Choral filk, like it says on the box. Coming in cold, it might be helpful to know this essential truth about the nature of relationships in a choir:
Altos like basses.
Bases like altos.
Tenors like tenors.
One soprano bonks the conductor, and the rest pick up at the disco.
That should be enough, I think.
It's true! They are! When Tania posted a message on Choral Chat with the subject "Morning Sickness Sux", I wrote this.
[May 2002]
All my friends are getting pregnant
Yes, they're all having sprogs
They're all getting round and ungainly
They no longer fit their togs.
Well I peeked at Choral Chat the other day
And I read the now-familiar news
It said, "Morning sickness is a horrid thing"
It said, "I've been wakin' up with the spews"
I begged her, say it isn't true
And she told me it was so, and she was glad
Showed me a CAT scan of her groin
And I thought, "My God, it looks just like its Dad"
(Chorus)
Sometimes I feel like I'm left behind
And sometimes I feel like I just left school
Wonder if I'll ever grow up...
I hope not! I'm no breeding fool!
(Chorus)
But I'm all caught up being flighty
And I'm all caught up having sex
So I'm all stocked with good condoms
No way I'll ever be the next...
(Chorus)
This is, in a sense, inspired by every alto I've ever met, but I can pretty much tell you who's the inspiration for each line. I'm not going to tell you, but I could, if I were suicidally insane. It's to the tune of Billy Joel's Always A Woman, and was triggered when Ch@s mentioned the vague idea, and possibly the line that starts "She'll sing what she's given".
[August 2002]
She can kill with a song,
She can wound with the blues,
She can tread on your heart with her sensible shoes,
And she'll often reveal what you're hoping to see
(Once she's had a few drinks)
Yes, she's always an alto to me.
She can leave you appalled,
She can frankly dismay you.
She can take all your shirts
And she'll never repay you.
But she looks so much better in my clothes than me...
Blame it all on the pitch,
'Cos she's always an alto to me.
Oh, she can scare you at times
She can do you some harm
She's a woman of whim
Oh, and she never forgives
And she never forgets
Till the stars have grown dim
She can study the score
And perfect every note,
Or she'll simply ignore it
And wing it, by rote.
She'll sing what she's given (as long as it's G);
'Though she mimes in the concert,
She's always an alto to me.
(Chorus)
She is frequently smart
And she's often well-dressed,
But the basses don't notice
Much more than her chest.
Yet she's rarely attracted
To tenors, we see...
And that rumble we do
Simply turns her to goo,
'Cos she's always an alto to me.
Though some people may say
This is all a cliche,
Still she's always an alto to me.
This was a rush job written by committee, as all good filks are. Mark Chapman, Cathy Vallance and I wrote it at the SCUNA rehearsal camp. It later won me the revue at a SUMS camp; the judges begged for other entries in the revue, because they really didn't want to have to award the prize to me! (Tenors, the lot of them!) It's to the tune of And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda, by Eric Bogle.
[29 July 1995]
Now if I were a tenor, I'd carry the tune, and I'd flirt with the thin boy beside me.
And the altos would tell me I'm as queer as a loon, but I don't care if those tarts deride me!
Then at concerts I'd shine as I got in the swing: the crowds would go mad as I started to sing,
And the women would swoon and their hearts would go ping, but I'd rather their sons paid attention...
But a bass sings low and profoundly,
Where the tenor must wish he could be,
And his voice is so deep, it can put bricks to sleep.
Oh a bass is the true life for me.
And how well I imagine the life of a sop, as I'd twitter and squeak and read Cosmo.
And how in that rarified air at the top, I could have any man in the disco.
Many sops are brunetty; they've dyed their hair well. They colour it chestnut and drown it with gel.
But they're blonde to the brainstem, you can bloody well tell! The attempt's nearly always a failure.
But a bass sings low and profoundly,
And his thoughts are as deep as the sea.
But a sop's not as smart as a good shopping cart.
Oh a bass is the true life for me.
And if I were an alto, my life would be odd, as the oestrogen bubbled inside me.
And I'd watch the old basses, all hoping to God for a chance to corrupt and misguide me.
And the altos sing coyly: the crowd howls for more. Their talents are striking; they all know the score.
The sopranos all ask, "What are we singing for?" And I ask myself the same question...
But a bass sings low and profoundly,
And we do like an alto or three.
For as beer follows beer, more taboos disappear.
Oh a bass is the true life for me.
