Is This The Ginger Man’s Voice? YOU decide….
Just when I thought everything was under control…….
Never been better!
What a weekend…….everyone working very hard in our own little ways to gloss over the fact that Big Swifty has had a complete nervy…….. all with the new Christmas track due out on Wednesday. (Don’t know whether I should be telling you this but it’s called: They’re Your Bloody Family!)
In the meantime, something crazy’s happened. Got to work and had 89 phone messages: all from Mandy in Sound Archives. Ring me KJ, ring me, bloody well ring, ring me you lazy….ring me KJ, you really are a piece of work…..etc, etc, etc…..
Now, Maaaandy’s not exactly my cup of tea (COARSE or what?) so I didn’t ring. Instead, I popped down to see her when I was good and ready…..
And what can I do for you Maaaandy on this – the already exciting first day of the traditional working week?
Look KJ….I’m flat out and, quite frankly, your workplace demeanour leaves EVERYONE cold but THIS arrived in the mail overnight. NO sender details. It was marked: For KJ’s Ears Only – I THOUGHT YOU MAY BE INTERESTED….
And why would I be interested Maaaandy?…do tell….
Because I opened the packet and found an old Edison wax thingo. I’ve even had a listen. Someone called The Ginger Man (ridiculous!) singing something facile called Come Back Big Shellabinger. It’s dated: 1944, Bletchley Park. Wherever that is!
Look Maaaandy, how many raves did you go to on the weekend?
None of your business KJ. Do ya want it?
Maybe…. And with that I grabbed the wax thingo, whacked it on the last remaining so-called preview Edison at the ABC, did the business…and passed out.
This is what I heard.
Come Back Big Shellabinger (click here)
Below is what The Ginger Man supposedly wrote on Crazy Saturday. I can’t think straight anymore. I’m just putting this out there…..(Maaaandy in the background: So what else is new KJ?)
Come Back Big Swifty…..
Big Swifty rode the highway
The only place called home
The desert stars a shining
Wherever he did roam
Big Swifty is a Mighty Man
Though carrying such ills
A flask of Jack upon his back
And a sugar bag of pills
Chorus: Come back, Big Swifty
Turn that car right around
Come back, Big Swifty
And the mates you have found…
Santa Claus is coming
But Big Swifty he’s not here
What’s Christmas without ‘im
and Jack ‘n a case of beer?
Come back, Big Swifty
And heal those awful wounds
Come back, Big Swifty
The Kudelski Nagra’s wound.
Come back, Big Swifty
Turn that car right around
Come back, Big Swifty
And the mates you have found.
What’s going on? Please help me; I am so, SO tired, Could this be the voice of the The Ginger Man? How COULD this be the voice of The Ginger Man? What makes Maaaandy tick? Who’s the sicko who sent the wax thingo to Sound Archives?……Anything else?
….just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the ‘website’ space – not necessary!
Comment of the Week
December 15th, 2008 at 4:41 pm
Mr Swifty has issued a statement, which he’d like me to convey to you all, so here goes:
Ahem
Where the bloody hell did that came from?!
And where’s that bloody pizza!?”
Ummm, I don’t think that last bit was supposed to be there.
Thanks
Rebecca
PA to the Stars
December 15th, 2008 at 5:12 pm
It’s not good for passengers on an International Airliner to see a grown man cry into his absinthe.
I tried to hide the tears behind my Trinity muffler, but the tide could not be turned.
What turncoat has done this?
Turning is not unusual in my profession. It’s rather amoral.
There are, however, limits.
When Radio Australia used its Qantas link to play this item, I was in a cheerful, even joyous mood having sold Duck boots to half of my fellow travellers and Oyster watches to the rest.
It came on, and the world stopped for me.
I was not in a luxury postmodern airplane, but over the Channel with Gross Schnellberger by my side. As in G for George.
Remember, GS, I told him. The Hun’s no man’s fool. Have your got your pack ready?
Relax, old boy. I’ve done a check. Absinthe, emergency bottle, absinthe antidote bottle – all present and correct.
