In a tiny inner city pub the amps were being stacked;
Leads were getting wound up; it was full of pissed ANZACS;
"Got no more gigs for Tuesday nights," said the barman to the Star,
"We're putting pockies in the lounge, and strippers in the bar."

The Star, he raised his finger and said, "Fuck this fucking hole!"
But to his faithful roadie he said, "It's the death of rock and roll.
There ain't a single place that's left to play amplified guitar -
Every place is serving long blacks or has become a Tapas bar."

His dirty denim jacket was gaffered and turning black;
Hair was missing on his forehead, but it reached right down his back.
"I don't blame that barman bastard," he told his roadie - "Hey, fuck no:
I blame all those faggot wankers who are playing this techno.

`Brothers can work it out' - get fucked. That can kiss my rotting arse.
Work out what happened to real music is what I'd like to ask.
Everything is all machine, run with MIDI and A- DAT;
But all they do is go ping ping ping, like a truck that's backing back.

Who the fuck are the Chemical Brothers, that they now call the shots?
Goldie is the name of a light beer, Elastica holds up socks."
The roadie sat there silent next to the ejaculating Star.
"What the fucking point of drum 'n' bass if no one can play guitar?"

"And have you seen those fucking clubbers with their peroxided dreads,
Dressed up in fucking Addidas like fucking fucked fuck heads?
I wouldn't drop a tab of E if you fucking paid me man -
I've got the guts for L.S.D; and the only jungle I know was 'Nam."

His roadie sat, still silent, but then he finally began to speak:
"Actually, Star, I maybe should have told you this last week,
But I've scored a job as D.J. at the latest techno club.
I'm sick of working with a loser. See ya later, bub."

Well, the roadie owned the p.a. and the roadie owned the ute
And the roadie told Star to get right out or he'd bash one up his chute.
And there on that cold freeway Star walked along alone -
Of course, he been kicked out half way between emergency telephones.

"Fuck youse all," said Star aloud in the emergency stopping lane,
"To quote from the chick Juliet, Hey, what's in a name?
A good song's just a good song, just the same as long ago;
But dress it up in something new, and suddenly you're Picasso,

Every white balled Pommy cunt thinks that you are so hip -
Read N.M.E. from ten years ago, and there's all the same dickslip;
Prodigy are just the band who are getting it this year -
Rolling Stone's got no more cred than fucking New Idea."

Star's anguished voice rose in grief as he cried unto the moon:
"In the end, when all is said, a tune's just a fucking tune."
Star played his amp far too loud - his hearing was sort of gone,
So he never heard the grinding squeal as the truckie put the brakes on.

Twenty six of that road train's wheels played a tune upon his head.
"He just wandered into the traffic," the distraught diver said.
The cops had seen it all before; the ambo's washed the freeway clean -
There's no contest when you put a man up against a machine.