1. |
Alarm Clock
04:28
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This is not for mainstream consumption
this is not background music
this is urban mythology, dissident philosophy
low-fi, DIY, unashamed honesty
we are questioning fundamentals, seeking the transcendental
sharing insecurities, tearing off our masks
Google doesn't know these words exist
AM/FM radios won't find this frequency
audio-encoded antidote to the status quo
counter-culture vibrations knock down that first domino
let this be your alarm clock – shock paddles to your heart
you wanna shake this system up? now's the time to start
We are the batteries in your boom box, the fire in your pen
skeleton key to all their locks, burn that flag again
are you a radical? or just ripples in a stagnant pool?
everything's hierarchical and everyone's too cool
desert landscape, their wells are dry
ditch that handbrake, take a swig of the sky
you think your mind is open? you think you're liberated?
seedpod on an ocean – your success is overrated
you want a chorus? sorry mate, better find another station
we aren't chasing fame or fortune, we seek emancipation
every concept's cliché now, every melody bourgeois
so the only hook you're gonna get is dadadidadada
Mangrove mud, climb that cliff, watch the river flood
water dragons in the drains, your revolution is a dud
unless you bring the masses with you, and look beyond the window sill
your rallies and marches are nothing but empty rituals
You call that resistance? you ain't resisting shit
no-one's listening to your speech, because they're drowning in your spit
no-one's listening to your speech, deafened by your screeching
no-one's listening to your speech, cos you don't practice what you're preaching
you don't practice what you're preaching
The act of protest has itself become a component of the system
street marches are mere shadows of civil disobedience
state-sanctioned, sanitised, commodified and thereby neutered
the charade of democratic dissent legitimises coercive control
“buy two Che Guevara t-shirts
get 30% off your next megaphone!”
the bird who can't see its own cage bars considers itself free
your application for a protest permit has been refused
you may lodge a written appeal within thirty days
but no-one will read it
do not adjust your TV sets
we will adjust them for you
the invisible hand now serves an ulterior purpose
nothing is trickling down anymore
nothing is trickling down anymore
and your tombstone will read “this page was left intentionally blank”
these gutters are cluttered with gratuitous wordplay
but it'll all wash away when the rain comes down
it will all wash away when the rain comes down
it will all wash away when the rain comes down
I could rap in triple-time if I wanted, but what's the point if you can't understand me?
no plan B, we stand on stolen land and bicker over who's the enemy
it's time to use your brain now, it's time to stop the blaming now
it's time to kill the ego we know we only gonna grow if we quit the games now
breathe, contemplate your own mortality
this system's not invincible you mistake shackles for gravity
sharpen those bolt cutters, break them chains and fly
this ain't about building monuments, it's about asking why
I lost count of the stories suffocated when they eradicated the counter-narrative
their documentaries and history books are a pseudo-objective sedative
that margin might seem empty, but there's lots it can teach you
reach you through secret passageways before the matrix eats you
eats you, listen to it feast
static on the airwaves, warn the town: here comes the beast
let this be your alarm clock, shock paddles to your chest
lest we forget the genocide, lest we forget how many died
at least if they do eat us, we'll be difficult to digest
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2. |
Maiwar
07:29
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Before the beginning
there is Moodagurra, the rainbow serpent, who creates Maiwar, the river
that story isn't ours to tell
but we pay our respects to those who were here before us, and to those still fighting for sovereignty and justice
we acknowledge the weight of unfinished business that lies heavy on this city
and we are mindful that actions speak louder than words
In the early years of the invasion,
Maiwar's waters are clean and clear
the river roils with life
enough fish to feed thousands
tree-lined banks roar with the voices of a hundred thousand birds
freshwater springs flow down through secret rainforest gullies
and the mosquitoes swarming up from the swamps of Woolloongabba are merciless
the city is not even a dream yet...
