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Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of THE SILVER SEAHORSE, THE WINNER, THE DINNER, CHARITY, Dead Cert, ARTSPRESSO, Cabin Pressure, Stella, and 22 more.
1. |
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I’m on Facebook but where’s my friends?
I saved up my cash and bought my new computer
I pad, camera …. Big widescreen
My snapshot’s all uploaded, there’s no a micro-chip outmoded
And I’ve been waiting six days one hour seventeen
I’m on Facebook but where’s my friends?
This can’t be how my story ends
I’m telling you there’s something wrong
Because I know the words to every Taylor Swift song
But I’m on Facebook and I ain’t got no friends
I wear a trimmed goatee with my celtic tat
Cuban heels … and a pork-pie hat
I got everything required to be somebody desired
But nobody out there wants to be my friend
And I’m on Facebook but where’s my friends?
This can’t be how my story ends
I’m telling you there’s something wrong
Cause I know the words to every Taylor Swift song
But I’m on Facebook and I ain’t got no friends
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2. |
Running Through Brixton
02:33
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Running through Brixton with an axe in my hand
Feeling lotta shit inside I don’t understand,
Feeney and me got mighty big plans
Now I’m running through Brixton with an axe in my hand
Running through Brixton with an axe in my hand
All I want to do is have a rock and roll band
Feeney and me got mighty big plans
Now I’m running through Brixton with an axe in my hand
Oh says me one two three I’m not sure I’m ever gonna be
Oh you whore six five four, I’m turning up with an axe at your door.
Running through Brixton with an axe in my hand
All I wanna do is have a rock’n’roll band
Out of my way the taste of blood in my mouth
Rubber tyres burn all the way to Clapham South
Oh says me one two three I’m not sure I’m ever gonna be me
Oh you whore six five four I’m turning up with an axe at your door.
They’re lining Tower Bridge like murderous crows
I’m running willy nilly don’t know where I’m gonna go
Got anger in my gunnysack nobody understands
Yeah I’m running through Brixton with an axe my hand
One two three all I see mounting chaos and insanity
Six five four I’m at your door , Who’s the hero who’s the whore?
Make your choice, raise your voice the blade strikes down and
Running through Brixton with an axe in my hand
All I wanna do is have a rock’n’roll band
Feeney and me got mighty big plans
Now I’m Running through Brixton with an axe in my hand.
I live for the moment that I felt that night
All young braves and the fire burned bright
Thirty five years I’m still the same man
Still running through Brixton with that axe in my hands.
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3. |
Wimbledon
02:49
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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 instead
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, 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
He’ll have to practice every day and night
No time for writing songs
The only singles that he’s gonna 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, taking me down,
It’s not taking me taking me down,
It’s not taking me down – taking me down with it
Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer
Don’t need speed or coffee enemas
And if in health I’ll win ‘cause I’m Australian
And we do well at Wimbledon
Don’t need speed or coffee enemas
And if in health I’ll win ‘cause I’m Australian
And we do well at Wimbledon
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4. |
Old Guitars
04:00
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No-one cares anymore, anymore
We’re just a bunch of ageing whores
Ply our trade across the board
With chords and words you’ve heard scores of time before
We’re the t-shirt nouveau riche
Searching for our pride and niche
We’re an old guitar
Was a time I recall in local halls
When young men touched some magic space
Small amp and a cheap guitar made us tingle
Mingling in the atmosphere
We’re the smile on Maggie May
The chalk marks where John Lennon lay
We’re an old guitar.
Old guitars never lose their heart
They lose their way they fall apart
But nothing else reaches the stars
Like the sound of old guitars.
No ideas anymore anymore
Just scissors snipping out before
Pasting history into platinum numbing pastry, so tasty for the plebians.
Background for the video
Playground for old Romeos
Time somebody let you know
To stop believing in me
Now we’re the t-shirt nouveau riche
Searching for our pride and niche
We’re an old guitar.
Old guitars never lose their heart
They lose their way they fall apart
But nothing else reaches the stars
Like the sound of old guitars.
We’re no vibrant youthful force
Marriage over sweet divorce
From our old guitars.
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5. |
Vignettes
01:55
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The old park the old park
Night’s soft light an occasional fight
‘Cross the road in the bar of His Majesty’s
To the tune of the Scotland yard serial
Mute wharf you silent wharf,
I dwarfed by exotic ships dwarfed
And the two shilling ride for the ferry trip
And the thrill of just touching the ship
Childhood memories come racing back
How we played by the wagons at the railway track
And yet never entertained a thought of dying
Brass bands and Scots band brigade
Firemen all ablaze in their braid
And the feast of Our Lady of Fatima
And the once a year blessing of the fleet
Childhood memories come racing back
Drunks in cold wagons by the railway track
As I look to the sea, Scots band and the fife
And I contemplate taking my life.
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6. |
I Don't Know What I Feel
03:23
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KNOW WHAT I FEEL
(Warner)
Image: Yvonne Cilia
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 he 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
Because the enemy said it was necessary
And now we wave sometimes from opposite sides
And we cast our words to the wind
But our language has changed with the times
And I can only stand there and grin
I can only look at them and tell them and beseech them and say
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
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7. |
We Want a Kid
03:42
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WE WANT A KID
(Warner)
We got the biggest bestest four wheel drive that can be
60 inch flat screen LCDTV
Esspresso machines that play Coldplay in key
But something’s missing now what can it be?
We’re regulars at festivals up Byron Bay way
We renovate and salivate and fun run all day
We holiday in Paris vacillate in Madrid
But now we’re bored –
We want a kid.
