CORRECT WEIGHT #2

END OF THE DECADE

 

It’s one minute to midnight

The shutters fracture the light

She sleeps while he gazes on changing times

All he gave her was his emptiness

Flowed into her from his penis

Pain of years with each sweet caress

So now he stands behind the

Blind embarrassed by his nakedness

 

There’s no more search for truth

The truth is we only want a little comfort

While some profess the opposite

In their sleep they grab for a blanket

 

It is the end of the decade

Let’s see what progress we’ve made

 

Tonight pool parties shimmer

Sparking memories years have dimmed

I stood in the shadows and

I watched while she kissed him

Now from my darkened vantage

Point ‘I see the decade’s cleavage

It’s not quite rude and

Not titillating

All it is is so frustrating

 

It is the end of the decade

Let’s see what progress we’ve made

 

Pursuing concept chasing swirl

Impeachment mad embracing

Nixon cut to Ford replacing

John Wayne weakens

Weekend chasing

Girls like Trudy

Satin thighs that grip

He sensed it in her sighs

The thing that he feels behind the curtain

How long they shut out the certain?

And is there some relation

Sticky thighs to God’s creation?

Have we taken what we’ve paid for?

Must we pay for what we’ve taken?

 

It is the end of the decade

Let’s see what progress we’ve made

 

It’s five minutes to midnight

The car horns fracture the insight

I held it for a minute but it hurt

So I let it slip

 

All I gave her was my emptiness

Flowed into her from my penis

Pain of years until each sweet caress

So now I stand behind the blind

Embarrassed by my nakedness

 

There’s no more search for truth

The truth is we only want a little comfort

While some profess the opposite

In their sleep they grab for a blanket

 

It is the end of the decade

Let’s see what progress we’ve made.

 

I wrote this song to mark the end of the seventies and look back over that decade. It would be wrong, as with most of my stuff to assume it is autobiographical but there’s plenty of me in it.  I recorded it but it didn’t make it onto the album and I don’t remember why, think it was a bit underdone. Somewhere there’s a recorded version kicking around. I recall playing this at Gil Fraser Reserve North Fremantle as the clock struck midnight to end the 70s. We staged a concert with a number of bands, the original Roadband I seem to recall among them.  We drew a big crowd but half of them got in by jumping the fence so made no money. Somebody used Dave Zampatti’s car as a trampoline and the old gold Commodore was dented forever after. What does the song speak of? Regret? Shame? Honesty? Missed opportunity I think. Anyway, reading the lyrics back, I have to say I like End of the Decade a lot. I think I’ll have to re-record it.

 

 

 

 

 

WIMBLEDON

 

I’ve packed my bags and I’ve sold the amp

I’m moving out of rock

I’ve got the makings of a tennis champ

And so I’m bound for Wimbledon

All this decay is stifling me

Too much drugs and booze

And so I’m bound for Wimbledon

Where I cannot lose

The backhand volley and the forehand smash

The lovely ladies and the prize in cash

Rock is dying but I’m going to live

It’s not taking me down with it

The basic thing that appeals to me

The racquet doesn’t lie

Unlike this racket called an industry

Cause it makes stars like Wimbledon

But half the stars are charlatans

Most of the rest are dead

And so I’m bound for Wimbledon

To grace the net in – stead

Bjorn Borg and Vitas Gerulaitis

Don’t come down with serum hepatitis

And if in health I’ll win cause I’m Australian

And we do well at Wimbledon

I’ll have to practice every day and night

No time for writing songs

The only singles that I want to make

Is centre court, Wimbledon

The backhand volley and the forehand smash

The lovely ladies and the prize in cash

Rock is dying but I’m going to live

It’s not taking me down with it

Bjorn Borg and Vitas Gerulaitis

Don’t come down with serum hepatitis

And if in health I’ll win cause I’m Australian

And we do well at Wimbledon

 

I can’t tell you how many people have me told their favourite lyric of mine if not of anybody’s is rhyming Gerulaitis with hepatitis so thank you, it’s nice to bring a smile to people’s lips.  I really like this song which is couched as a “new wave” pop song but is really about the corruption (then probably more so now) of the rock “industry.” It clearly speaks of frustration at not getting more airplay, more fame, more money, at there not being an objective standard by which popular music could be judged in the way tennis was. At the time I was very into tennis and still think it reached its pinnacle in Borg, McEnroe et al.