The locals know the river's moods intimately
its cycles intertwined with theirs
it speaks to them in a language older even than their own
but the invaders have a violent appetite
trees are felled
creeks are tamed
cattle tramples the delicate landscape
eroded topsoil clouds the water
worse still are the massacres
the rapes
the arsenic and the noose
false justice from the end of a rifle barrel
slavery
torture
the word ‘genocide’ hasn't been invented yet
but there's no other term that can describe such atrocities
The city is born out of this apocalypse
future generations will dream fitfully of Armageddon
unaware that they already live in the shadow of recent catastrophe
the great lizards and snakes are hunted almost to extinction
sacred sites are desecrated
once-quiet glades echo with gunshots and screams
Yet even in these early days, there are those who fight to protect the special places that will soon be eaten by the metropolis
there are those who question their people’s savagery and treachery in their dealings with Meanjin's rightful custodians
many of these small resistances go unrecorded
but already they're etching themselves into the cultural bedrock of the future city
remnant artefacts of rebellion and uprising are washed into the river
only to be dug up again and embedded in the architecture of the growing town
Down by the river's edge
where time flows slower
like tree sap
deciding whether to sink your toes into the mangrove mud
weighing the risk of water-borne bacterial infection against the glorious liberation of connecting barefoot with something more powerful than yourself
that's when all kinds of flotsam epiphanies wash up in the shallows
surfing the waves of city cats
and perhaps the greatest of these
is that some stories are too big to tell
too honeycombed and layered to fully comprehend
they defy timelines and rigid chronologies
we can only scratch the surface
hoping, perhaps, to reveal some new aspect of the greater, deeper epic that connects us all but mindful that the larger portion of the story will always remain untold
and that in fact the story is writing us
see we wanted to craft a linear tale
with a start and an end and a narrative arc
but these musings on culture and counter-culture
hegemony and counter-hegemony
are bound up inextricably in the history of our city
and time is less of a straight line and more like overlapping cycles and spider webs
so we let each note and chord serve as reference links
footnotes
to a thousand unspoken anecdotes
slotting our little pieces into the ever-mutating mosaic that is Brisbane
humbled by the knowledge that the river will still be flowing, long after we're gone
Remember this:
the city is made of the riverbed and the bay
for decades we dredged the bottom
binding the river to the sea
grinding that sand and silt into cement
to build our walls and towers
there is coral in the skyscrapers
those big glass windows are made with beach sand
Office blocks and parking lots
retaining walls and shopping malls
all that concrete came from the river
and the bay
tiny crustaceans
skeletons of ancient shellfish
fossilised leaves and branches
pulverised and reassembled
do they remember their past forms?
do we remember where it all came from?
fragments of Stradbroke Island now hang in bridges
suspended above the river
and when the heavy storms batter Minjerribah
rolling in from the sea
the buildings of the CBD
vibrate in sympathy
the old windmill
the commissariat store
all that stone from the quarries of Kangaroo Point
mortar lime was oyster shells from Amity
The concrete dreams of the river
those apartments yearn to rejoin the ocean
this longing infects the occupants
who themselves begin to dream of the sea
One day, years from now
perhaps the concrete will get its wish
dust to dust
the river will claim back its scattered essence
towers will erode and disintegrate
bridges will commit suicide
and still the water keeps flowing
There is coral in the skyscrapers
those big glass windows are made with beach sand
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3. |
Roots 2.0
04:07
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Roots down, roots down, roots down, roots down
my heart's buried deep under Brisbane town
creek beds, hilltops, riding around
cracking macadamia and putting roots down
I am of this city
its history is my history
my scraped knee and my favourite tree
and swimming lessons in the pool at Craigslea Primary
and Oxley's expedition back in 1823
and our year 4 excursion to Saint Helena Island
and those weather-worn tennis balls that we were always finding
and the floods of 1974
and the invasion of 1788
and the park on the north side where I rode without training wheels for the first time
and the frog pond of drowning Christmas beetles
and Joh Bjelke-Petersen
and hunting Easter eggs in the backyard
and hunting kangaroos by Breakfast Creek
and the roller coaster at the top of the Myer Centre that looked like a dragon and screamed at the madness beneath
Roots down, roots down, this town, roots down
my roots are tendrils
tentacles
reaching down below
splitting concrete and bitumen
digging in
The soil is soft after summer storms
and the roots grow quickly
thickly
but Brisbane's burbs are built on clay
so once they're down
they're down to stay
Roots down, roots down
brushtail growl
hear that sound
But now and then in this circus I encounter a clown
who thinks that because he's got his roots in the ground
he somehow gains the right to define this town
and decide who else gets to put roots down
see the surface seems sufficiently serene
but if you peel back the bandaid you’ll see the gangrene
And now I see you've forgotten
I see your roots are rotten
but this garden has no gardener
that's how we got to where we've gotten
the question on my mind is where we going?
this city is growing
sauropod construction cranes on every horizon
jackhammer clattering drowns out the cicadas
the relentless march of apartment towers makes suburbanites nervous
so they build higher fences
and mow their lawns weekly
Roots down, stolen ground, dead trees, river brown
I know something's awry in this city
but I can't quite put my finger on it
it's like we've outgrown the garden bed
roots in a twist
slumbering suburbs
silence those who resist
Vision blurring
but now I hear them stirring
climb Mt Coot-tha at midnight
see them lighting candles and switching off TVs
flying foxes in the trees
stench of rotten mangoes
gives way to a cool south-easterly
Pumpkin vines wither and die
but the passionfruit keeps growing
skyscrapers sprouting up from the bedrock
Wivenhoe overflowing
Activists invade city hall
and the clock tower falls silent in anticipation
Change is coming to Brisbane town
we feel it in the soil
while we cracking macadamias and putting roots down
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4. |
Metropolis
05:10
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Subtropical metropolis
skyscraper shadows – no stopping this
paved paradise, now we're knee-deep in bitumen
hemmed in by highways, rent hikes, and greedy men
storm cloud stagnation, taste the humidity
sweat glues us to the couch, or is it apathy?
streets mutating, the past erased
evaporating community, we all displaced
maybe one day we'll live and work in little concrete boxes
and never see the sun
talk to our computers but not to other humans
paint bomb futility in 4101
the city is a playground, the city is a cage
they say we're getting richer
but you can't pay the mortgage on minimum wage
change the frame but it's still the same picture
They call it progress
we call it madness
take your pay cheque don't question this
everyone become a predator in this metropolis progress
we call it madness
take your pay cheque don't question this
everyone become a predator in this metropolis
How many people sleeping outside?