I know it’s not Armistice Day, but how could I forget that comrade?
His crazy beard, his medallion of Croix de Guerre, his imitations of Vera Lynn.
His lovely wife with whom I spent many sweet hours at Cannes undercover until she became pregnant and migrated to Australia with the fervent ambition that the child would become a Sound Recordist or Musician.
GS never came back.
But I feel his genes liveth evermore Down Under.
The accelerative thrust of technology – as Toffler puts it – has placed us in a new world of DNA.
Where will that dark path lead us?
I remember that Gross Shellabinger, code name, when on mission had extraordinarily small pupils…
December 15th, 2008 at 5:45 pm
Anything special you’d like for Christmas Big Swifty?
Meanwhile, you must be going mad KJ – that voice CANNOT be that of The Ginger Man. It is my great-great-grandfather……
KJ: Greek and loving it…….and what may have your great-great-papa done for a quid? In-flight safety for the Hindenburg?
December 15th, 2008 at 5:54 pm
Mr Swifty has cooled down a bit. He has now released a FORMAL statement which he asked me to convey to you all, so here goes!
Ahem
‘What the…….!”
Thanks
Rebecca
PA at large.
December 15th, 2008 at 6:07 pm
KJ,
May I suggest Navajo Code Talkers to assist here?
December 15th, 2008 at 6:25 pm
Dear Megsy….you never cease to amaze! First bronze medallions and now Navajo Code Talkers! You must be very well travelled….perhaps you could provide a little more information on what these intriguing Navajo Code Talkers may have to contribute?
God Bless You Megsy….
December 15th, 2008 at 9:14 pm
I know that I have landed. I am horizontal and alive.
There is a grape leaf on my chest.
I am in The Green Zone.
December 15th, 2008 at 11:19 pm
Something’s not quite right…..
Sure, the bass is sitting right and tight, kicking with the kit, snare nice upfront, not overwhelming, not too sharp.
I can “see” the guitar, centre, about a foot behind the speakers, that’s good.
But the vox tracks….KJ’s sultry, heartfelt naked emotion…..
The meters all say A-OK, but the vox are sounding all wrong. Favouring the left side, definitely. Must be some kind of weird phase thing going on somewhere….this is going to be a pain.
I pull the master faders down.
Silence in the studio is not like silence elsewhere: it’s manufactured, false.
Imagine standing in the middle of Tokyo with the sound turned off.
It’s just gonna take time, that’s all. It’s not magic.
Nothing is!
Magic’s not magic, just a marvellously finessed and performed technical feat, beautifuly designed so as to exploit the human condition, with the singular agenda of providing joy/wonder etc.
And that’s the magic of it.
So too with mixing.
KJ’s vocals will just take more time, budgets be damned!
The Aero silently acccomodates as I lean back to ponder the situation.
Green lights flash, red lights flicker, meters bounce gleefully – all about me the silent light show of racked equipment blings in beautiful sync…. Christmas has nothing on this place!
All this stuff….all these lights…they’re all telling me something, unashamedly pushing their own little bright-sized barrows, giving me information, more and more information, and I know exactly what it all means, all of it!
Before me lie more colourful buttons, knobs and faders than any man has ever counted. I’m sure it’s in the billions, arranged in neat rows, and I know exactly what each and every one of them does too. I can tweak, nudge, switch….I can control.
Sure, the mix ain’t quite right yet, but with all this magical stuff, it’s only a matter of time.
I mean, this is a control room, and I control exactly what goes on.
I control in the control room.
I am in control.
I am the controller, and I control the stuff.
It’s all about controlling and being in control.
Which I am, in control…it’s all about who’s in control….controlling the controller….control..
Then it hit me like a miss-placed mute assign at a Deep Purple concert…..
Of course…it was all too easy….too easy to hussle past the press at Mascot, too easy to wangle the DEFAT representative into paying my dry-cleaning bill (shoulda smelt a rat right there, damn it!), too easy to find my man and procure a fresh batch of Oyster Perpetuals!