Around this time I was constantly sick from the cigarette smoke in the gigs, sore throats from touring etc – so I was over it all, the touring, the smelly rehearsal studios, band in-fighting. The actual recording on the Correct Weight album, disappointed me. It wasn’t the fault of the producers or musicians but I just hadn’t got the sound in my head out as I wanted to hear it.  Had I played it live fifty or sixty times before going to the studio I would have wound up with the arrangement I now use and that I hope to record in the near future. We’ll be doing this at the live gigs 2013 so you’ll see what I mean, it gives the song the rolling dynamics I felt in my gut when I sat down at the keyboard and wrote it.   What is funny is that despite the 30 odd years that has passed the relevance remains. Despite Bob Dylan labelling me as his favourite Australian songwriter, or the Runways covering “Suburban Girl” none of my songs made it onto a recent list of the top 50 songs by WA artists. On top of the slap in the face that ensued from my omission in Something in the Water, it proves Pop History is created and maintained by fuckwits. Frank Zappa once said rock journalism is for people who can’t read by people who can’t write. Bless him.

 

 

 

SPOOKS IN THE DARK

 

I’m watch watching stop hopping

Running up the street my car has stalled

Pushing past the geriatrics gotta make it

To my house before night falls

Last week I locked my key inside

I had to spend the night a sleeping in the park

I awoke when someone spoke

They’re out to get me

They’re the spooks in the dark

 

It started when I charted

All the critics said I was a different man

At number 10 my girlfriend slept with other men

And left me on my own again

I been fretting I been sweating

I had dreams I been taken by a shark

And there’s just no escaping from a raping

By these spooks in the dark

 

I wish there was some way

I could get away

But they win if I leave

And drive me nuts if I decide to stay

God help me

 

I had a bright idea to make these spooks disappear

In a moment when my head was clear

I knew it would work I knew I would smile again

 

I had an operation

Attenuation to my hearing

It stopped the spook sensation

But now I cannot wear an earring

And my fans loved the new record

Though I’m sure I’m heading for a fall

‘Cause the other night I woke in fright

I swear I saw a shadow on the wall

 

Well I had to fix it quick

So I got the doc to cauterize my eyes

It gave me some relief from the belief

I was the one they all despised

Well I’ve given up my hearing

And now I’ve gone and given up my sight

But there’s still no escaping from a raping

By these spooks in the night.

 

This is one of my favourite songs on Correct Weight.  Pretty obviously it’s about paranoia. At the time I wrote it the band was at the height of popularity, but I sensed my demise was imminent. In those days if you were what is now called “alternate” or outspoken, and I was both, your original followers could ditch you very quickly at the first smell of commercial success. That was okay if you made the transition to full radio airplay because you picked up a host of new fans. Unfortunately I didn’t. Prescient or self-fulfilling prophecy? What I also like about this is the metaphor of the songwriter who destroys his senses one by one but still feels no relief from the “spooks”. As a writer you don’t have a choice, however uncool, you have to say what you feel and if you stop doing that you’re dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

JOEY BLACK

 

My name is Joey Black

I grew up by the dock

Never had good school reports

Fighting was my only sport

 

But lately times have changed

Everything’s been rearranged

Now I find I don’t belong

On the streets that I once roamed

These streets aren’t  safe for violence any more

All the trendies do’s restore restore restore

And that’s a boor

 

