“Sod the wine, I want to suck on the writing. This man White is an instinctive writer, bloody rare to find one who actually pulls it off, as in still gets a meaning across with concision. Sharp arbitrage of speed and risk, closest thing I can think of to Cicero’s ‘motus continuum animi.’

Probably takes a drink or two to connect like that: he literally paints his senses on the page.”

DBC Pierre (Vernon God Little, Ludmila’s Broken English, Lights Out In Wonderland ... Winner: Booker prize; Whitbread prize; Bollinger Wodehouse Everyman prize; James Joyce Award from the Literary & Historical Society of University College Dublin)





27 December 2015


I see the strangest things in Penaluna Place, whether I'm there intentionally or sucked in by the gravity lens that surrounds the Metropolitan pub. 

Last night I was led by a deep yearning for a Masterclass in Cool, as best supplied by Dave Graney and the MistLY - PUSH TO PLAY.  I climbed on my heels and went forth:

If one watches long enough, someone will come through a door ... in this case percussionist/drummer/keyboard-playing/songwriter/spouse/chanteuse Clare Moore ... Clare's from a line of Adelaide city publicans ... landlords whose dead-reliable rubbing strakes these knees of mine have nudged ... Juka Lester, anybody? Traitor's Gate?

... while David - I prefer to call him David - comes from Mount Gambier, a remote South Australian timber town which built its hospital inside the caldera of a dormant volcano

to be at the centre
to be at the scene
to be seen to care to be seen
to have a drink in your hand
to know the score
to flick the blood from your lapel
and yawn

two attentive young folk watch the band ... the music was like great aged muscat ... with a spritz of Steely Dan at their most pretzel lyrical and maybe some Boz Bewitched Bothered and Bewildered ... even Nancy Wilson/Tom Jobim dammit ... but it wasn't them it was them ... true cool and deadly ... brilliant original music

The Metropolitan Hotel was one of the first beautiful bluestone piles in Adelaide city to be properly fixed up ... my neighbour Colin Bond bought it and painstakingly put back its Victorian public house properness around 1980 ... the powers that were took instant dislike to the bright original colours he restored once he'd uncovered them after chipping a century of paint away ... long since, The Metro's exterior's been dulled back by some mob of faceless style police ... she's still perfect of heart, however ... a serious old Adelaide thirst emporium 

all the photographs above by Philip White

lyric by Dave Graney [Night of the Wolverines]

heart of Mount Gambier image below must be by God

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