Sing me the bass line, sing me the bass line.
Who'll come on down to the bass line with me?
And our notes are absurd, and we show up on a seismograph.
Who'll come on down to the bass line with me?
This had been bouncing around in my head since I first heard the BloodHoundGang's Bad Touch, and finally I just sat down with the lyrics and an MP3 of the original and did most of it. I posted it to choral chat and a gorgeous and talented MUC named Gail Miller provided the rest. What a team!
[14 September 2000]
Ha ha ha, well, now, we call this the act of Rumbling, but there are several other very important differences between Human Beings and choristers that you should know about....
I'd appreciate unison...
Sing, fellas, sing, you know choir is a lot of work
Me and you, we can sing down deep and make the women go berserk
We're not in time, our words don't rhyme, and I'll bet you don't care
Yes we're singing, we're rehearsing, but it's not why we go there
We've had enough of the night-club stuff it's all too tough to do the rounds
We'd all much rather go much farther making bassy rumble sounds
It's easier to score and it isn't a bore attracting altos any time we like
And make them crumble with our rumble we don't even need a mike.
Sing it now
You and me fellas ain't nothin' but basses
So let's meet a lot of altos and not notice their faces
Do it again now
You and me fellas ain't nothin' but basses
So let's hope that they're not underage and still wearin' braces.
Gunna rumble now...
Deep, the sounds which cause the altos to fall over
In the large cathedrals of Melbourne, Sydney, Adelaide and others
Latin verses, conductor curses, We wanna get down below your knees,
Altos get this feeling, they are dealing with their reeling, caused by this Bassy tease
So if we sing low, really slow, and flow, please say we made your tummy dip
We'll turn you on before you know it, and you'll quiver your top lip
So sing me yours, I'll sing you mine, and we will harmonise in time
And eventually we'll have it, just in time for our bit...
Sing it now
You and me fellas ain't nothin' but basses
We like any kind of altos, any sizes and races
Really do
You and me fellas ain't nothin' but basses
If they seem too highly strung we'll maybe loosen their laces
Gunna rumble now...
Do it now
You and me fellas ain't nothin' but basses
So we just don't believe sopranos telling us we're disgraces
And again now
You and me fellas ain't nothin' but basses
But if the sops are cute it might be beaut to get on their cases
Ad nauseum...
While I was in SUMS, we got given the possibly-enviable task of bulking out the Sydney Phil for the Olympic Games opening ceremony. The ceremony itself was magnificent, and one of the great experiences of my life, but the preparation was handled with almost breathtaking incompetence by organisers who couldn't arrange a boont in a brothel. Ric Birch, now thankfully forgotten by history, was the Chief Wally in charge of the ceremony. This is to the tune of Jerusalem. For the aftermath, see the Post-Olympic Anthem.
[August 2000]
And did Ric Birch, in ancient times,
Think it would a piece of cake
To get ten thousand volunteers
To suffer all for SOCOG's sake
And did he hope we'd proudly wear
Beige ponchos and ill-fitting hat
And sit in patience, endlessly,
And not to tell him he's a prat.
Bring me my mat of close-cell foam
Bring me my brooch that breaks on sight
Shove me around then send me home
To miss the last bus for the night
I will not miss a single call,
I shall not whinge, through wind and rain
For after all, I volunteered
Has anybody seen my brain?
Baron Sir Bennett W MacPherson OBE QED RSVP is Conductor-For-Life of the Sydney Uni Musical Society, and has been since that choir's creation in 1469. He is a man of nigh-superhuman talent and charisma, and only the greatest of conductors in all history can begin to compare to him. He also has excellent facial hair. This is about him. It's to the tune of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.
[February 2002]
You better watch close,
You better not chat
You better keep time
I'm telling you that:
Bruckner Ben is leading the choir
He's checking the rolls
And counting the names
He's thoroughly wise
To all of your games -
Bruckner Ben is leading the choir
He sees you when you're sleeping,
He hears when your voice breaks
He knows if you sing F or P,
So sing out, for Bruckner's sake!
You better not joke,
You better not snore,
You better take notes
And follow the score
Bruckner Ben is leading the choir
As performed by Eric T. F. Bat, Mistress Cath Lawrence and Woody at Hobart's 50IV, June/July 1999. This came to me during the IV camp, and I sort of fiddled around with it like a loose tooth, until I suddenly found the chorus lurking on a previously blank piece of paper, and after that it was all easy. In fact, it took longer to decide on Bernstein (in the last line of verse 1) than it did to write all the rest of the song. The result, aided amply by Mistress Cath on vocals and Woody on piano, was astonishing: I have a photo, courtesy of Jon the Prevert, of Foetus rupturing himself (must've been the chorus) and Kynan just looked dazed. We won the Revue trophy: an ugly thing. I got it engraved with our names and passed it on to the next winners in the fullness of time.