They ride their bicycles

Where we raced our cars

They take the billiard rooms

And turn them into flash wine bars

They talk about equality

But the chicks don’t talk to me

I tell you that these streets

Aren’t what they used to be

These streets aren’t safe for violence any more

They stink of lawyers’ dope

That’s hidden in the floor

These streets aren’t safe for violence any more

 

All I ever wanted was to own the family house

But I can’t afford it

So I’m moving further out

They’ll take their photographs and write their poetry

About the emptiness of the new life that I lead

They’ll try to keep me out by changing all the rules

They’ll drink their funny tea

Say money is for fools

Well I tell you I want all the money I can get

‘Cause that’s the only way

A guy like me can get ahead

And when I’m rich enough I’ll bring back all my friends

And these streets will ring

To violence once again.

 

 

Joey Black has been a perennial live favourite. Hard-core pumping riffs, true Aussie punk.  The sentiment is worn on its sleeve, the gentrification of places like Port Melbourne, Port Adelaide and Fremantle, the hypocrisy of the new residents, their lack of understanding of the heart of the working class and those they claim to embrace, the easy condemnation of the pursuit of wealth by those born with it. Lyrically some of my favourite stuff ever. “These streets aren’t safe for violence any more They stink of lawyers’ dope that’s hidden in the floor.”  That sums up the song.

 

AFL UMPIRING MADE SIMPLE

Time I weighed into the ongoing debate about AFL umpiring and suggested a few simple principles by which most, not all I admit, umpiring decisions could be made.

Here’s the basic principle: A free kick should be paid when one player’s actions unfairly inhibit the ability of another to execute their skill. Where a player’s actions initiate a situation where he inhibits himself from executing his skill he should not be paid a free kick.

A player who contributes to contact by for example, ducking his head or leaving his feet should never be paid a free kick for “head high contact” unless the opposition player deliberately tries to punch or stomp him.  All onus should be on the player who leaves his feet, not the player who maintains his feet and reaches down to get the ball.  Recently I have seen Andrew Krakouer paid a free kick against Harry Taylor after he threw himself on the ground and writhed around. When Taylor reached down and brushed against Krakouer’s shoulders he was penalised. This is a complete perversion of how the rules should work. I saw the same incident repeated least night in the Hawthorn and Carlton game, a game in which hardly any free kicks were paid!     I just saw Jack Riewoldt get a free for ducking his head, bad decision. 

Similarly a player who leaves his feet and grabs the ball on the ground should not be paid a free kick simply because somebody falls into his back.  He chose to leave his feet, bad luck. A player who leaves his feet has in effect taken himself out of the play and removed himself from the protection of that rule.   How often do we hear experts criticising players for leaving their feet, calling it weak play? We should not reward bad play with a free kick.

Where a second player (the tackler) leaves his feet to tackle the player on the ground and “wraps” him up, he should also not be given a free kick for “holding the ball”.   It should be play on or bounce up.  If the tackler wants a holding the ball free kick he should keep his feet and grab the guy’s jumper or pin him. If the player on the ground does not immediately release the ball, then, holding the ball, free kick.

The rule about players leaving their feet and being penalised for making contact with other players’ legs is a good one SO LONG AS there is some detriment to the player contacted.  And of course, players who do this and lead to an injury should be penalised accordingly under reckless conduct.

 The founding fathers of the game identified the most obvious and common infringements and for decades they remained fairly intact:

Push in the Back – where a player is shoved in the back.

Holding the Man – where a player is retarded from pursuing the ball or a contest by being held.

Grabbing around the Neck – where a player is tackled above the shoulders.

Holding the Ball – where a player is tackled and refuses to release the ball.

Throwing the ball – where the ball is thrown not handballed.

Added to these were basic attacks against a player: Charge, trip. Technical breaches like time wasting infringements, kicking the ball out on the full, deliberate out of bounds etc are really a separate class.

