1–5 p.m. Sun. 5 July 2009: Rock'n'Writers Winter of our Discotheque

Now is the winter of our discotheque
Made summer by a mad few who, forsaking dignity for glorious folly
Lay plans to freak out both swain and maiden
At the Rock'n'Writers gig, Red Rattler Marrickville,
Perchance there you may waylay them.
Their pates crownéd with acrylic Brian Jones wigs.
Iggy's mummified trouser python
A shriveled monument in the rumpus room of their collective psyche.

Grim-visag'd Nick Cave hath lately smooth'd his wrinkled codpiece,
But the Rock n Writers gig is not shap'd for Nick’s moaning and sportive prancing.
None shall frolic there unmanly in pantaloons, ful foppish like a Spandau Ballet video;
Nay! We shall rudely rock forth, accompanied by literary allies!
Brave swains and Kung-Fu maidens who, before your eyes, will karate chop literature into the gutter, where it belongeth!

But lo? Who struts before the Marrickville denizens, crooning ‘Secret Agent Man’?
Ah, 'tis The Men from U.N.C.L.E.—lusty chaps of fair proportion,
That ful skillfully wield lute, lyre and Bobby Darin impersonation
Into most pleasing musical confection.

And what is this wonder dark?
Moth-eaten Poodles snarl at their gnarléd shadows!
Why, tis the LangLangs piping ‘Nude for Satan’ and other tunes
That much offend the sallow of spirit and meek of heart.

And lo! One more delight to pass this Sunday afternoon!
Plunging forth into spray and spume to do the Harold Holt.
Alas poor Harold! His crab-nibbled todger rampant no more beneath the cold waves!
Now cruelly eulogised in ful villainous insult by the Dead Rabids.

So plots have we laid, and riffage dangerous plannéd.
Drunken cavorting, libels, dreams—savage antidotes to whiny, girly songs,
Vicious but necessary cure for all that is subtle, false and treacherous in both tome and song!

But wait!
You ask how to partake of the idle pleasures of this day?
Limbo forth to our Winter of our Discotheque at the Red Rattler.
Cross the doorman’s palm with silver and whisper subtly
‘The Lord Hak Nudestrom sent me. Now stand aside good sirrah
For I came here to Lose Control.’
    

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