We want a kid! We deserve it
Don’t you stand in our way
We got the bucks if it’s not perfect
We’ll just throw it away
We’ll have a nanny or a granny or manny to serve
And we will be parents ‘cause that’s we deserve
Promise we’ll be there every other weekend
It’ll never be lonely we’ll buy it some friends
We want a kid! We deserve it
Don’t you stand in our way
We got the bucks if it’s not perfect
We’ll just throw it away
We want to preserve ourselves through our DNA
We’re gonna browse the shelves
For a pot of scientific sorcery
To design the kid to match the nursery
The government can subsidise the funds to make it
A little egg and seed just shake it
It ain’t rocket science how just hard can it be?
Six months either side paid parental leave
A trainer to make it like you never gave birth
I’ll be a great Dad watch my kid surf
We want a kid! We deserve it
Don’t you stand in our way
We got the bucks if it’s not perfect
We’ll just throw it away
We want a kid, we want a kid, we want a kid.
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8. |
Snapchat
02:40
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Snapchat, Snapchat
I’m gonna send you a photo of my dick,
Like me it’s hard and it’s thick
It ain’t photo shopped it had to be cropped ‘cause I’m a guy that’s equipped –
I’m gonna send you a photo of my dick.
Please send me a pick of your clit,
Your junk, your rack or your slit,
If my dick fits your slit you and me could be it, send me a pick of your slit.
Snapchat, Snapchat
I need vicarious sex, ‘cause when it’s real I’m inclined to get sick,
I think it’s some witches hex, from sucking on some bitch’s tit,
So I’ll fire these pix of my prick, and pray that I get a hit.
I’m unpleasant, I’m a peasant, my room stinks of old pizza box.
I’m a pox, needs a fox and I ain’t got the courage, panache or finesse
To front you for real and then clinch the deal
So I send you some pix of my dick.
Snapchat, Snapchat
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9. |
Lonely Sailor
02:23
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I’m a lonely sailor just like any Albert Finney
With my hair greased back just like any Laurence Harvey
I’m a rock-out from Blackwall Reach
But I don’t have any Elizabeth Taylor
And I won’t be the groom to Princess Caroline
No I don’t even have a Saturday night tramp to call mine
I’m a lonely sailor just like any Laurence Harvey
No Lizzy Taylor no eyes like Albert Finney
I’m a rockout from Blackwall reach
10 years behind my time and 20 years ahead
What good will it do me if girls love me when I’m dead
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10. |
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This is a song about a woman who drowned in her own apartment
She knew the value of a soo 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 next 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 `wdya wdya' she was a woman in control
She'd golfed from Gaza to the Plaza del Sol
So though her shoes were damp from the strange irrigation still she felt no need to panic at this minor irritation
By the time she called her broker her 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 the cat 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 one pm 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 as death called her to his disco?
No though she was pissed that now she'd miss that ball in San Francisco
Her crowd were unforgiving sorts, they'd not forget the snub
She had clubbed with trump, trumped with clubs
But prestige doesn't help when you're running out of headroom
A fireman with tatts found her bobbing against the ceiling of her bedroom
That was a song about a woman who drowned in her own apartment
She knew the value of a soo but she didn't know what art-meant
She sought 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 one pm on a Wednesday,
With barely a sound
She drowned
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11. |
San Tropez
03:32
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SAN TROPEZ
(Warner)
I’m on the beach in San Tropez
Wond’ring how I got this way
My sweat is heavy underarm I have no guile or wiles or charm
I’m stumbling on the beach in San Tropez
I wear a Torme tux stained with a
Hundred cigarettes my life’s one parade of regret
And so I sway
In San Tropez
Fresh faces of the angels I have kissed
Come skipping to me through the mist
Somewhere an actor takes a stage
And so it plays
I’m on the beach in San Tropez
Wond’ring how I got this way
Fresh faces of the angels I have kissed
Come skipping to me through the mist
Somewhere an actor takes a stage
And so it plays
But all the lines we ever write mean nothing in the dead of night
Or even on the beach at San Tropez
Blooming on my shirt I see a freshly bud rosette
It’s spreading slowly with each step
And so I sway
In San Tropez
I wear a Torme tux stained with a
Hundred cigarettes my life’s one parade of regret
And so I sway
In San Tropez
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12. |
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Last night Jim Morrison came to my window
With a maraca in his hand
Said he was looking for a band
He played my I-pod surfed the net I made us toasted cheese
He marvelled at the intervening years
He didn’t quite get Seinfeld but loved Cheers
And then he started tinkling on the ivories
And we found this kind of groove
Then he sang and the earth moved
And in a nothing suburb between carports, pools and bins
Something mystical happened again
Until he turned to me and said The End
It’s time to go
It’s time to go
We gave the world the greatest party it has ever seen,
But now it’s time we Boomers split the scene
And lo the house was silent as a tombstone
But a maraca on the floor
Proved I had hung out with a Door
Yet what it meant, and why this hour, and why he’d come to me
That empty loungeroom wouldn’t volunteer
Save for those last words ringing in my ears
It’s time to go
It’s time to go
We gave the world the greatest party it has ever seen,
But now it’s time we Boomers split the scene
It’s time to go
Time to go
It’s time to go
Time to go
Now every night you’ll find me at that window
With a maraca and a prayer
That Jim or Janis might appear
And sometimes spinning vinyl well the magic takes a hold
And in that moment there’s nothing to fear
The Lizard King is whispering in my ear
It’s time to go
Time to go
It’s time to go
Time to go.
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Dave Warner Sydney, Australia
Bob Dylan declared Dave Warner his favourite Australian artist. In 1973 Warner formed Pus, Australia’s first punk
band.
He travelled to London in 1975 and developed a concept of original Australian music, `suburban rock’. Warner returned to Perth in 1976 and formed Dave Warner’s from the Suburbs an instant success. Warner continues to write and record music and is author of 20 books.
... more
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Circus Of Desire
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