how many new apartments still unoccupied?
subdivide and conquer, sunlight a commodity
soon even public parks will charge an entry fee
so we sign our names
walk between the lines, pay their fines
play their games, smother the small joys
the busker can't compete with traffic and construction noise
so the ibis and the crow tried to start an uprising
they plotted revolution in overgrown, forgotten corners of suburbia
moonlit macadamia meetings beside tangled creeks
DIY philosophical zines distributed to Indooroopilly fruit bats in the hopes of fertilising a few rooftop guerrilla garden beds
but the storm-soaked kindling failed to ignite
Riverside mansions sit quiet and lifeless
riverside mansions sit quiet and lifeless
riverside mansions sit quiet and lifeless
tinted windows and tinted minds
KPIs and selection criteria
air-conditioners and fluoro lights
Coro Drive car fumes, river bacteria
blood on the concrete from Wickham St fights
the city is a paradise, the city is a sleeping pill
melting bitumen keeps us on our toes
we count the cranes from the top of Highgate Hill
profiteers count their dough
They call it progress
we call it madness
take your pay cheque don't question this
everyone become a predator in this metropolis
debt coalesces like storm clouds
cracks in the concrete, cracks in the concrete
The city is our slave and our master
maybe this is Stockholm syndrome
heat-struck Gympie Road cyclists inhale too much smog and hallucinate fantasies of New Farm home ownership
better file a request to work more overtime
the bank offers 30-year loans now
radicals want change, but don't know what it looks like
sun-bleached petitions, long way from a rent strike
Eagle Street towers chew you up and spit you out
weighed down by debt and self-doubt
the crow and the ibis, burnt-out revolutionaries
lone voices in the concrete wasteland
they lost hope and found jobs in the bureaucracy
seeking salvation from invisible hands
maybe one day we'll live and work in little concrete boxes
while the poor people drown
intercom security and six foot fences
money talks on the streets of your town
maybe Brissie isn't ready for revolution
last train home leaves at five past midnight
we seek a subtler, deeper rebellion
we'll be the moth and the candle-light
They call it progress
we call it madness
take your pay cheque don't question this
everyone become a predator
they call it progress
we call it madness
take your pay cheque don't question this
everyone become a predator in this metropolis
[Interlude]
Vocabularies of dissidence and rebellion pass from one generation to the next encoded in subterranean spray paint on the walls of stormwater drains
far beyond the reach of the city council graffiti squad
but down in the stagnant air of the concrete tunnels
deeper questions linger...
how can we denizens who seek a better world claim the right to transfigure and recreate this city while the gears of colonisation still turn relentlessly?
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5. |
Are We The Bad Guys?
05:40
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I woke up in the park
Musgrave
and instantly felt unsettled
the once-familiar surroundings seemed strange
creeks and hills remained where they'd always been, and yet I saw them differently
like my eyes were out of focus
like a photo of a painting of a photo
as though looking from above, I saw
that the oldest, largest trees
had once been planted in the shape of a union jack
gunshot echoes on the breeze
that below the park's manicured green surface
the soil was stained blood red
the beast was over-fed
wailing curlews were the ghosts of the dead
and the skeleton hanging near the toilet block had shackles around his ankles
and the name of my grandmother's grandfather was engraved on the rusted metal
I saw then that my shoes, family heirlooms passed down through generations
were made of human leather taken from that same hanging skeleton
and this is relevant, this is present-tense, and most of us are in denial
how many Murris do we lock away, charade of a fair trial?
I never pulled the trigger, but I inherited the gun
and now I can't quite figure out how to get this taste off my tongue
Are we the bad guys?
maybe I don't want to know the answer
sins of my ancestors
perhaps best to avoid the question
walking with closed eyes
now where the hell would that leave us?
our own history books deceive us
retelling little white lies
Bloodstained soil, bone foundations
bloodstained soil, stolen generations
bloodstained soil, murder for profit
bloodstained soil, but we don't talk about it
Removing my tainted shoes, I found the ground rocky and uneven
across the park I saw a Murri woman being dragged by two policemen
her cries for help went unanswered
more coppers arrived
swarming
circling, predatory
they too were wearing shoes made of human leather
but seemed oblivious to the origins of the skin
hobbling, barefoot
I could do nothing to stop them
they took her away to die
and all I could do was film it
they took her away
and all I could do was capture it on video so that future generations might see why we burn that flag burn that flag
burn that flag
burn that flag
the woman's children were removed by child services
despite grandma's pleas
meanwhile the ABC dutifully commemorated the anniversary of the apology
with a “look how far we've come” retrospective
over at the airport, more shoes made of human leather were distributed to new arrivals
as long as they brought enough money in
then all us non-Indigenous activists staged a protest
but the cops diverted us down a side-street so no-one saw it
it didn't make the news cos the footy scores were important
the Musgrave woman is a statistic now
brushtail possums still whisper her name
and everywhere is mirrors when we try to find who's to blame
Bloodstained soil, bone foundations
bloodstained soil, stolen generations
bloodstained soil, murder for profit
bloodstained soil, but we don't talk about it
Now us inner-city activists
with a sticky quandary to ponder
neither immigrant nor Indigenous
this dissonance is mischievous
the river is murky
the banks are unstable
and we built this city
we built this city on stolen land
the backs of slaves
unmarked graves
and now each year on Invasion Day
when the young warriors scream “who owns this land?”