[June 1999]
Sound Control to Kynan Johns...
Sound Control to Kynan Johns...
Tie your bow tie up and put your trousers on.
Sound Control to Kynan Johns...
Commencing concert; tape deck on.
Flex your baton and may Bernstein be with you...
(A-one, a-two, a-one-two-three-four...)
This is Sound Control to Kynan Johns
You've really pulled a crowd
And the tenors want to know who cuts your hair
Now it's time to cue the basses if you dare
This is Kynan Johns to Sound Control
I'm raging through the score
And I'm bouncing in a most peculiar way
And the choir sounds quite professional today
And here am I, wanking in the spotlight
Far above my peers
Planet Earth can see
There's no prodigy like me...
Though I know one hundred thousand moves
I'm feeling very still
And I doubt this chorus knows which way to go
Tell the sops to sing fortissimo - they know
Sound Control to Kynan Johns
It's interval - the choir is gone
Can you hear me Kynan Johns?
Can you hear me Kynan Johns?
Can you hear me Kynan Johns?
Can you --
Here am I, wanking in the spotlight
Far above my peers
Planet Earth can see
There's no prodigy like me...
Many years ago, I went to the largely tolerable Adelaide Intervarsity Choral Festival. While I was there, I wrote a three-scene Gilbert and Sullivan opera for the Revue (you have no idea how dull Adelaide can be...) but owing to criminal incompetence on the part of the compere, who should have been nasally raped to death by nuns, we didn't get to perform it. I have no idea of the tunes, but I think it has its own charm regardless.
[January 2001]
or, The Lass Who Loved A Geek
by Fruitbert and Sullivan
Scene 1: Harris's Great Brains Incorporated, in an unnamed Australian metropolis in the late 21st century
Scene 2: The Broken Hill University during their Intervarsity Choral Festival
Scene 3: The Hall of the Great Brain, back at HGB Inc.
Nick Nitely – an earnest young man
Dora Daley – a sweet young alto, allegedly
Sebastian Harris – an aged computer wizard with a dark family secret
Amethyst Howard-Gration – a dear little old lady
The Great Brain – a computer of unimaginable complexity
Special Guest Star #1 – an IVCF Convenor, roped in for a guest appearance
Chorus of freshers & BOFs
Enter NICK NITELY and CHORUS.
Nick:
I am a poor apprentice geek,
I toil for my wages,
I hunt for bugs in cryptic code,
on electronic pages.
I see no morning summer sun,
or evening's autumn breezes
I do my master's bidding and
whatever else he pleases.
Chorus:
He does his master's bidding and
whatever else he pleases!
Nick:
It might have been, in ancient times,
that men controlled machinery,
And got a chance, on odd weekends,
to view the local scenery.
But now the great automatons
are large and hard to master.
We need to watch attentively,
for fear we'll meet disaster.
Chorus:
He needs to watch attentively,
for fear he'll meet disaster!
He needs to watch attentively,
for fear he'll meet disaster!
He needs to watch attentively,
for fear he'll meet disaster!
Nick: [spoken]
Here we are in the depths of the late 21st century, and yet man is still enslaved to the computer! Must I toil forever, guarding these complex-yet-error-prone machines? Oh, if only I could get out and see the world. Surely there must be a better life for me out there -- but hark! Here comes my master, the wise, crusty old Dr Sebastian Harris.
Enter SEBASTIAN HARRIS.
Seb: [spoken]
Ah, Nick Nitely, my faithful apprentice. Debugging studiously, I see? Excellent! I have a new task for you, dear boy! Pay heed, for this could be the leg-up your career has been looking for!
Seb:
When I was a babe, quite long ago,
My parents earnt a name
As the most depraved debauchers in
A most debaucherous game!
They lived in a town on the desert edge
The land of wind and fire
And they practised sinful naughtiness
In a strange and sinful choir!
Chorus:
They practised sinful naughtiness
In a strange and sinful choir!
Seb:
But I was a good and moral child,
So I soon renounced my kin
And I ran away to Geeking School
To avoid all thoughts of sin.