 

Where the AFL has gone badly wrong has been its attempt to fine tune these basic rules and make the game like basketball. So various ruck contest free kicks are introduced that nobody understands, especially the ruckmen.  With the best of intentions post the Blake Caracella incident, the AFL attempted to protect the head of the player but this rule has wrongly become a rule involving head high contact instead of “tackling around the neck”.  The two are very different. 

The push in the back is the most perversely interpreted rule of all. It is almost impossible for a player to win a free kick running towards goal and being shoved in the back, even though his knees might get grassburn.  Hack commentators generally blame the player for missing the shot when this is the exact time push in the back should be paid!    

I totally agree with hands in the back in the marking contest being a free kick – so long as it follows the basic test that the hands prevented the opposing player from executing in some way. Simply touching for balance or protecting oneself when an out of position player backs hard into you, should not be a free kick.  But players taking the front position should be protected, in the way that Ryan Crowley recently was not when Patrick Dangerfield shoved him blatantly in the back.

Pushing players in the side or bumping when the ball is on the descent should not be penalised because there is really nothing unfair about that, it is simply a test of strength. 

 Spectacular as it might be to see a player give chase to a man bouncing the ball, why should the bouncer be penalised for holding the ball if caught? He’s not slowing the game down, in fact he’s opening the game up, giving us one of the most exciting sights in the game.  Play on.  In fact, usually when a player is caught and penalised you will see if you scrutinize it that the tackle was incorrect – often starting over the shoulders, or being a lunge in the back that should in fact see the free going to the bouncer. Once again the sheep commentators and morons in the crowd overlook it and the umpire plays his part theatrically waving his hands in a holding the ball motion.  The tackler’s reward is in dislodging the ball, that’s enough.

 Also unless he has already been in a tackle for a considerable time a player who loses the ball when trying to handball, kick or bounce should not be penalised. It should just be play on – and generally this year this is exactly how the umpires have called it, well done. Players umping on the ball and dragging it in are generally penalised, as they should be.

 

And a throw is a throw, near enough is not good enough.

 

COW PASTURES # 2

NEWS FROM COW CROSSIN #2

 

Dear Cousin,

 

Well have I got news for you! It’s been a remarkable week. Ced Lugan  bought an on-road vehicle, and now everybody is following suit. I think it is just the most ridiculous bit of posturing since Javed Miandad raised his bat to Dennis Lillee. I’m not kidding, an on-road vehicle, here, at Cow Crossing! And now everybody is following like sheep!!!! I mean, I know that generally on-road vehicles are much safer than the 4-wheel drives we have to drive, but there’s never been an accident here at the Crossing – we just don’t have enough cars. If it wasn’t for the fact that we have to cross the creek to get over to the footy field, then maybe you could get away with on-road vehicles, here at the Crossing. And of course if we had any roads. The only road bitumenised here is Ced and Rita’s driveway. Now I have to confess, after sitting in Terry Banovich’s Volvo sedan, I can see why a person would prefer an on-road car. For a start, you’re not perched up in the air like some Emperor being carried by his slaves in olden times.

It’s about 10 years since I had to drive to the city but I can tell you that I hated that feeling, sitting up in the air like some great dork watching over the little people.   And everybody can see you and realise you’re from the bush!

But the whole trend the Lugan’s have started is ridiculous. It would be like somebody down in the city buying an off-road vehicle – God could you imagine how ludicrous that would be? I split my sides laughing at the idea of say, people in the advert business in their natty suits, swapping their sports cars for big ugly 4 Wheel drives. Or mothers lined up to pick their children up from school in great big off-road vehicles that probably cost twice as much as those clever and much cheaper, station wagons.

Sometimes the thought of a silver-haired barrister behind the wheel of a Pajero or Land Cruiser or some such, absolutely makes me wet my pants.

Ridiculous I know, but after a couple of tinnies, I get to imagining all sorts of things.

Now I’ll tell you something else I’ve noticed about the crew who’ve gone and bought on-road vehicles (replete with bumper stickers of city radio stations to make it look like they actually go to the city now and then), firstly all the older blokes are the very same blokes who owned safari suits in the 70s. And the younger couples who’ve bought them, are the same who bought those round German barbecue things that took about five hours to cook your meat.

