go
Come and join us they say
Why do you behave in this way?
I can only look at them and tell them and beseech them and say
`Darling: Lord I do not know what I feel,
I only feel what I know,
Lord I do not know what I feel,
I only feel what I know
Oh no, I remember now, bridges that we built
They burned them when they left
‘Cause the enemy said it was necessary.

 Now they wave sometimes from opposite sides
And they cast their words to the wind
But their language has changed with the time
And I can only stand there and grin
I can only look at them and beseech them and say

`Darling: Lord I do not know what I feel
I only feel what I know
Lord I do not know what I feel
I only feel what I know.

 

CARAVAN CLUB – MORE SONGS!

Here is another song on the list for the Caravan Club gig – you’ll hear it as never before with just two guitars and me. By the way any Sydney-siders who don’t like ordering over the web on my site or via Tictail – Red Eye Records in Sydney city stock my cds, the old physical things. Red Eye is a fabulous shop, you will enjoy yourself.

Off my fourth album This is my Planet, Bicton v Brooklyn is my homage to the great city of New York.

BICTON V BROOKLYN

Broadway’s pumpin’ like a heart at the end of a marathon
Steam comes belching and melts the street that you’re on
And the Village buckles and sags from the weight of its cool
No one plays someone and everyone’s somebody’s fool

But you can’t keep the life of the street
No matter the risk or the heat
It’s the pattern of Manhattan
On a Friday or Saturday night
And when the boy from Bicton meets a hood from Brooklyn
There’s gonna be a hell of a fight

Someone shot up and a cop
Up in the South Bronx
Ginsberg shot his mouth off and Warhol ate at this restaurant
And the Bicton boy is a front row forward with nerves of steel
And the Brooklyn hood is good at the sort of looks that kill
But you can’t keep the life of the street
No matter the risk or the heat
It’s the pattern of Manhattan
On a Friday or Saturday night
And when the boy from Bicton meets a hood from Brooklyn
There’s gonna be a hell of a fight

It’s almost as if everything happens by accident
The yellow cabs and the threat of violence are ever present
A tourist from Bicton and a hood from Brooklyn are on a collision course
But the outcomes uncertain cause either could turn off on West 24th
But you can’t keep the life of the street
No matter the risk or the heat
It’s the pattern of Manhattan
On a Friday or Saturday night
And when the boy from Bicton meets a hood from Brooklyn
There’s gonna be a hell of a fight.

I can’t give an answer ’cause it happened in a moment that’s frozen in time
Bicton V Brooklyn is a bout that bounces around in my mind
Is there a winner and loser or do both just squirm on the ground
At the end of a celluloid shootout who’ll survive this time around?
But you can’t keep the life of the street
No matter the risk or the heat
It’s the pattern of Manhattan
On a Friday or Saturday night
And when the boy from Bicton meets a hood from Brooklyn
There’s gonna be a hell of a fight

PREVIEW #3 WOMAN WHO DROWNED IN HER OWN APARTMENT

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.

WOMAN WHO DROWNED IN HER OWN APARTMENT

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.

PREVIEW NOV 28 GIG CARAVAN CLUB #2 BARCELONA

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.

BARCELONA

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.

PREVIEW NOV 28 GIG CARAVAN CLUB – THESE PARTS

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

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.

WARNER FOR MELBOURNE FRI NOV 28

CARAVAN CLUB FRI NOV 28 2015

DAVE WARNER’S RED LAMINEX TABLE

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.