Chorus:
He ran away to Geeking School
To avoid all thoughts of sin.
Seb:
But here in my hand you'll see a note
I have just this day been sent:
My departed parent's friends have need
Of the power we represent.
Chorus:
His departed parent's friends have need
Of the powers they represent.
His departed parent's friends have need
Of the Brains they implement!
Nick: [spoken]
Goodness, Dr Harris! Your parents were depraved sexual athletes? But you yourself are such a conservative and moral man!
Seb:
Indeed!
Nick:
Quite boring, in fact!
Seb:
And proudly so! I thank you for your kind words. But this is all by the by. It is true I ran away to the Ronald Macdonald Sydney University to become a geek, but I cannot turn my back on my parents' compatriots and occasional sextoys in their hour of need! Blood is thicker than silicon, Nick my lad!
Nick:
How true, how true, Dr Harris! But if you'll forgive my confusion, sir -- in all this intrigue and innuendo, where do I come in?
Seb:
Why you, Nick, are to be the instrument by which I shall discharge this obligation to my elders. I want you to go in my name!
Nick:
Go, Doctor? (Aside: could this be my chance to see the outside world after so long?) Where am I to go?
Seb:
You, my boy, shall go on a mission of mercy, to apply the mighty computer power of the Great Brain itself to rescue the tragically flawed Transport and Billeting for the 118th Intervarsity Choral Festival in the University of Broken Hill!
END OF SCENE 1
Enter CHORUS
Chorus:
IV! IV! The year has passed so speedily!
IV! IV! A fortnight of debauchery!
The sogball is inflated and
The music is collated and
[Male C.] Their bras are confiscated-
[Fem. C.] Oh, you've seen it all before!
IV! IV! Australia's great tradition of
[Fresher C.] The old!
[BOF C.] The young!
[Fresher C.] It's like that book by Nabukov!
[All C.] We don't know why we do all this
The reason's lost in history's mist
[Fresher C.] Well I'm just here to sink some piss
[BOF C.] And I'm just here to score!
Nick:
IV! IV! Oh what an unexpected place!
The sights! The sounds! The pianist who's off her face!
I never dreamed the world could be
So strangely full of revelry
And oddly coloured Daiquiris
[Spoken] I'd like to see some more
Enter AMETHYST HOWARD-GRATION.
Amethyst: [spoken]
Oh, you must be young Nick Nitely, sent to us by Harris's Great Brains Incorporated in our hour of need. And just in time. The Transport and Billeting is in a terrible state. My daughter is beside herself.
Nick:
Your daughter, Ma'am?
Amethyst:
My ward, in fact, but I think of her as my daughter, although I never married. I am Miss Howard Gration, but you may call me Amethyst.
Nick:
It's an honour, kind lady.
Amethyst:
(Aside: what a polite boy!) Ah! Here's my daughter now. Nick Nitely of Harris's Great Brains, may I introduce Dora Daley of the Broken Hill University Musical Society.
Nick: [smitten]
Enchanted!
Dora: [interested]
(Aside: Hmm! New meat!) Let me explain our problem in yet another witty piece of tuneful exposition.
Nick:
Please do!
Dora:
The Choral Intervarsity's an old and mighty beast,
With a million odd traditions all in play
And the worst of these traditions (in the bottom five at least)
Is that T&B must always go astray.
We've a diabetic vegan with a recent broken leg
Who would like a party household with a cat,
And a crusty bass from Hobart who we've almost had to beg
Not to wander round in nothing but a hat.
These a billetor who's written that he'll only billet girls
On the theory that the men would only fight,
And another has a mansion, with a spa of gold and pearls,
But it's hours away at twice the speed of light.
We've a thousand people coming, cos IV has really grown,
And it's up to me to tell them where to sleep.
Some require special diets, others need a chaperone,
And I'm ready now to chuck it in and weep!
[Breaks down and weeps on Nick's shoulder, quite transparently]
Nick: [quite moved]
There there... I shall help you. We shall enlist the help of the Great Brain!
Enter NICK and DORA.
Nick:
My darling Dora, see
The metal mystery:
The great machine that we
Call The Brain.
Dora:
My handsome Nick, it's true:
It's patently a coup
This silicon lump you
Call The Brain.
Brain: [Spoken]
Welcome to Main Brain! Think different! Enter sixty seven digit password! Apple (tm) Macintosh (tm) OS-X (tm) Beta version 0.9999994 ready. Note from company CEO: version 1.0 will be debugged any day now! Please wait! Press any key to reboot! Redo from start!