I don’t know what it says exactly, but it says something.

I have to leave now, there’s a meeting at the school called by the “on-road vehicle owners club” (could’ve saved everybody the trouble and just called themselves “the wankers”) in which they are pushing to build a bridge from the town side of the creek to the footy field! All because now, with their on-road cars, they can’t go across the creek. Have you ever heard anything so damn ridiculous! That would be like somebody buying the place next to the pub and wanting the pub to close down because it was noisy! Can you imagine if you people in the city had to put up with that?

 

Til next time, All The Best,

 

Your Cousin.

CORRECT WEIGHT

I am in the process of putting my third album Correct Weight together with the fourth, This is my Planet. I’ll include bonus tracks and make the double album available for the price of one. Below I’ve sketched out the ideas behind some of the songs on Correct Weight which was largely ignored at the time by the music press though in subsequent years they kept telling me how much they enjoyed the album. Hmmm.

MIDDAY MOVIE

This song sounds like it was my psyche spilling out influences of mid-to-late 60s bands like Kinks, Pretty Things, early Stones.  There are some nice things in it but it feels like a sum of parts rather than a whole. Still not sure what I should have done to give it more power.

 

MIDDAY MOVIE

 I’m getting poisoned by the midday movie

My stubbie’s getting hot

And the fan that I got

Can’t cool it.

There’s a job in the paper that I just might get

But I can’t read the label on my cigarette

My vision is shot and I’m bathed in sweat

From the effort of looking at my TV set.

 

I’m getting poisoned by the midday movie

Randolph Scott’s got a gun to my head

He’s a mean bastard

And he just might use it.

For the last ten month’s I been out of work

I’m part of the carpet and I’m covered in dirt

Yesterday the man came and he shampooed me

But it didn’t fix the toxins from my TV

 My head is spinning

My heart is pounding

I feel like I’m stuck in a tube

Without a vertical hold.

 I’m growing weaker by the dirty plates on the floor

If I can just last the afternoon might get to be with Dinah Shaw

Lately Audie Murphy’s been the strychnine on my TV screen

And I can’t get a job or an antidote

From the TV guide that I learnt by rote.

 I guess I’ll stay here till the night falls

Don’t won’t to go outside these four walls

I might be dying but at leats it’s slow

There may be better ways of living

But few easier to go

 My head is spinning

My heart is pounding

I feel like I’m stuck in a tube

Without a vertical hold.

 I’m laying dormant like a virus that’s packed in ice

And if they ever let me out

There must be doubt

That I’d turn out quite right

To help all the community

Develop an immunity

To the woes of those like me

They pump the gas through the TV

But all this gas is killing me.

 I’m getting poisoned by the midday movie

My stubbie’s getting hot

And the fan that I got

Can’t cool it.

There’s a job in the paper that I just might get

But I can’t read the label on my cigarette

My vision is shot and I’m bathed in sweat

From the effort of looking at my TV set.

 I’m going fast now

I cannot last now

I’m getting poisoned by the midday movie.

 On The Weekend is a pure pop song where I wanted to pain the picture of painful teenage love and its progression through various and inevitable stages of these relationships. It’s a cute idea but I think to work it needed a tougher rendition, a bit of Leopardism to subvert the pop feel.  An interesting curiosity with a good melody, and I like the dramatic shift into the middle 8 but ultimately just not quite there.