I…..had…been…played.
To what cause or purpose, I had no idea..yet.
But that track just “turning up”…….could the ABC be part of all this!!!?!!?!
Hell, I even took the government issue bourbon and analgesics like a class A1 chump.
I wearily eye the diplomatic satchel that all my goodies came in, and, sadly, tip the remaining “sustenance” into the bin.
At least the bag might come in useful some day.
Hell man, pull yourself together. There’s a solid gold sure thing hit single to mix, a deadline to make, and, above all else, you’re a pretty much fully paid member of the Worldwide Guild of Legendary Rock Producers’ and Hangers-On – you have a REPUTATION to uphold!
I fondly fondle my thick, heavy, double rhodium plated neck-chain and resolve to pull the faders down and start again: intrigue will have to just wait, for art is of the moment.
I recall my mother’s last words as she left me on the wrong side of the tracks so many hangovers ago.
Swifty she rasped as she placed the chain around my neck, this was your fathers. Here. You have it.
At least I think that’s what she said. I was only five, the memory is a little hazy. But I do remember never seeing her again.
And her seemingly unquenchable appetite for crystalised ginger, always with that far away look, that melancholy countenance….
I begin twiddling knobs while fondling my chain.
Suddenly, inexplicably, the chain breaks, a small tightly rolled piece of paper poking out from the single hollow and now broken link.
Hmmm….
Well…..
Ok, I’ll look.
There’s a phone number.
And there’s the phone.
Hmmm…
I punch in the numbers, there’s a lot of crackling, an overseas ring tone…..
Click…..tribal drumming!
Oh, answering machine.
Hello and welcome to the International Guild of Navajo Code Talkers and Associated Mumbo-Jumbo-ers. We’re sorry, but no-one is available to take your call right now, but if youd like to leave a short code after the beep, we’ll get back to you as soon as we can….
Hesitantly, nervously, I whisper:
“The black swan walks east when the purple rain, purple rain…..”
BS
December 16th, 2008 at 6:59 am
Oh Big Swifty, it’s so great to have the man I met in the cut-price analgesic’s aisle at Aldis (what now seems like a lifetime ago) BACK!
Maaaandy from Sound Archives was at it again late yesterday. Ring Ring:
So EXACTLY what is he sweetheart? Aggressive-passive?….polar-bi?…….up himself for the rent?
Do you know what Big Swifty? I didn’t even dignify Maaaandy with a response…..just slammed down the phone and made an ACCURATE diary note of the call.
Then….Gwennie (mum) rang.
Just be careful KJ….those MUSOS!
Gwennie, Big Swifty’s SO together…..so much so, he once told me he’s a certified aircraft controller……
And KJ, if this recording thing doesn’t work out……do you think Big Swifty would prefer to control the airspace around Sydney or Leeton?
LEETON Gwennie – NO contest!
That’s good enough for me KJ…. Good enough for me!
******And Big Swifty, please don’t get yourself worked up about the scary voice on the Edison wax thingo mystery. The main game at present is for you to bring in and LAND ‘They’re Your Bloody Family’.
Imagine this….KJ is in charge of the cabin. She wears well a cute little Qantas (new issue) attendant’s jumpsuit….she’s laughing, flipping trays into place, securing seatlbelts (her favorite job…) and then she presses the ‘prepare for landing tape’.
…..What a hoot….Jesus I could do with a root!
Oops, ladies and gentlemen……
KJ
December 16th, 2008 at 7:57 am
I KNOW that voice……
It’s the bloke who used to get on the loud hailer in Pine Avenue during the pre-Xmas ‘ Shop Local’ campaign.
December 16th, 2008 at 8:01 am
KJ ………DI-GISS-YAHZIE
BS………. DI-GISS-TSO
THE GINGER MAN………… MA-E LEI-AZ-JAH and HA-TALHI-TSO
December 16th, 2008 at 10:09 am
Decided to ration the grape leaf.
Stalk for lunch.