Dora:
Goodness! What is it saying?
Nick:
Oh, this is just standard gibberish. It's normal enough. It all started in the early 21st century when the Justice Department disbanded Microsoft for war crimes and mental anguish. The damage to the economy was so great that Apple Computer moved in and took over the country. Now all the computers sound like this. But that's not important right now. Give me the T&B information. [Dora hands pile of forms to Nick] I'll just feed them into the brain [Nick feeds them into the Brain.] Now I move the gerbil...
Dora:
Gerbil?
Nick:
Yes - IBM patented the word "mouse" in 2017. [Brain goes whir] There we go! The answer should be almost instantaneous!
Brain:
I have cogitated long upon your question...
And considered all the issues on my charts...
And my positronic brain makes this suggestion:
Take the cash and make a break for foreign parts!
Dora:
What?
Nick:
Surely you can't be serious!
Brain:
I have cogitated long upon your question...
Nick: [interrupts]
Yes, yes, yes, I know. But surely there must be a better solution than "take the money and run"!
Dora:
I don't know... it sounds pretty good...
Brain:
If you weigh up all the multiplying factors,
It is clear there is no answer to be found.
You can try it but you'll simply end up cactus,
Or perhaps you'll wind up six feet underground!
Nick:
Oh, I don't believe it!
Dora:
Are you sure? It sounds pretty definitive!
Brain:
If you weigh up all the multiplying factors...
Nick: [interrupts]
Oh don't be silly! It can't be that hard to organise an IV's transport and billeting! Why, I hear back in the early 21st century, some real goofballs made it work!
Brain:
That was only one year...
Nick:
Never mind! I don't think you're much of a great brain. In fact, I don't think you're a brain at all!
Brain:
Pay no attention to the secret special guest star behind the curtain! Noooooo! [winds down] Daisy... daisy...
[Opens door to Great Brain to reveal Secret Guest Star #1]
SGS#1:
All right, I admit it! It was me all the time! Your IV is doomed! There was only one perfect IV, and it was mine!
Nick:
Well, that makes sense to me!
Dora:
I'll get the money, you book the flights. South of France?
Nick:
South of France!
CURTAIN
Once I'd moved back home to Canberra I volunteered to be on committee for the 54th Australian Intervarsity Choral Festival, aka CIV2003. Just in time for SIV2002, Lukey and I composed this to advertise our IV in the Revue.
[January 2002]
It used to be, years ago, that SCUNA's rehearsal camps served omnivore meals. This comes as a shock to recent SCUNAe, because we've been doing only vegetarian catering for as long as most of them can recall. The reasons are obvious -- there's less waste, it costs less, it's easier to produce really good quality food, and so on -- but as I recall the turning point came with a particularly inedible bolognaise. This song is a dramatisation of that. It's to the tune of the Boomtown Rats' I Don't Like Mondays.
[July 2002]
The bolognaise mix inside the pot
Has burnt, and turned to paste
Oh, and nobody's gonna have stew today
All that okra goes to waste.
The choir doesn't understand it
We always heard there was food supplied,
But now the soup's so greasy
Makes our guts uneasy
Did the salad really need to be fried?
Why? Why - why - why?
Tell you why I don't like camp food
Tell you why I don't like camp food
Tell you why I don't like camp food
I wanna spew, ooh -- and eat at home.
The coffee machine has turned dark green
And it blurps when it's not plugged in
All the breakfast eggs'll cause a grown man to beg
And the bacon's turning hard as tin
The hot dog buns are the kind of ones
That have spent six weeks in the rain and sun
And you can find no sauces
'Cause there are no sauces
What sauce could hide the scum?
I tried very hard to write a successful filk song for the Canberra IV revue, but somehow the filk of The Devil Went Down To Georgia (entitled The Tenor Went Down To Canberra) just never worked. But in the mean time I dashed this one off, and created (or at least recognised) a legend! I imagine the tune is obvious.
[June 1996]
And did that phone, at concert time, ring like a budgie, loud and long?
And did that boy commit the crime, and leave his mobile phone switched on?
It did not cease from shrill alarm, but caused the very greatest harm,
Because it proved, for all to see, the basses were a tone off key!
Bring me my hair of faded gold, bring me my Tim Brooke-Taylor smile,
Bring me my car - it may be old, bring me my chariot for hire!
