My wife and I were honored to meet Denis a few years ago in Blackheath where we heard him deliver "Concreeto" and I can still hear those attending responding with "smooth and lovely!" I sang Denis my Portland's Working Waterfront" version of his old Woolloomooloo anti-urban renewal song. Here are some of my notes:
Across the Western Suburbs
In the early 1970's the inner city neighborhood of Woolloomooloo in Sidney, Australia, was threatened by massive urban renewal. The resistance by the residents; the cooperation gained from the building and trades union; the roles of the politicians, real estate speculators, and city planners; the battles with goon squads and with the police; is all effectively presented in the documentary film Woolloomooloo. Sydney poet Denis Kevans and Builders Laborers organizer Seamus Gill were in the thick of the fight and livened things up with such great songs as this one, patterned after the old sailors drinking song "All for Me Grog."
Oh, me name it is Fred, In Sydney born and bred, And the inner-city used to be my home, boys, But it's caused me heart to grieve For I've had to take me leave, Now across the Western Suburbs I must roam, boys.
Chorus:
Under concrete and glass, Sydney's disappearing fast; It's all gone for profit and for plunder; Though we really want to stay, They keep driving us away, Now across the Western suburbs we must wander.
Now where is me house, Me little terrace house? It's all gone for profit and for plunder, For the wreckers of the town Just came up and knocked it down; Now across the Western Suburbs we must wander. (CHO)
Before I even knew it, We were shifted to Mount Druitt, And the planners never gave me any say, boys; Now it really makes me weep, I am just at home to sleep For it takes me hours to get to work each day, boys. (CHO)
What's happened to the pub, Our little local pub, Where we used to have a drink when we were dry, boys? Now we can't get in the door For there's carpets on the floor, And you won't be served a beer without a tie, boys. (CHO)
Now I'm living in a box In the West Suburban blocks, And the place is nearly driving me to tears, boys; Poorly planned and badly built And it's mortgaged to the hilt, But they say it will be mine in forty years, boys. (CHO)
Now before the city's wrecked, Those developers must be decked, For it's plain to see they do not give a bugger; And we soon will see the day If those bandits have their way, We will all be driven out past Wagga Wagga.