“we do”
“who stole this land?”
“they did”
I don't know what to say
cos i'm descended from invaders
but I know no other home
I've got nowhere else to go
no land that I can call my own
Are we the bad guys?
no-one wants to hear the answer
we cheer the murri dancers
but turn away when they start talking sovereignty
are we the bad guys?
I begin to think we might be
this city has a dark history
but it's the present sins that worry me
Bloodstained soil, bone foundations
bloodstained soil, stolen generations
bloodstained soil, murder for profit
bloodstained soil, but we don't talk about it
I fell asleep in the park
Musgrave
but all my dreams were depressing
[Interlude]
There’s a gentle orange light that seems peculiar to our town
unless you've lived round here you won't know the light I'm talking about
a warm pinkishness that makes you wonder if you might be looking through a veil to another kind of city
you should see it when it hits fallen jacaranda blossoms...
it’s almost sacred
but unless you’ve been safely inoculated
this otherwise pure light has a sinister tendency to infect with forgetfulness
those who bask in it too long start to remember where they came from
as the city grows
it devours yesterday
swallowing history
obliterating different pasts
and different tomorrows
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6. |
Goodbye Son
03:44
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You know this story: it's in our nation's DNA
them cities are magnets, all the children move away
just a couple generations, and they'll forget this place
paper-chasing, rat-racing, nothing left to retrace
goodbye son
I guess we'll see you back here for Christmas
I hope the city treats you well
your mum's baked you biscuits
here's some extra cash for the train ride
and I know how email works now so you'd better write to us
maybe one day you'll have children – they can come out here to visit
and you can tell them that this is where you're from
I know you won't move back here
I know this town is fading like a photo
but it'd be nice to be remembered
They call it urbanisation
all these one-way conveyor belts pointed towards the cities
they call it progress
our ancestors were stockmen, shearers, hunters
but the urban amnesia is contagious
the track to Gundagai is overgrown
I sometimes think it's silly how we romanticise the bush
getting all patriotic about jolly swagmen
when the only billabong we ever visited was a clothing store
see I'm a city kid
my roots are embedded in bitumen
but every now and then, I feel homesick for places I've never even been to
scrutinising my grandparents' birth certificates
I mouth the names of towns that Google now describes as “location not found”
and gradually I start to understand...
we are transplants
broken boomerangs
saplings struggling in unfamiliar soil
no wonder we're so scared of change
it's hard being uprooted
not knowing how to answer when people ask you where home is
I'm not sure why it makes me sad – people move all the time
I guess I wonder what happens to the places left behind
goodbye son
they slip away like drops of water
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7. |
Suitcases
03:43
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This world is crowded with spirits.
Some are attached to places and objects, while others belong to individuals or even whole family lineages.
If you stand very still and squint into the middle-distance, you can sometimes make them out, wandering around our city. They're easiest to spot about an hour before dusk, when the light is at its syrupiest, or else just on noon, when the sun hits its zenith and the heat haze rises from the bitumen.
They come in all shapes... They're usually silent, and mostly transparent. There's a wombat the length of a bus who lumbers down Adelaide Street once a week or so. There are twin kangaroo brothers, each taller than a four-storey building, who can clear Breakfast Creek in a single leap.
The river (who is also a spirit herself) is particularly crowded, not only with naiads and the ghosts of drowned ferry passengers, but with an ancient cruise liner-sized bull shark who journeys daily from Colleges Crossing to the coast, chasing after recreational fishing boats.
Most of these have been here a very long time. But there are newer spirits also, who travelled here in the dark bowels of convict transport ships or squashed into the suitcases of ten pound poms (there's even a tiny yellow-brown dragon – originally from Beijing – who settled here in the year 1426 when a Chinese trading vessel was shipwrecked near present-day Redcliffe).
I sometimes wonder whether these newcomers get along with those whose lands they've invaded. Do the fox and the quoll fight with one another? Or does the spirit world have enough room for both?
There's one bird who visits me regularly in vivid dreams, but also sometimes while I'm half-awake. This being takes the form of a large owl, at least a metre tall, who somehow remains stationary in mid-air despite his huge silent wings beating far too slowly to keep him airborne. He's all that remains of a giant owl species that once inhabited northern Europe, but went extinct in the Middle Ages.
In one dream, my mum points at the owl outside our window and tells me that the bird is an ancient Celtic spirit-guardian who followed her father's family over from Scotland almost two centuries ago. But outside of dreams, my mother has always denied any knowledge of the bird.
I don't know what to make of this.
