DAVE GRANEY goes in search of a mythical box of fast food – the kind Elvis would be proud of – while on tour in Adelaide.

Last time we played in Adelaide – myself, Clare Moore and the Lurid Yellow Mist – we were in a tent down by the river. I’m into Chris Farley, but I don't think many other people are, so I kept this thought to myself … until now. Farley played a life coach on Saturday Night Live, who proudly proclaimed he, “LIVED IN A VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER!” to everybody he was trying to help up out of the gutter. The fact he was still living “IN A VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER” never dampened his enthusiasm. If ever I see an old clip of him it cracks me up when he explodes with that routine. Chris died in a hotel room where he’d been partying for several days until his body gave up. It blasted through his mind and was found there, like an old balloon, one day by the irrelevant authorities. We know better now, we have Dr Phil.

I ran into an old friend from the punk rock wars in Coffs Harbour last year. He's a Sydney cat but we pass each other now and again over the years. Its a light thing, low maintenance, that's how I like it with friends. Anyway, he came out of the swamp, literally, to a gig in the middle of winter in that grim retirement camp of a town. (The streets are full of tiny investment motels in which you can see the owners, sad retired fellows staring at a flat monitor in the evening gloom).

Yes, my friend turned up at the Wednesday night show and we shared many easy laughs after hours. Especially the news that he was living in a van down by the river in an area called “The Gallows”. I stowed my gear away and went off with him and his girlfriend to a nearby house where we ate burritos and drink tea. They also had a couple of skinny joints. We spoke of Arthur Lee and Roky Erickson, of friends with liver damage, and of madness, drugs and booze.

“There were lots of circus type people about. Not dodgy, rootless and toothless strongmen and the like, more your modern educated variety. Bright young things with degrees in unicycle tricks.”

While I was at the gig, the sound man had been playing Howlin’ Wolf. It sounded great but it was the London Howlin’ Wolf sessions where he is backed by all the Limey blues-rock royalty and Eric Clapton tells him how to play 'Little Red Rooster'. My friend had commented that it sounded too slick but you could still hear the madness in the Wolf’s voice. I was so happy to be gifted with such a sophisticated and easy opinion. Someone in the room knew stuff, they had drank deeply of real dark and tonal music, the brandy of the damned. Bathtub stuff! And I knew what they were talking about. We laughed like friends.

I digress, last time I was in Adelaide I myself was in a tent down by the river. There were lots of circus type people about. Not dodgy, rootless and toothless strongmen and the like, more your modern educated variety. Bright young things with degrees in unicycle tricks. I wanted a taste of the other side of Adelaide. The washed-out blue collar side of town. I had heard of a place where they sold a dish called an “AB Box” and I wanted one. I had been told it was originally called an “Abortion” and that political correctness had, once again, gone mad.

We got to the joint and parked Miles Davis-style: illegally, but right out front. A guy was asleep in his chair with his arse hanging out into the traffic. I mean his arse too. He was probably dreaming of being on the can.

There was a pack of kids hovering around and sticking forks into a giant AB. They were all in skinny jeans, but the giant box – yiros meat covered in chilli sauce and yoghurt on top of a vast bed of chips – was going somewhere. The hollow legs of youth, I guess. We ordered our food in the brightly lit room and enjoyed the carnival that was in front of us. A really drunk man carrying a Central Districts holdall bag was sitting and eating in giant gulps. Swaying all the while. Suddenly we were all ordered out as a fire started. The Central’s player saved the day when he wandered around and put his drunken two cents worth in. Whatever he did or said, it galvanised the crew of cooks into proper action and normal service was soon resumed. We eventually got our food and sat down to eat. It was a mess o’ food right there! Elvis would have loved this place. Moby would have been revolted.

We were happy to be rollin’ with E and Miles. As we drove off we saw the Centrals payer slumped in his chair on the footpath next to the man with his arse to the world – shittin’ on the world! Another man was throwing up. Another table of young boys and girls were tucking into a giant AB. With the demise of the floater I suggest the AB for that late night evil mess o’ Adelaide grub.

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Dave Graney started to write songs in the post-punk period when ideology and self expression and mythology were all screwed up and meeting head on. He currently plies his trade in the Lurid Yellow Mist and recently released a solo album, Knock Yourself Out.