He's such a sweet and lovely boy, he's such a cute and cuddly toy,
And we all love our Woodykins, despite his multitude of sins.
Composed to the tune of Frere Jacques, as an anthem for the Bassi of SCUNA.
[Early 2002]
I'm an old fart (x2)
SCUNA Bass (x2)
I'm a million years old (x2)
See my face (x2)
All these freshers (x2)
Make us mourn (x2)
Back when we were freshers (x2)
They weren't born! (x2)
We are full of (x2)
Brains and strength (x2)
We know all the answers (x2)
At great length (x2)
I'm an old fart (x2)
SCUNA Bass (x2)
I'm a million years old (x2)
See my face (x2)
Once upon a time there was a party called BangFest, which was a legend. The precise nature of what transpired at that part will not be revealed unto ye knowlessmen. Suffice it to say Nothing Happened. This is about that. It's to the tune of Cutty Wren. Note that the people who are being interrogated and answering questions in the song are some of those who attended; the remainder are SCUNAe who did not.
[July 1996]
"Where are you going?" said Woodgate to Fruitbat.
"We can not tell you," said Seagoon to Snert.
"We're off to the BangFest," said Jon the Prevert,
"We're off to the Bangfest," said Jon the Prevert.
"What will you do there?" said Dervish to MikZ.
"We can not tell you," said Tania to Snert.
"We'll get well acquainted," said Jon the Prevert,
"We'll get well acquainted," said Jon the Prevert.
"Who'll get it started?" said Brick to Fiona.
"We can not tell you," said Claret to Snert.
"Some tipsy librarian," said Jon the Prevert,
"Some tipsy librarian," said Jon the Prevert.
"Who will entice her?" said Jeffery to Jamesy.
"We can not tell you," said Chapstick to Snert.
"It's hard to remember," said Jon the Prevert,
"It's hard to remember," said Jon the Prevert.
"And what will the rest do?" said Sandra to Cameron.
"We can not tell you," said Kate unto Snert.
"We'll show off our piercings," said Jon the Prevert,
"We'll show off our piercings," said Jon the Prevert.
"What does this all mean?" said Chat-List to Net-List.
"Buggered if I know," said you there to me.
"I fancy a party, let's all go to IV!
"I fancy a party, let's go to IV!"
Continuing the tradition I started with Jerusawoody, of recognising choral legends in song, I filked They Might Be Giants' Birdhouse In Your Soul about the redoubtable and respectable Mr Jeff Christensen, who for many years has been the chronicler of all this choral and intervarsity through his Acts Of The Choristers.
[January 1997]
He's the oldest bass
He's not the boldest bass
But he's a very stately bass
But really he's not quite the oldest bass
But he is...
Mister Jeff is wearing tails and a black beard
He watches over you
Write a little footnote in your book.
He can be serene when he's sloggin',
He can be stately on a toboggan,
Write a little footnote in your book...
While you're at it,
Leave your white gloves on and
Read us an Act from your book.
The Fabulous Monster was disturbed that our blissful and carefree life together was not providing the sort of artistic inspiration that a poet needs. She suggested I write some more songs. Not long after, I watched Muriel's Wedding for the first time, and ABBA's Fernando struck her as eminently filkworthy. Seeking intellectual stimulation at a SUMS rehearsal camp later that weekend, I grabbed some paper and composed this, which won the revue and the eternal wrath of a quarter of the choir.
[September 1999]
Can you hear the pitch, sopranos?
I remember songs of whales that sound an awful lot like this.
The conductor frowns, sopranos.
He was humming to himself and softly praying you would hear.
I could see his waving hands
And plumes of boiling steam were coming from his ears.
There's a tempo change, sopranos.
Every quaver, every minim seems to drag appallingly.
I was so alarmed, sopranos.
You were loud and full of coffee, none of you are very shy,
And I'm not ashamed to say
The end of Floret Silva almost made me cry
There are markings in the score, you know;
They're not for show, sopranos.
They were put in there for you and me,
M, F and P, sopranos.
If you never thought this work was hard,
You lost the bet.
Now you have to sing it all again
From start to end, sopranos.
No it isn't fair, sopranos,
That for many years you haven't had a song that was rude.
Is it all deserved, sopranos?
Have you wondered at the reason for this frightful attitude?
You can guess it if you try --
It's cause "soprano" has three syllables, not two!
(Testing:)
Can you hear the pitch, -- tenors? (Nope, doesn't work.)