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8. |
Shovels
04:14
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The rich get richer
the poor get screwed
the rich get richer
the poor get screwed
the rich get richer
the poor get screwed
we dig our own graves with rented shovels
I've been chewing the inside of my cheek
out of frustration
futility
I ended up chewing a hole right through the skin
and now
each night when I fall asleep
a tiny elephant creeps in through the side of my face
and takes a shit on my tongue
(and that's probably a metaphor for something)
but when I read about just eight people have greater combined wealth than the planet's poorest three billion
wordplay seems kinda trite in comparison
See our society has lost the ability to distinguish between the spider
and the fly
and the goddamned web
it's just an ugly tangled ball of mangled insect limbs
sticky threads,
broken wings
and an elephant shitting on my tongue
Don't dwell on the negativity
don't think about how screwed up this system is
unhappy consumers are bad for business
of course, happy consumers are also bad for business
we're supposed to remain numb
neutral
apathetic
Eagerly we swallow the myth of the meritocracy
because “oh they probably deserve it” is a pleasant sedative
as though that CEO is actually worth three million dollars a year
and that ten-bucks-an-hour cleaner really doesn't deserve a pay-rise
Meanwhile this poem has already been commodified
by tomorrow it'll be up on youtube
preceded by an unskippable 30-second Coca Cola ad that would be ironic if hypocrisy wasn't already cliche
Winner-takes-all
every dickhead for himself
don't trust your neighbour
fence out the poor people then charge them for the privilege of pissing in your gutter
The myth spreads like lantana
you try to uproot it you'll tear your hands
it's a persistent sucker
this ridiculous fiction that humans can't create anything useful unless they're motivated by profit and greed
profit and greed
The rich get richer
the poor get fucked
The rich get richer
the poor get screwed...
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9. |
Are We Cool Yet?
04:04
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Is this what they call success?
too many megaphones not enough ear drums
who are we trying to impress?
cake's getting smaller and we're fighting over crumbs
trapped in the mirror, image obsessed
world-wide popularity contest
running up the down-flowing escalator
and we'll never be satisfied
How many likes did I get on facebook?
how many bites of the bait on my fishing hook?
insecure but plenty judgemental
use it like a knife but it's still just a pencil
does anybody know my name?
if I die tomorrow
how many will notice?
nowadays no-one laughs like they mean it
and we dance like the whole room is watching
Are we cool yet? are we cool?
playing the game or are we playing the fool
are we cool yet?
are we popular?
Are we cool yet? are we cool?
playing the game or are we playing the fool
are we cool yet?
are we popular?
Everybody looking over their shoulder
gotta get it all before we get any older
click the thumbs up
remember to share
and if you don't take a photo you were never really there
Mr politics seeking more power
chasing votes like a dog after pigeons
focus groups are his only religion
now he's lost in the echo chamber
tough decisions puts em off til later
fixated on the lowest common denominator
no need for detail, derail the vernacular
he'll say what he needs to say to stay popular
say what he needs to say
and we follow like the road is one-way
cos it's all about the image
the personal brand
scraping names in the dust
this is not what we planned
Are we cool yet? are we cool?
playing the game or are we playing the fool
are we cool yet?
are we popular?
Are we cool yet? are we cool?
playing the game or are we playing the god damned fool
are we cool yet?
lost in the echo chamber
Now all of us are craving affirmation like it's air and we're suffocating
slaving for the greater good but really just masturbating
who gives a fuck what they think about us?
who gives a fuck what they say?
think that's a ladder we're climbing?
those rungs are prison bars
we're moving sideways
we've got expensive clothes that look real cheap
botoxed nose, and a pop-top jeep
edible credit cards
plastic fruit
and a guaranteed fair trade birthday suit
barcodes on our eyelids
hashtags tattooed on our wrists
we only raise our fists when no-one's watching
we only raise our fists when no-one's watching
we bust our arses to make it look effortless
and every day is judgment day
we keep our songs upbeat, with a catchy chorus
cos that's what the radio stations like to play
Are we cool yet? are we cool?
playing the game or are we playing the fool
are we cool yet?
are we popular?
are we cool yet? are we cool?
playing the game or are we playing the fool
are we cool yet?
is this called ‘famous’?
cos that’s what the radio stations like to play
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10. |
Dole
03:58
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God damn it kid
what the hell are you thinking?
too many late nights and too much drinking
clock clock ticking ticking clock clock ticking
and you ain't no Peter Pan
your friends all have full-time jobs
your friends are getting married
your friends are buying houses
your friends aren't your friends no more
you'll be renting til you hit your mid-forties
it will be your fault if you end up poor
if you end up poor
Is this how they control us?
Is this how they break us down?
I had plans to save the planet
but they got washed down a stormwater drain
it's all too big
it's all too hard
dropped my guard and i missed the last train
compass needle spinning
now I'm lost inside my head
work your arse off
change the world
it won't mean much once you're dead
they judge you by the weight of your wallet
I can barely pay the rent
scrounging five cent pieces
is this rebellion or this is a year misspent?
shadows under hoodies
you can't beat the computer
forgotten by the present
who gives a fuck about the future?
Is this how they control us?
Is this how they break us down?
Is this how they control us?
