Tag: nostalgia (page 2 of 2)

‘Space Invaders’ (1980)

Even if Player One’s ‘Space Invaders’ was the only song to have ever been written and produced in Australia, I’m pretty sure I’d still die a happy man. This stone-cold classic hit the charts in 1980 (although it was released in 1979), and has been ingrained in my consciousness ever since. The video for ‘Space Invaders’ is also very much of its time, complete with special effects intended (I think) to resemble light sabres, kooky little space invaders frog-marching across the screen and a whole stack of dry ice.

If you check out the track on Youtube (double bonus points for the 5:50 12″ remix), you’ll see a link to a bizarre (but touching – the author of the site has now passed away) web page devoted to interpretations of the lyrics to ‘Space Invaders’. Not that there’s a whole lot to interpret, actually. Sing this with me:

Space Invaders
Space Invaders
Space Invaders
Space Invaders
Space Invaders
Space Invaders
Space Invaders
Space Invaders
Space Invaders
Space Invaders
Space Invaders
Space Invaders ooooooooooh

Of course, there are more complicated lyrics to ponder. The following ‘explanation’, from the same page, should set even the vaguest of minds straight:

It’s a dark, sunken night,
I see another pale sunrise

(This probably refers to those crazy people who stayed up all night playing)

Surrounded by soldiers, glued to-the screens,

(Meaning all the other space invaders players in the arcade)

Hold back the invaders, their infernal machines.

(“Player One” is getting sick of the repeated gameplay and wants to stop but can’t. The Infernal Machines are the arcade cabnets (sic))

We fight to survive,
Running to stay alive
Our bodies aching and tired
There’s nowhere to hide
Our cover’s been blown away

(There are no more of those green base things to protect your laser, and everyone is tired from playing the game)

They’re closing in on me
Dark forces cold and unseen

(Nightime.)

Oh my hip pocket nerve, is aching again
I must go back in and fight it out to the end

(He is starting to ache from standing up and bent over playing Invaders)

Just though (sic) this would help.

Enlightening, what?

Equal parts late 1970s disco, pre-Bronski-Beat falsetto and Kraftwerk motorik chug, there’s something goofily brilliant about the whole thing, including a virtually two-bit song structure that makes me crave those early arcade games – Moon Patrol, Galaga and the rest.

Indeed, I’ll take my cheesy analysis one step further by stating that without ‘Space Invaders’ there would have been no ‘Great Southern Land’ (the sound-effect from which is very similar to one of the Space Invaders sounds).

But seriously, I just thought I’d post this number in honour of Invasion Day (previously known as Australia Day), because given the events of today in Canberra in connection with the Aboriginal Tent Embassy, the idea of invasion is clearly still very poignant.

Mother Russia

from siberia: the fisherman's cooling room
is a cave chinked out of a cliff of ice - there 
the fish lie swollen while the nomads chop wood
in the snow & while my foreign tongue gags 
on the names of lost cities & apartment 
buildings hazily appearing now through 
the window of my helicopter - as we circle 
the lights of nurry urengoy - hastily built 
sitting atop a field of natural gas - lots of it 
frozen within a red bottle by a stubbornly icy cork 

          (thus read my - hmmm
suspiciously poetic briefing crumpled grimly 
in my gravel-encrusted mitten) 

        "so you see 
chuck"  he breathed along the thousand mile 
cable connected to my alaskan telephone
"this is the place where only the gallant 
survive - where there is no turning back 
so if the going gets rough - "
                 
                 gahhrrr! 

"moonlight and vodka takes me away"
croons the one-time concert performer 
to an incomprehending audience of short 
time miners & oil riggers thawing in the bar
what else is there to do the alcohol slides like 
penguins from glaciers down throats & 
karloff's tears flow in buckets while the men 
sway from side to side now and then grunting 
as they discover the faces behind the frozen beards 
they worked with on that damned oil pipeline
 
the dream of a balalaika: slowly crushed 
beneath a timber truck o god i want to go 
home this place this place of deja vu it's
riddled with shanty towns & factories &
refineries & summer fun & dirt bikes & 
ballet & grizzly bears & snowy ideal resort
frozen lakes & oil derricks & aeroplanes
& national geographic photographers 
& helicopters & heads full of maps &
jigsaw names & red faces & hangovers
 
& a terrified memory of a young boy
crucified on a bare flat table wrapped 
in chunks of ice so his body will cool &
his pulse

                          slow

enabling the surgeon to get at his heart

This poem was first published in Typecast (1992).

Wireless

The tower was locked (its future being chained to the mast
     like a breeze crossed with water from the past tense (that
immense wall of sound’s collage (its anagram eye, loveless
     wireless) abstract but intact. Your childhood lies like party 
lines populated by ghosts (some Fenian, others pulled from 
     the CSIRO telephone directory. The first email (never sent
cced Gaia but bounced. So it goes … (that manual exchange 
     inside a powerhouse (a museum exhibit etched in charcoal
rides the lightning (killing composers, developing in still-life.
     Meanwhile, father’s crystal set gathers dust in a council tip.
The volume & tuning knobs had fallen off anyway, replaced 
     by one cent coins (also obsolescent. A smell it gave off when
“live” could trigger memories you never knew you had back
     then, in the then when events unfolded in a logical fashion,
proceeding to their happy ending, or a lesson (the Masonic
     Temple’s front yard littered with broken glass, dead weeds
(ah that crazy guy who ran screaming down the street (that
     joke about Oddfellows isn’t so funny now, in his aftermath,
the grey dawn of dead things screwed into the sky (that line
     of furrows from the ground wavered across his forehead, an
object of ridicule allowed one last laugh (surprised to end up 
     on someone’s thrown-away camera (your soul locked inside
a mangled memory chip (just an SD card away from rapture
     (or was it repatriation? as shards of laughter escaped from 
the abandoned sun memorial (a sound came out of the blue
     sky like, as if from nowhere (a disembodied voice he thought
he’d heard on the antique television set describing Vietnam 
     was God (turned out it was the government 

                                        (calling him up.