 ON THE WEEKEND

 When boy and girl go to a movie

All they ever want to do

Is hold each other tightly squeezing

Have a chocolate or two

And after school upon the buses

Girls in dresses drive boys wild

The boys all try to hide their fever

Comb their hair but never smile

 Till the weekend

When there’s lots of things to do

Lock your door and fool your parents

Who have to guess what you’re up to

On the weekend

On the weekend

 When boy and girl start going out

There’s only two ways it can go

The first is that they never kiss

The other is…well you all know

 When boy and girl start going out

They telephone through the week days

But it is on a Friday night

That innocence can go astray

 On the weekend

When there’s lots of things to do

Lock your door and fool your parents

Who have to guess what you’re up to

On the weekend

On the weekend

 When young girls start growing up

They leave their school boyfriends for men

And the young boys do it all wrong

And try to win them back again

 So schoolgirls grow up so much quicker

Liquor leads them into bed

The next thing they are buying homes

On special for the newly wed

 Till the weekend

When there’s lots of things to do

Lock your door and fool your parents

Who have to guess what you’re up to

On the weekend

On the weekend

 By now the young boys are grown up

They’ve long left school and become men

They start dating younger women

Who leave their school boyfriends for them

 Then browsing at the supermarket

They meet their old girlfriend from school

She’s now divorced with two young kids

And a half completed swimming pool

 Till the weekend

When there’s lots of things to do

Lock your door and fool your parents

Who have to guess what you’re up to

On the weekend

On the weekend

 

With Doesn’t She Look Fine I set myself the task of writing a Paul Anka style piece of early 60s pop that was really a dark, subversive short-story with a few surprising twists.  The opening lines make the listener think they are in for a standard prisoner-missing –his- girl-song but perversely it is gradually revealed that the girl in question is a sociopathic killer and the doting singer is the warder with the key.  Funny, many years later on that fine show OZ they pretty much used this story line. The moral of the tale is that within all of us there is a darkness. Who in the end is the greater psychopath? The angel faced killer in the cell or her keeper who imprisons her like the weirdo in the Collector – not to mention crazy Austrians. I like this song a lot and though the recording could have been a little tougher I felt it hit the mark

 DOESN’T SHE LOOK FINE

 When I hear “lights out” I think of her

The cells bang and keys turn

And all of my body yearns

Doesn’t she look fine today

Doesn’t she look fine

When she’s walking this a way

And I know she’s mine

Every guy upon the block

Would like to walk her to the shop

And talk and tell her how he loved her

Try to kiss her never stop

And who can blame them

I would do the same

Doesn’t she look fine.

 When she’s walking down the street

All the footpaths melt

And when I take her hand in mine

I just wanna shout

Tell the world I love her

How I’m never gonna leave her

Her love is like a dive into the river

Makes me shiver

Cannot float without her

Cannot doubt her

When she says she’s mine

 They say it won’t last

She’ll run off with some other guy

But all my fears fade when she says

“I’ll love till I die”

Doesn’t she look fine today

Doesn’t she look fine

When she’s walking this a way

And I know she’s mine

Every guy upon the block

Would like to walk her to the shop

And talk and tell her how he loved her

Try to kiss her never stop

And who can blame them

I would do the same

Doesn’t she look fine.

 She says she loves me

I say I need her

She says she’ll want me always

I say I’ll never ever ever deceive her

 Doesn’t she look fine today

Doesn’t she look fine

When she’s walking this a way

And I know she’s mine

They say she killed her father

Shot her mother burnt her brother

Poisoned her young sister

And smothered her two lovers

But she is trapped forever in a cell

And the key is mine

 And she is mine (she is mine)

And she is mine (she is mine)

She is trapped forever in a cell

And the key is mine.

 

Cabaretta is a look at the warped and weird world we found ourselves in, playing in sleazy venues six nights a week, coming alive at dusk like vampires and fading at dawn. I think it was probably influenced by Phil Ochs whom I actually met in Perth in about 1973.  Phil Ochs was a magnificent, now largely ignored songwriter whose opus Pleasures of the Harbour ranks as an all time favourite.  Few might agree but I think it’s more consistent and illuminating than any individual Dylan album. Sadly Ochs hanged himself. His songs could often be marked by sudden shifts and in Cabaretta you hear something similar when it swings into “And the drunks from fall from the ceiling” . Tony Durant did a great job arranging this in Brechtian style. It sure ain’t rock’n’roll but it’s interesting and has some of my favourite wordplay “ … make the running sore and the walking stick …” Not a good one for loud pubs though.