Where am I? What’s my name?
Mister Puple Rain?
December 16th, 2008 at 10:45 am
BS get on with it. This is pro-crasss-tination gone wild big boy. There is only one life, and be-jesus I’m not waiting around forever. It came to me this morning – Rudy the hairdresser was massaging my skull and I remembered his story. A controlling mother in Italy – Rudy the only child – and so never ever hungry for anything. However, HE came up to the mark and cut. Now do your magic. Mothers are not an excuse. Push it good. Still haven’t said what you want for Christmas.
KJ: Greek and loving it – in case you haven’t noticed we are dealing with a vulnerable artist at a critical juncture……in light of this, I’m appealing to everyone to show a bit of good, old-fashioned commonsense. If this is TOO much to ask……
December 16th, 2008 at 10:54 am
As a musicologist of some note I would approach this mystery gingerly. If this perplexing aural conundrum continues I will get out my cold spoon and take some DNA if you like. It definitely has a very Christmas sale two-dollar-shop spruikeresque nuance to it. It is an homage to something and therein lies the mystery. Maybe you’re all wrong and this is in fact Barney’s Gaelic Christmas tribute to Leeton’s arts community. He lives down the road: I will ask him next time I see him in Woolies. Play it backwards and I bet there is a satanic reference to Jaffas in there somewhere.
Feeling Leeton
Dimentagon
December 16th, 2008 at 11:05 am
KJ,
What’s happening here? First Big Swifty, then The Ginger Man go AWOL.
I have done my own searches at Neurofen discount counters all over the City.
I have had to seek solace with these freedom fighters from the musical world.
http://au.youtube.com/watch?v=Us-TVg40ExM
December 16th, 2008 at 11:18 am
Hello Mr Dimentagon – Yet AGAIN, I’ll give you some local knowledge of the HIGHEST ORDER. Barney wouldn’t do that, he just WOULDN’T! I’ve known him since I was a child when he asked Hec whether he could park his caravan in our backyard just till he got things sorted. He stayed for 16 months until Hec decided he’d had a gutful. We had to pretend that a team of landscapers were coming in to ‘do’ our backyard (rice farm theme: paddy ponds, decorative dethridge wheels, superphosphate borders) to get Barney moving. EVERYONE, including Barney, knew it wasn’t true. Years later, I saw him in Mountford Park at Carols By Candlelight. He just winked and said: Lucky enough to keep your water allotment for that rice KJ?
December 16th, 2008 at 11:43 am
Could there be a conspiracy here to prevent this Yuletide production?
A sinister note entered this tranquil place with the arrival of Professor Farzenheim and his Manopause and Hill of Beans Phenomenon theories.
Sounds very Bletchley to me.
All we need is Rockfist Rogan or Biggles to confuse us further.
Where is The Ginger Man? Does anybody know? Does anybody care?
I have decided to have a nice hot bath and reflect upon Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Jane knew about these things.
December 16th, 2008 at 11:50 am
Needs salt or some dressing.
December 16th, 2008 at 2:15 pm
Lemon juice.
December 16th, 2008 at 3:20 pm
Everything is green! Why is everything green?
If I am in a Green Zone, which one am I in?
December 16th, 2008 at 4:07 pm
Message to The Ginger Man:
Nin hokeh bi–kheh a-na-ih-la
Ta-al-tso-go na-he-seel-kai
Nih-bi-kah-gi do tah kah-gi
Tsi-di-da-an-ne ne-tay-yah
Yeh-wol-ye hi-he-a-din
Bletchley Park na-ha-tah-ta-ba-hogan
Say na-e-lahi hane-al-neh
“BS gloe-ih-dot-sahi
KJ ho-nez-cla
Xmas song bi-yah tah-ni-des-tanhi.
Ah-hi-di-dail RN. Le-eh-gade!”
December 16th, 2008 at 6:20 pm
Am I in Greenland ?
December 16th, 2008 at 9:57 pm
There’s a bit of paper in my fob. Thanks God, I’ll know my identity at last…..
