shane maloney presents death in brunswick
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| Death in Brunswick | Back in the late seventies, I was a booking agent for rock bands. Off duty, I had an occasional tipple with a barfly named Boyd Oxlade. When pub rock was killed by stand-up comedy, I changed jobs, bought a house in Brunswick and gave up tippling with barflies.
Then along came Death in Brunswick - first the novel, then the film. Oxlade had been hiding his light under a stubby. His story grabbed me immediately. Not only was it deeply rooted in my dreaming - the vast untamed wilderness to the north of the Fitz-Carlton ghetto, between the majestic Merri Creek and the awe-inspiring Tullamarine Freeway, but there was something eerily familiar about his protagonist, a screwup minion in a sticky carpet rock palace.
Ever since, Death in Brunswick has been following me around. It's mainstay actors - John Clarke, Deborah Kennedy and Sam Neill - starred in the telemovies of my novels, the most recent of which opens in Coburg Cemetery where Carl and Dave buried Mustafa. And I swear I saw Gustav Mahler down the local the other night. Trying to get a gig, probably.
Shane Maloney, 2007
Death in Brunswick
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