 CABARETTA

 Come to the Cabaretta when the moon is high

The girls play poker and the men all cry

Down at the Cabaretta when the moon is high

Grab you lame suit hang it out to dry

My friends all do it but they don’t know why

Down at the Cabaretta when the moon is high

 And the drunks fall from the ceiling

Their antics have us reeling

They land upon their feet and bid us try

While the croupiers are dealing

The young bucks try cartwheeling

They land upon the concrete floor and die

 Come to the Cabaretta when the moon is high

Pull up a chair pull down your fly

At the Cabaretta when the moon is high

There’s so much semen you will feel sea-sick

Make the running sore and the walking stick

To the Cabaretta’s dancing floor

 Watch the drunks fall from the ceiling

With an impolite precision

Upon our turn shouts of derision

Greet our tries

The young folk are all dead

They wrote their name in pencil lead

I get a drunk up in my stead

Or else I’ll die

And the heaving never ceases

Love among many greases

The poker playing ladies open wide.

AFL CHEER SQUAD LEADERS

Surely I am not the only person who has noticed that the cheer squad leaders for the AFL teams are invariably John Candy lookalikes. And I’m including the women, though usually it is a male who has managed to somehow squeeze his fleecy check shirt under an enormous club guernsey which proudly displays on its back the number of a player half his weight. These diligent souls who stay up half the night cutting crepe paper into banners with banal slogans and then strut around in the forward pocket ordering their minions about, often displaying a slice of huge crack as the banner is raised, are as unique to the game as our goal umpires.  But why are they all so enormous? They must sample their cholesterol to see how much blood is in it.  And by the way, I’m not fattist, as my own figure runs more to Friar Tuck than Robin Hood, but I am genuinely interested in answers.  

Here I feel is a question to tease the minds of our most brilliant scientists, why is it universally so? Is it genetic?  Is the gene that makes one an avid fan who likes to cut and stick, the same gene that boosts fat? If the curly-haired guy from Lost had been born in Australia is it inevitable he’d now be wearing a Richmond number 9 jumper and struggling over the spelling of “special” on a giant paper banner.   Or is it that retiring crew chiefs appoint in their place those who remind them of themselves?  A succession of large people who know that others their size will never be distracted by love, intellect or the search for fame, who understand that size is directly proportional to selfless dedication?  

On the other hand it could be environmental. 

Does Melbourne’s cold weather encourage the eating of doughnuts and pies as cheer squads slave through the night working on slogans like “you’re (sic) run will end coz we won’t bend”.  

I must admit I’ve not recently had a chance to check whether the Gold Coast or Giants squads mirror the endomorphism of their Victorian counterparts but years ago when calling the footy I was struck that even the WA and SA teams boasted crew chiefs who were candidates for Biggest Loser.  It was like it was part of the job requirement. 

Whatever the answer, I hope it doesn’t change. In this day of political correctness even in the food we consume, and of waif like bodies adorning every public forum, it is good to know that at least once a week in a forward pocket somewhere, big people are being given a chance to shine and prove that size does matter.

BRIAN PEAKE CHAMPION

I’ve seen a lot of live football games in the fifty years I’ve been following Aussie Rules, probably north of 800.  Over those the best players I’ve seen ‘live” have been Barry Cable, Brian Peake and Tony Lockett. Given most of those games involved East Fremantle or the Sydney Swans it’s no surprise two of the three I’ve nominated played for those clubs.  Nobody disputes Lockett’s credentials, and the Victorians saw enough of Cable to concede his class yet Brian Peake’s ability is never recognised, and even upon his election to the AFL Hall of Fame, the AFL website’s recap on his career was that he was best remembered for being flown to Kardinya Park in a helicopter.   Nobody would dispute that’s a vivid memory but no way is that why he is “best” remembered. Not by me at least.

