More than one in five Australians die of heart disease, which means that one member of the Fauves can expect to expire while clutching his chest in surprised disappointment. Indifferent bystanders watch on while thwarted paramedics minister resignedly to the stricken musician, reflecting on the irony of the title of the band’s 12th album.
“He’s trying to say something”, says a passer-by, crouching down and pressing a solicitous ear to the dying man’s parched lips. Most of the assembled have begun to drift away, but several ghoulish onlookers remain. “He said that he’s in the band”.
Explorers who didn’t find anything, the Fauves have ranged the Australian landscape for 31 years, searching fruitlessly for an inland sea where a weary middle-aged man might erect a deckchair and take the healing waters. They have released albums that have slipped down the backs of couches, been lost in the wash and left on the back seats of taxis. Long have journalists issued pro-forma three-star reviews before repairing to the second-hand music store to greedily hock their complimentary album, only to emerge indignant with less money than they spent on the parking meter.