Watch me drown
Our future is buffering
casual hours, minimum wage
I wouldn't call it suffering
but it's a long way from utopia
our future is call-centre hold music
Centrelink interviews
unsuccessful rental applications
our future is buffering
our future is unable to connect
sorry child
guess you should've carped a few more diems
these kids could start a revolution if they stopped getting high
but them feathers came unglued and they forgot how to fly
Peg my elbows
hang me out to dry
watch me get brittle
little wrinkles solidify
I turned down a ride on an easy treadmill
now I'm barely treading water
Is this how they control us?
Watch me drown
And there's a million sorry suckers in the same damn rut
hanging on, clock-watching til the next track's cut
it ain't quite depression
but it's a sick kinda melancholy
what the hell did you come here for?
what the hell did you come here for?
it will be your fault if you end up poor
if you end up poor
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11. |
We Were (poem)
02:08
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We were
lions
once.
We were once lions.
And we were lions once...
We used to laugh like thunder gods
our mirth made the earth shake
earthquake
so much joy it made my stomach ache
we were content
we had never learnt what misery meant
We used to run like bushfires
fast and unstoppable the wind at our backs
our backpacks were light and our feet were dark
with street dirt.
And we never got hurt.
We used to ride like Mongolians
standing up on the pedals
always downhill
broken brakes
breakneck
and when the dust settled we made chain grease war paint and thanked the sun for the day
We used to fight like cyclones
and we danced like warriors
lightning limbs, we were giants
fearless, three metres tall
balls of raw
energy
weathered every squall
See we were lions once
I’m not sure why
we aren’t lions anymore
I know we didn’t grow any older
but now the world seems colder and I
miss the days...
We used to love with our whole hearts
now we’re more cautious
too many false starts
base-jumping makes us nauseous
We used to light fires and fight liars with liquid lungs
We’d pry open closed minds with a flick of our tongues
We used to roar our convictions every note we sung
We used to stand for something
We used to stand for something
We used to stand for something
We used to yearn for revolution
But now the world has turned and our revolts have dissolved into a diluted solution
And we’ve devolved into the mirror people
No longer able to admire the night sky cos our necks are sore from too much navel gazing
As though being too small to save the whole world is a valid excuse for giving up altogether Bullshit
We could be more than this
We should be more than this
We were lions once
And now we’re motherfucking kittens
Sitting in a windowless room
Bob Dylan and/or Marley turned loud to drown down the sounds of our own hypocritical apathy Wilfully ignorant
Washing our hands of the sins of the main stream
While drinking from its tributaries
Having forgotten that one raised voice is enough to start an avalanche
Jaded idealists
Introverted Epicureans
We are lazy
Powerless
selfish wastes of space
And we were lions once
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12. |
Burnt Toast
04:16
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We made the most of burnt toast
Roasting the fools who embraced apathy we drove out the ghost of amnesia, spreading butter on blackened bread, threading silk strands through the eyes of the dead, we raised them up, not to praise em but to learn from their mistakes, forsaking shopping trollies traded credit cards for rakes and spades, prayed, dug deep into the earth, sowed all sorts of seeds, didn't know what they were worth
and now they grow
and now they grow.
How many glasses did we break last night?
how many mirrors did we shatter?
we started a party, underground out of sight
and the beat’s only gonna get phatter
and the beat’s only gonna get phatter
and the beat’s only gonna get phatter
We celebrate, not to forget, but to remember
all the lessons, questions, answers turned to embers
sparks found kindling
we warmed toes by the fire
then we all started dancing, we all started dancing
all started dancing as the flames rose higher
this is secret conspiracies
this is seedlings in the spring
we gonna stand up
find a voice
reset the network
and the more they try to silence us the louder we'll sing
You can jack up the price
but you can't make us pay
can't make us pay
can't make us pay
You can call in the cops
but we won’t fade away
won’t fade away
won’t fade away
You can jack up the price
but you can't make us pay
can't make us pay
can't make us pay
You can call in the cops
but we won’t fade away
won’t fade away
won’t fade away
We created anarchist bookshops, free universities
gigs under houses, and pop-up art galleries
jazz jams in the carpark
veggie gardens on the rooftops
hijacked the airwaves with 4ZZZ
and everybody jumps when the beat drops
and everybody jumps when the beat drops
and everybody jumps when the beat drops
You call it idealistic
we call it visionary
cos we can see
this track don't lead to where we wanna be
so flip this system
phoenix take flight
spray painting optimism
while their fortresses ignite
we're gonna reclaim the city
infiltrate suburbia
shatter their monopolies
rewrite their false mythologies
dumpster-dived our dinner
now we're dumpster-diving the sun
their margin’s getting thinner
and this party's just begun
You can jack up the price
but you can't make us pay
can't make us pay
can't make us pay
You can call in the cops
but we won’t fade away
won’t fade away
won’t fade away
You can jack up the price
but you can't make us pay
can't make us pay
can't make us pay
You can call in the cops
but we won’t fade away
won’t fade away
won’t fade away
What the hell are you waiting for?
it's time to get political
the future looked glamourous
before you got so cynical
we made the most of burnt toast
we made the most of burnt toast
we made the most of burnt toast.
