anton

Rarble Parble, Definitarble.

I like a lot of bands. But very few move me like This Is Serious Mum do. Seriously. Their portraits of the Australian suburban experience get me all teary... the alienation, the cultural cringe, the established social hierachy, the signifiers - or lack thereof - of class. I love them.

And so, at TheFuckOffKid's suggestion, here are some lyrical highlights from the TISM canon. I'll leave it open to speculation which ones genuinely move me, and which ones are just kind of funny.

You Gotta' Love That, from Att: Shock Records:

"Well, O.K," she says, "I'll come on back,
Or you come to my place" - ya gotta love that.
I've heard parents speak of their children on stage -
Ya gotta love that, at primary school age.
When driving along, the first time you see
Your band's street poster, accidentally;
Friday night after work; or Steve Waugh out to bat;
There's beer in the fridge - ya gotta love that.

"It's only a lump" - ya gotta love that
When the tests are done, and results are back;
Unleaded's got cheaper; a seat on the wing;
When at last you're sure she keeps on looking;
The Kerrigan's castle; and Kafka's? - unsure;
Literary allusions that aren't too obscure;
You're in bed by ten - ya gotta love that -
After too many nights late back to back.

Some racist bastard says, "Why, you little black"
Che Cockatoo Collins talkin' right back -
Ya gotta love that; and the phone finally rings -
It's the girl calling; when Paul Robeson sings;
Lust, before it goes away - and then when it's back;
Flashing high beams to warn of a speed trap -
Ya gotta love that. Your band writes a slow track,
And some people like it. Ya gotta love that.

Professor Derrida Deconstructs from Att: Shock Records:

I know that the Romans came after the Greeks;
I went to a lecture to hear Robert Hughes speak -
I am honoured, cultured, literate - and yet
All of my life I've had one main regret:

I wish I'd slept with more girls;
I wish I'd done more drugs;
I wish you'd all go and get fucked.

Julius Seizure (Act III, scene ii, verse 73-118), from Att: Shock Records:

I come to praise, not to bury, the shoddy and the rooted
To lament for the passing of those men, Safari suited,
Who'd flatten you with mindless glee when they got really newted.

Behind the bottleshop you'd see the roughest justice done:
Yeah, it was assault and battery - but with a sense of fun,
And a drink together after, when the ambulance had come.

Who would have thought you'd ever miss the barmaid's brutal snarl
And guys looking at you strange while she says, "What's yours, darl?"
"Wanna go?" is all you recall, before the blow and grand mal.

"You gotta fucking mouth on ya," those moustached yobs would say
Back when being literate was something to hide away
And being mediocre meant you played in the V.F.A.

Kate; Fischer Of Men, from Att: Shock Records:

I know he owns a paper Kate, but I buy one every day;
It's not that he's rich and successful that you love him, so you say,
Which makes me feel so much better, Kate, cos I'm not any of those;
And, just like him, that's got nothing to do with my abilities: God, no -
As it is, I'm still renting, and the place can get a little drab,
But at least you know in two decades' time I won't look like his dad.

There's a tall poppy syndrome, Kate, that is ready to attack:
Come with me and I'll guarantee you won't get any of that flack;
There's sneering two bit disaffected maladjusted types
Ready with their oh so moral high ground jeering hype
Condemning you just because you are who you are -
I'd drive round now and rescue you, 'cept the diff's gone on my car.

It's not too late: give him the a and come with me to Airport West -
We've got a brand new shopping mall with a eight cinema multiplex;
There's a half tube skateboard ramp and the waterslide's the best -
Down Airport East they say we're snobs, but I know you'll be impressed.
In Airport East they ain't got much, so all they do is slag,
Just like the people whose weddings don't make the women's mags.

I'm interested in wog ball and I really like Acca Dacca;
And I'm better than him 'cos I'm a store man as well being a Packer.
Cos, I'm a bit short of cash right now, but before rumours get about,
Any one says I like you for your dough, I'll snap the bastard out.
If I marry you I'll be famous, Kate, but they won't take my privacy
Enough about me: what about you - what do you think of me?