Brian Peake is best remembered by me as being the most dominant and outstanding player in those games that featured the best of the best, grand finals and interstate games.  In 1974 as a youngster he starred in East Fremantle’s premiership win over Perth.  Only recently I re-watched that game and realised for the first time just how well Peake played. The Simpson Medal that day was a tie between David Pretty and Gary Gibellini and yet with the benefit of a replay I feel now that Peake was best on ground.  In 1977 Peake broke his arm in the last qualifying game of the season and yet in an incredible act of courage he was back out there in the grand final playing in an arm guard. While it wasn’t a great game from the champion he was one of East’s best on a day we were flogged.   In 1979 he led East Fremantle from the first semi-final to win the grand-final with dominating displays. In between Peake played on a wing in a WA v Victoria interstate game at Waverly.  I recall this game well because the psychopathic teenage Collingwood supporter behind me kept thumping me in the back and calling me a cunt even though the Vics were up by 15 goals. Tony Durant my Pommy guitarist turned around and politely asked him to stop and the psycho shaped to punch him. With lightening, I might say Peake-like reflexes, I rammed my pie into his face.  Every WA player was thrashed that day – except Peake – who had far the better of dual Brownlow player Keith Greig.  But in the 1979 carnival in Perth Peake did not only beat every opponent on whom he played, he eviscerated them. His game against the Vics in 1979 was the most dominating performance I have ever seen in a state game. He made poor Wayne Schimmelbusch look like a first gamer.  He also led WA to its first ever win over SA in Adelaide. The perception is he was a failure at Geelong, and there is no doubt he failed to reach the high expectations of him, however he played better than given credit for. In his first year he arrived mid-season, with no training with team mates and yet still polled 7 Brownlow votes from 10 games. The following year he polled 4 votes which was equal fourth.  Once he was relegated to a half forward flank though, his performances suffered.  When he returned to East Fremantle he picked up where he left off and at the end of his career was still able to demolish Victoria from full-forward.

Peake was one of the first of the big bodied mid-fielders.  His courage echoed Francis Bourke’s but he was an outstanding mark and kick.  Any football afficiando will tell you the hardest skill in football is to run hard at the ball carrier, jump and take a mark overhead under full pressure, yet this was Peake’s specialty. I have never seen a player better able to do this than Brian Peake, he was Dunstall like, and Dunstall was a full-forward par-excellence.  The closest player I can match him to of more recent times is Michael Voss, although Peake was more dangerous forward.  Patrick Dangerfield is probably closest to Peake of current day players.  

Brian Peake is one of AFL’s greatest players and I congratulate him on his well-deserved honour.

 

SUBURBS GIGS PERTH AUG 24 MELBOURNE AUG31

Hi any of you Suburban Soldiers still out there, I am planning a few gigs this year and would love to see you. Firstly on Friday May 31 at Petersham Bowling Club in Sydney I will be supporting Martin Cilia my friend and superb guitarist. Martin is launching his new surf CD prior to heading overseas for a tour in the US and Europe and as he has supported me in the past I thought it only fair to return the favour. It won’t be a full Suburbs line-up but Tony Durant will be there and Martin and Lloyd Gyi will add bass and guitar too. We’ll be doing about 5 songs before Martin launches into his stuff. Entry is only $10 and doors open 7.30 PM. Then on Saturday Aug 24 we will play Hotel Charles in Perth where we had that fabulous show last October – full show with Howie J back on drums and Phil Bailey bass. The following Saturday Aug 31 we play the Caravan Club in Oakleigh Melbourne, Greg Macainsh will play bass and Lloyd Gyi drums. As I did last year I will be playing some of the early Suburbs songs which were only ever available on the clear tapes – including the following which has now been added. Hopefully see you there – Oh and I will try and find a venue in Sydney that will have us for first weekend in September.

I DON’T 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. 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. 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.