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13. |
Unravelling (interlude)
00:27
|
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[Interlude]
As green-tinged storm clouds gathered in both the east and west the world started to unravel
evergreen trees dropped their leaves
while deciduous species flowered out of season
at random
there were mangos growing on the neighbours’ lemon trees
and ripe avocados peeking out from under purple jacaranda blossoms the full moon was bright and close
there would be a king tide tomorrow
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14. |
The Goanna
04:05
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Underneath our city
hidden deep within the labyrinth of tunnels that mark the new paths
of old waterways
there lives a goanna
The biggest goanna
Seven metres long from tongue to tail
a throwback to the ancient, gargantuan lizards that stalked dreamtime Sahul and walked war upon the crocodiles
No-one can say for certain
if she's descended from a last, secret line of those monstrous reptiles
or if she's a once-in-a-millennia aberration who outgrew her brethren thanks to a healthy diet of feral cats and slow-moving swagmen
The goanna has no name.
Although she exists well beyond the cognisance of the average citizen
she's as much a part of the city as the multitudes who crowd office blocks and jam the streets her age is indeterminable
Throughout the previous century, workers in the stormwater drains had heard – or rather, felt – rumours of a massive reptilian presence haunting the cavernous passages beneath city hall. And she was still there at the turn of the age, when excavation work for the underground busway extension unearthed a lizard burrow the length of a train carriage.
So-called experts declared that she was merely a large water dragon, her size exaggerated by the darkness and overactive imaginations, and the media paid her little attention. But those of us who were truly tapped in to the pulse of the city knew in our hearts that there was something more wonderful creeping around down there in the concrete blackness.
Some say komodo, others crocodile, but I doubt a saltie could have survived the periodic droughts, when the tunnels under the city were bone-dry for months and years, empty and silent but for the gunshot echoes of cars speeding over manhole covers.
The goanna is almost blind, and navigates her subterranean kingdom by smelling the air with her tongue. It's this sense of taste-smell that gives her an edge over any who wish her harm; some even say that she can detect malice itself.
We heard tales of her as children –half-scoffing, half-trembling at the threat of encountering the legendary monitor if we pursued an errant tennis ball too far down a stormwater drain.
It's claimed that she can predict weather better than the meteorologists, and that whenever the goanna enters the northern tunnels leading up to the hillier suburbs, heavy rains aren’t far away.
|
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15. |
Dollar Signs (poem)
02:22
|
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This whole city is dollar signs
Price tags on every square centimetre
They build em higher now, right up to the boundaries
These clouds are made of concrete and steel
They never move, they never fade
Shadow streets and wind tunnels
Subdivide and conquer
Replacing windows with mirrors
intercom security, the walls are getting higher we don't know our neighbours' names no more
Puppet-masters dressed as real estate agents
Will my lease be renewed again?
Will they jack up the rent again?
And if you want your own apartment it’s a 25-year mortgage
Six months of your life for each square metre
Even the workers who build them can’t afford to buy them
So where did all that money go?
Where does all that money go?
The public square is now leased out for profit
Neither trees nor musicians are tolerated unless they’re good for business
The posh restaurant guards its footpath dining territorially
even when there aren’t any other customers
We got the money for a motorway but not for public housing
There are laws against sleeping in the park
Laws against dancing in the street
It’s easier to get permits for advertising billboards than public art projects
They’d rather leave the walls grey
You’ve got no right to this city
You could rent here twenty years
put down roots
forge community
But it don’t mean a thing when them wrecking balls swing
It’s already been approved
It’s already been approved,
It’s already been approved
there’s nothing you can do
See they want us to feel powerless
These towers just keep sprouting up from the bedrock
We got jackhammers for alarm clocks
Drowning in bitumen
Choking on car fumes
While their starting price is half a million dollars for two bedrooms
So who defines progress?
Who really runs the system?