Can you hear the pitch, -- basses? (Naah.)
(And I'm too scared of altos, so...)
There are markings in the score, you know;
They're not for show, sopranos.
They were put in there for you and me,
M, F and P, sopranos.
If you think you might be driven mad,
Don't give in yet.
'Cause there's someone else who's twice as pissed:
The soloist soprano!
There's an obscure little song in the SCUNA songbook called Now Oh Now, and we were practicing it one time when this modified version came to me. Basso Ergo Drool.
[Early 2002]
Now, oh fuck I needs must fart
Farting for on beans I dined
Farting is an ancient art,
Unlike others much maligned.
Since I ate I must expell
Gas that forms when I digest.
Please forgive the nasty smell --
Beans from Woolworths aren't the best.
Flatulence will drive you hence,
Loud your curses rent the air
Take, I pray you, no offense;
Wrath from you I could not bear!
In the tradition started with Jerusawoody and continued with Mister Jeff, I decided to commemorate Michael Winikoff, known for his piano-improvising talent as "God". The tune is Billy Joel's Piano Man.
[June 1999]
It's half past nine on a chilly day
The chorister crowd straggles in
There's an old bass snoring next to me
With his head down and drool on his chin.
He says, "God, what a way to spend holidays!
"I'm not really sure why I go.
"If it weren't for the man with the magical hands
"Every bass would be lost in the snow."
So play us a tune, Dr Winikoff
Tickle that ivory.
You were exiled to deep West Virginia,
But now you're back home at IV.
Now Michael's a doctor of geekiness
Who somehow had time for a wife
So he married Leanne and they moved to Cheyenne-land
And tried for the John Denver life.
But the natives ate Big Macs and Heineken,
And vego cuisine was unknown,
So they've packed up their books and their Macintosh
And back to Australia they've flown.
So play us a tune, Dr Winikoff
By Beethoven, Mozart or Orff.
A chorus by Bizet or Borodin
Or maybe the theme to Red Dwarf.
And blow us away, Dr Winikoff
Not one of us thinks it is odd
That Christians and Pagans and atheists
All give you the nickname of "God"!
Ever since I heard about Solomon the Rubber Chicken, SCUNA's mascot, I knew there was potential there. Unusually for me, I actually did something about it. The tune is obvious.
[March 1996]
Rubber chicken, you're the one,
Think I'll call you Solomon,
Rubber chicken, you're awfully wise, it's true,
Buk-buk-b'gak!
Rubber chicken, latex toy,
You're an alto, not a boy,
Rubber chicken, you're our featherless friend, that's you,
Oooh-oooh..
Told my mother I
Can't explain what it is, ma,
Don't you know that the chicken she
Simply oozes charisma,
(Oh what a feeling!)
Rubber chicken, hear us howl,
You're our fav'rite floppy fowl!
Rubber chicken, there isn't a group of -
Rubber chicken, I'd like a whole coop of -
Rubber chicken, we'll never make soup of you!
Buk-buk-b'gak!
Cameron is one of the more... noticeable... members of QUMS, the Queensland Uni Musical Society. I wrote this for him at SIV. Do I really need to reveal the song it's filked from?
[January 2002]
Sing low, sweet Cameron
Gotta be the only gay bass
I went way up North and what did I see?
Gotta be the only gay bass
A gray-haired boy, only twenty and three
Gotta be the only gay bass
Thought I'd seen it all, but oh dear me!
Gotta be the only gay bass
He's an island of smut in a Hansonite sea
Gotta be the only gay bass
They say SUMS are pooftas, SUMS are queer
Gotta be the only gay bass
But compared to Cameron they're nowhere near!
Gotta be the only gay bass
All you straight laced basses, hear that rumbling sound,
Come and be another gay bass
Cos there ain't e-nough altos to go a-round,
Come and be another gay bass!
We did the Bennett Christmas Carols for SCUNA's 1995 Christmas concert. Susanni was by far the most practiced of the five, because we also performed it for a pitifully-produced WIN-TV promo. I sprung this on the choir after about sixteen hours of filming (well, it felt like it) and probably helped drive our conductor Andrew madder than before.
[December 1995]
A TV star is born not made:
Andrew, Andrew, superstar superstar superstar
Upon the box he'll be replayed
What a hero, what a hero
Until the Christmas season fades.
Now Andrew is the hero's name
Andrew, Andrew, superstar superstar superstar
And waving big sticks is his game;
What a hero, what a hero
Compared to Kris he's fairly tame.