I'll just assume it's a done deal, then, and get on with the rest,
Like finalizing photo rights and which tabloid offer's the best -
Give it a break, Kate, you can't complain if we make a buck:
Our marriage could set up us for life, with a little bit of luck.
I could be rich and famous Kate, just you mark my words:
Why marry some unknown jerk from the outer suburbs?

If You Want The Toilet, You're In It from The Box Set:

Maybe you got Commodore.
Maybe you got four door.
Maybe you got Corrolla.
Maybe you got Rolla.
Maybe it got four on floor.
Maybe it need some more.
I don't care what you have,
Just root your mum and kill your dad.

The Art-Income Dialectic, from The Box Set:

Art is for the filthy rich and their noble fucking minds,
Cause they're the only arseholes with any fucking time
To get to the theatres and the galleries and the restaurants to dine
While all the grotty working class are working down the mines.

They're really very self aware and like to love all men
And wouldn't want to eat an egg that comes from a battery hen
And support univeral justice, and think life is absurd
Just like they've read in Kafka and the other bloody pretentious nerds.

I'd rather ride to Broady and get my face beat in
Disfigured for life by some lethal lout with a bit of tin
And when I'm in my hospital bed, my face slashed down the middle -
At least I won't be called 'artistic', or any of that piddle.

Australia, The World's Suburb, from The Box Set:

Maybe it makes you more intense
When your county's small and you live in tents;
Kurds get gas and die to win
Land from Yass to Deniliquin.

Israel is the merest sliver,
Fits between Hay and the Murray River;
My map don't show Condamine,
But it's probably bigger than Palastine.

Imagine if old Yassa Arafat
Was given everything east of Ararat?
Make the middle east far less hairy,
And none of us would miss Port Fairy.

Let's solve the whole Arabic mania,
Let's sling 'em - what's it called? - Tasmania.
Put all of Israel east of Broome -
Double the size! We've got the room:

But nationalism's so damned myopic
When you're on the atlas but microscopic -
All those guys would rather blow it up
Than move their home to Kooweerup.

Of all nations, the most superb -
Australia, the world's suburb.

Abscess Makes The Heart Grow Fonder, from Gold! Gold! Gold!:

Come live with me and be my love
And we will all the pleasures prove:
Buy a house! Build an extension!
A life of weary exhaustion

To fill our days - but wait! There's more!
I'll throw in a cavernous maw
Of carping kids and soiled rooms:
Our dishonest selves, self consume.

Drowning swimmers soon discover
Pairs together drown each other -
One may swim, but with two they can't:
Both are joined 'till death they part.

Come marry me, let it be soon:
Married women, oh! how they bloom!
Come live with me and be my love
And we will all the pleasures prove.

40 Years Then Death, from Great Trucking Songs Of The Renaissance:

All that's good, all that's right;
Everything hot, all that's tight;
Women, men, pubescent girls,
Never again to finger their curls
On their heads so exquisite -
Never again to visit
The palace, the palace of love.

Forty years of livin' - then death,
That's all that's left;
Forty years - then death.
Forty years - all that's left.

The work, it is just beginin'
As my hair, it begins thinin';
Pleasure is past, the end
Of all that's dear, as friend
And foe alike disappear -
Never again to visit
The palace, the palace of love.

Perfume! The smell of perfume
Is forgotten, and the shape of the room
And the sheets on her bed
Disappear forever from my head.
No more the sudden thrill
As I dip into the swill -
Never again to visit
The palace, the palace of love.