They curse us and evict us
like there’s nothing we can do to stop them
now them empty units multiplying
but they still won’t drop the rent
vacant shops and silent streets
it’s all just profit for the one percent
they can sterilise our culture
confiscate our megaphones
call us troublemakers
just cos we don’t want a thirty-year bank loan
we paint rainbows in the bitumen
they whitewash monochrome
But we’re never gonna stop fighting
Cos this city is our home
this city is our home
I said this city is our home
Them bankers price us out
But we leave footprints in the stone
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16. |
||||
The hour is upon us, the time is here
downhill mountain bike kicking into gear
tidal surge when the wind blows
hailstones breaking windows
no-one knows exactly what's going down
but it feels like we gonna shake this town
Queen Street still tranquilising
but you can't deny that the river's rising
maybe this is reveille
maybe this is the wake-up call
germinated in 4032
in the shadow of an ever-growing mega mall
all us lonely urban rebels
finally learning to act as a collective
the masses weren't apathetic
they didn't know they had an alternative
but now they see it, and now they igniting
now they believe that this is worth fighting
and now they taste it, and now they won’t waste it
from the roof to the gutter everybody embrace it
We're taking back the power
them bigshots won't control this town no more
this city’s ours
this is our home we’re fighting for
They only call it class war when the poor fight back
they only call it class war when the poor fight back
they only call it class war when the poor fight back
this is love, this is unity, this is the underdog counterattack
This is our home, these our streets
if you want to evict us you can call the police
you put up fences, we tear em down
everyone’s a ringmaster, everyone’s a clown
rebellion contagious, now we all caught it
bubble bubble pop - still can’t afford it
rooftop to rooftop, word now spreading
bet ya in this heat them suits start sweating
homes sitting empty time to get squatting
bust locks when mangoes start rotting
4114 4305
Paint it on the wall, let em know you’re alive
Bearded dragon with paper wing
under the freeway roar, cicada still sings
Subterranean serpent rising to the surface
banks are a circus, your money is worthless
We're taking back the power
them bigshots won't control this town no more
this city’s ours
this is our home we’re fighting for
They only call it class war when the poor fight back
they only call it class war when the poor fight back
they only call it class war when the poor fight back
this is love, this is unity, this is the underdog counterattack
From this date forward, a standard workday will end at 3pm
we’re going home at 3pm
we are all going home at 3pm
From this date forward, a workday will go from 9 in the morning to 3pm
we're going home at 3pm
we are all going home at 3pm
Rattle rattle clang, rattle rattle rattle clang
fifty-hour weeks, time to break them chains
we paint a picture, share it like a virus
prophecise a better future
let that night sky inspire us
I'm sick of rapping about racism
I'm sick of rapping about poverty
I'm sick of rapping bout oppression
I only do it out of necessity
So cut me some slack slack
if I crave a little utopianism
no looking back back
we already got ample supplies of cynicism
optimism is our rocket fuel, now we hitting ignition
5 4 3 2 1 we going boom like nuclear fission
envision this, a whole city waking up and walking out
no more landlords, no more debt, now the streets have learned to shout
everyone gets ice-cream
everyone gets paid
everyone gets a visa
and everyone gets laid
We're taking back the power
them bigshots won't control this town no more
this city’s ours
this is our home we’re fighting for
they only call it class war when the poor fight back
they only call it class war when the poor fight back
they only call it class war when the poor fight back
from the hilltop down to the rivermouth now everyone’s an insomniac
The illusion of powerlessness is a potent sedative
but once shattered, everything is possible
we’re building the new in the hollowed out shell of the old
blockade the coal trains, blockade the banks
cracks in the concrete
we are hungry for change
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||||
17. |
Aftermath (interlude)
01:19
|
|||
[Interlude]
When the newly liberated city began singing
the warring factions wavered
glitched
and turned like flowers rotating to face the rising sun we climbed onto corrugated rooftops
and the tallest tree branches
watching the floodwaters invade the lobbies of banks and mining corporations
Maiwar had brought seeds from the forests far to the west
to deposit down every bitumen road and concrete gutter along with a heavy load of fertile river mud impregnating the concrete panopticon with a dormant jungle-in-waiting
submerged
purged
purified
and immediately recontaminated
the tallest skyscrapers were already developing a primitive form of consciousness
and now, three-quarters of the way up one of the oldest towers
two lights, in separate offices
switched on despite the power cut
blinked a couple of times
then stared at us inquisitively
watching to see if we knew what to do next
but already, instruments that had lain hidden in the cluttered caverns beneath peeling-paint workers cottages were being dusted off and tuned up in anticipation of the new songs
that we would soon begin writing
|
||||
18. |
Something Like Peace
03:21
|
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Storm moved on now we clear the debris
Bathing in the afterglow redefine free
Redefine identity, redefine me,
redefine utopia we hoping that we gonna see
a time when the debt slave trades close down
when the river runs clean, and we run this town
when the work days are short, weekends are long
when the rent stays cheap, and the words of the song resonate like
We’re all just pieces of the sun
we are all just pieces of the sun
kicking back, our work is done
we’re all just pieces of the sun
The jackhammers sleep, city is at peace
seedlings sprouting, we all find release,
sea breeze, smog dissipating
creating new worlds, now we all levitating
nostalgic, for unknown tomorrow
cracking macadamia, discarding shells and sorrow
close those eyes, stretch them limbs
gets too warm we’ll go for a swim
curry pot bubbling, cardamom and cinnamon
ginger chai, put the kettle on and settle in
honey from the hive, joy to be alive
stoke the fire, watch the world revive
We’re all just pieces of the sun
we are all just pieces of the sun
kicking back, our work is done
we’re all just pieces of the sun
Eroded micro-fragments of retaining walls and skyscraper foundations
wash down the river
with each cycle of the tide
shattered windows disintegrate into grains of sand
and now new coral beds are growing in Moreton Bay
we are writing a new mythology
bower-birding and cross-pollinating
prefiguring revolution
the future is not dead yet.
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Rivermouth Brisbane, Australia
Hi, we're Rivermouth
Our vocalist is a cross between a typewriter and a megaphone. Our keyboardist is a classically trained
virtuoso mad scientist. Our bassist plays in the Richter scale. Our drummer's great-grandfather was a metronome.
Our music is a blend of spoken word, hip hop, jazz, reggae and excellent chai. Lyrics are critical. We want to tickle cerebra and tug heartstrings simultaneously.
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