It came on Friday afternoon:
Andrew, Andrew, superstar superstar superstar
The cameras whirred, we sang a tune
What a hero, what a hero
Now Canberra women start to swoon.
These cameras came with noise and light
Andrew, Andrew, superstar superstar superstar
And gave the ducks an awful fright
What a hero, what a hero
All for a sixty second bite!
Now sit we down and watch TV
His head is all we get to see
He's tall and thin but still sexy!
This is the other Canberra IV item I wrote, the one that didn't seem quite as successful (see Jerusawoody). The problem seems to be that filk only works if your audience is familiar with the original, and too many choristers have spent too much time listening to ABC-FM to know all the old mainstream country classics like The Devil Went Down To Georgia, by the Charlie Daniels Band. This song is a true story, by the way, and in case you wonder, LST is Long Sleeved T-shirt.
[June 1996]
The tenor went down to Canberra, he was lookin' for a song to sing.
He was pretty green upon the choral scene, and he was hopin' to find a fling.
When he came across this bushdance, strippin' o' the willow and wearin' black,
And the tenor stood upon the polished wood and said, "Boy, this is rilly slack!
"Well, I guess you didn't know it, but I'm a party rager too,
"I have to say without delay, I'm unimpressed with you.
"Now you do pretty good dancing here, but I seen better in church.
"Got a mission I'm in, to find some sin, and I guess I gotta still search."
So the boss said, "My name's Dervish, and it might be July,
"But I'll show you what makes a chicken get hot, cos we're the best you'll ever try!"
Dervish gather up your crowd, and leave your shirts behind,
Precision topless dancing teams are never hard to find.
And if you want the band'll stay and play till twelve or one,
And if they do, they're gonna have some fun.
The tenor opened up his eyes and said, "That's quite a show!"
And drool ran from his gaping jaw as he watched the dancers go.
They dragged the boy away from there, his legs had ceased to stand,
Then a crowd of dancers joined it, and it really stunned the band!
(Instrumental)
When the tenor sat, the Dervish said, "Well you're pretty wet, my child,
"Just sit down on that chicken there, let us prove to you we're wild!"
Fire on the dancefloor, do-si-do,
This is how the IVs always go.
Better not be too shy, don't you know,
Only got a fortnight, don't be slow.
The tenor gave a hoot, because he knew that he could rage,
And he dropped his LST upon the pile against the stage.
And Dervish said, "Just get on down if you ever wanna dance with me,
"Cos I told you once, you son of a bitch, it's the ninety six IV!"
They sang:
Fire on the dancefloor, do-si-do,
This is how the IVs always go.
Better not be too shy, don't you know,
Only got a fortnight, don't be slow.
By half way through the camp at Melbourne IV, 1998, the floors in the rehearsal room were carpeted with exhausted choristers. It's always the way. Woody wrote a lovely filk called Corpses, to the tune of a carol called Torches. I wrote this, which I don't think I ever performed. It's to the tune of A Thousand Miles Away by the Hoodoo Gurus.
[January 1998]
Estimated time of rehearsal 9:15am
Been in the noisy dorm and so I'm tired before it even begins
(Now you're singing) I got all these notes in front of me
(Really singing) They're stretching out far as the next IV
Next IV
Spend half my morning queuing, getting breakfast or locating a seat
And if I'm not in early then it's jelly jam on toast that I eat
(Now you're singing) I find a piece of floor where I can lay
(Really singing) I'd rather sleep a thousand hours a day
Thousand hours a day
Singing with a crowd's sometimes louder than you thought it would be
It can be as noisy in the choir as at an airport or a major factory
(Now you're singing) I think I'm learning Russian, who can say
(Really singing) I hope my voice at least survives till concert day
It's nearly gone away
A thousand miles away
Instrumental break
I promise to myself this time I'd take the chance and try to have sex
Out of all those cute sopranos is there one who'd like a bass's respect?
(Now you're singing) Right now I think they're all attached or gay
(Really singing) IV sex: a thousand years away
Thousand years away
(A thousand years away)
Thousand years away
(A thousand years away)
(Now you're singing) What was that that Ben was trying to say?
Some thing he's said a thousand times today, hey
(A thousand times a day)
Sing it again
(A thousand tenors are gay)
Sing it again
(A thousand clouds are grey)
Sing it again
(A thousand cows eat hay)
Smyert it again...