Life Kills, from Hot Dogma:

You're dying the moment the sperm hits the ovum;
You're dying as a foetus, breathing though gills;
You're dying at birth; there ain't no supposin' -
You die all your life, and even Blind Freddy
Knows your children will die - true perspective! -
Your parents will die (if they're not dead already);
Life is just death, made retrospective.
You're trapped all your life, from the very first moment,
By your mother and father, who must've been mad
When they decided to add to their own entombment
By having a child, like their own Mum and Dad's
Mum and Dad's Mum and Dad's Mum and Dad's Mum and Dad.
Philip Larkin described it in a poem; I cried:
Families, he said, in Home Is So Sad,
"Are a joyous shot at how things ought to be ... fallen wide."
It stays with you forever; you'll never lose it;
Your family has got you in a grip-like vice -
It's entrapment so effective you always choose it;
Put an ad in the paper: "Lost - Paradise."
You're always a daughter or always a son,
Even when mother's a loser and dad wants to bolt;
Do what you like, you can hide - but you can't run.
If your parents have split up, it's probably your fault.
Guilt clings to you like shit in a nappy,
Don't listen to what the counselors say -
Without you your parents may just have been happy:
It's war, and you're not escaping - you're running away.
Be a lawyer! Be a doctor! You're still putrid;
It's still true that your parents are rooted;
There's divorce in the air - at least, it's mooted -
If they took my advice they'd both get neutered.
It's the same in all homes. Be it penthouse or pavement,
Every house is so economically run:
Your parents give credit, and you give repayment -
You want asylum - instead, you end up in one.
There's no such thing as forgiveness; forget absolution;
Your life will be frittered away with worry and bills -
And you crowning achievement? Reproduction!
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
You're gonna have children; you know it, you fuck -
You and your wife just don't know how many;
Part of me sorta wishes you luck,
'Cos I love children - and that's why I'm not having any.
And your family will fail; and your life will be torture;
And your wife will turn ugly; and your children be dills;
'Cos you haven't forgotten the lessons mum and dad taught ya -
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
I can see you with cancer both in and around you,
The internal expression of external ills;
I can see you dying with your family around you -
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
I can see you look petulantly around you
At all the things that you've never had,
I can see the paramedics pound you
As you die a child, just like your dad.
Then your body is all that's left of what's been you -
The chest stops jerking and the movement stills,
The pus of the dead is coming up within you -
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
Hold on a second, I wanna come with you!
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
You're like a father; now you're gone, I'll miss you -
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!
Pain only stops when mothers kiss you -
I'm dying; I'm dying; I'm dying; life kills!

Father And Son, from Beasts Of Suburban:

My old man used to take me to the footy;
Now, it's me takes him.
Been barracking for the Saintas seasons on end -
Seasons cold and grim -
Every season we'd pretend that we were
The great pretenders,
And watch, in the rain, us getting done again
By the real contenders.
Hear the cry ring to the Moorabbin sky,
Nothing can stop it:
Winmar! Winmar to Lockett!

Those Collingwood bastards did us by a point
The day mother died.
When they told dad he shook his head and said,
"Makes you wanna cry."
Winmar, you're a football genius, and, oh,
Let me tell you son,
Remember my old man 'cos he wasn't
Referring to mum.
You've got my heart when you've got the leather,
God's sake, don't drop it:
Winmar! Winmar to Lockett!

My dad will be gone in ten seasons' time,
And, you know, they can
Build rockets that think, have prime time T.V.,
Napalm Vietnam -
So just for my dad they could give us the flag -
Who says they oughtn't?
It isn't a matter of life or death -
It's more important.
Oh, here comes Nicky! Tony's broken free!
Winmar to Lockett!
Winmar! Winmar to Lockett!

Loser, Losing, Lost, from Beasts Of Suburban:

The scene at Appomattox;
The Greeks at Thermopylae;
The men at Dienbienphu
Lining up to die:
A million ghosts will stop the throat
Of any who does mock
General Grant and General Lee
And all at Appomattox.

There in every classroom;
In every secondary school;
And in every workplace,
Every typing pool;
There, beside you on the bus,
With that lifeless stare -
Nervously, outside surgery,
Waiting for doctors there...

There's cancer in the South of France;
Cancer lurks in Rome;
Cancer circles the whole world
Until it finds you home.
In heart and liver it is waiting
For all of us, or most;
Our very cells join hands and sing -
"Loser - losing - lost."