What’s it say ?
It’s dark in here….DARK GREEN.
Can’t read..
I’ll try to read as I munch a bit o’ grape leaf.. Might as well be in Navajo Code.
Here it is from the pale light reflected from the eyes of an approaching rat…It’s green too..
Mark your calendars for next year…
the 8th annual Johnny Keenan Banjo Festival
24 – 27 Setpember 2009!
Setpember? Jesus, am I illiterate?
My God, am I Irish?
Amn’t I Mr Keenan?
Why is everything so bloody green?
I am in the Green Zone. But which one?
Ground control to Major Keenan….Ground control to Major Keenan…
Turn off your amps and turn your Banjo Tuner on…
Why is everything so bloody green?
December 17th, 2008 at 6:12 am
Hello there – I can be of service! Don’t know whether I’ll get into trouble for telling you this but, when Mr J. Shier was MD, I was directed to put together a Navajo Code Talkers’ training capsule for ABC OS correspondents……..
The message to The Ginger Man is The Marines’ Hymn….with extras at the end including ’sick weasel’ and ‘dig in RN’.
The Marines’ Hymn is one of the most recognisable tunes in history. In Australia, it is perhaps best-known for its adaptation as the Adelaide Crows club song.
Merry Xmas from everyone at the ABC Training.
December 17th, 2008 at 6:20 am
KJ
May I suggest The Ginger Man is colour blind. Poor dear – he’s seeing RED, not green. Now I wonder how that changes things?
December 17th, 2008 at 6:25 am
AL-TSAN-AH-BAHN A-NAH-NE-DZIN KAY-YAH
December 17th, 2008 at 6:39 am
Dear Megsy……Quite, but it’s the Green ZONE thingo that really worries me. So….I rang Peter Cundall…
Hello Pete, I know you’ve retired but how many Green Zones are there in the world?
Gee, KJ not counting the land grabs that were – and still are – the substantial acreages around royal residences worldwide, I’d say about 3498043567 repeater.
Thanks Pete.
That’s OK KJ. By the way do you like my telly promo?
The one where you say something like: For me, everyday is like a pure merino jumper….value-added?
That’s the one!
I like it very much Pete. See ya.
December 17th, 2008 at 11:06 am
Grape leaf breakfast. All gone in one feast after restless night. Gone, gone, gone.
Why is everything so green?
What’s that happening behind THE GREEN DOOR?
It’s a song, isn’t it?
Doors, doors, doors. There must be doors.
The Doors.
Hut
Hut
Hut ho hee up
Hut
Hut
Hut ho hee up
Hut
Hut
Hut ho hee up
Comp’nee
Halt.
It’s all over!
The war is over!
It’s all over
The war is over!
Where’s that naked Indian who was here in the night?
Was he a Navajo?
Remember the code, the code, the code.
What did the Naked Navajo say? Nin hokeh bi–kheh a-na-ih-la
Ta-al-tso-go na-he-seel-kai
Nih-bi-kah-gi do tah kah-gi
Tsi-di-da-an-ne ne-tay-yah
Yeh-wol-ye hi-he-a-din
Bletchley Park na-ha-tah-ta-ba-hogan.
What’s Bletchley? Where’s their gig. Brother ?
Five to one baby
One in five
No one here gets out alive
You get yours baby
I’ll get mine
Gonna make it baby
If we try.
I need sunglasses to protect me from The Green. I always wear sunglasses. Yes, I think the eyes have it, Gecko eyes.
Who has cut my long hair overnight? The naked Indian?
He must have come through the Door. The Green Door. The DOORS.
What did the naked Indian call me? Jay? Jason? James?
Where are my sunglasses? Why is everything so bloody green?
That’s it. Jim.I am Jim Maurie. Jim Maurinson. No, what’s the Naked Navajo say?
Jim Mooreson. No, Morrison.
I am JIM MORRISON !
Where’s my sunglasses? Why is everything so bloody green?
Hut
Hut
Hut ho hee up