Words by Riley Fitzgerald
Graphic by Charles Curse

A friend of mine recently sent me a link to the music of Charles Curse. “It’s Greg Charles,” he said, “this early-2000s guy with his own band—basically like Bobby from that era.” He shared a song called ‘The King of Ipswich’.

Charles Curse Tells the Story of a City—and a Man

‘The King of Ipswich’ captures the bitter edge many aging Australian outsiders must be feeling right now. The song centers on a once-tough punk, now reflecting on cultural collapse, lost identity, and friends who didn’t make it. Curse paints scenes with specific, lived-in detail—people, places, fractured moments that feel personal and raw.

And the setting—Ipswich, Queensland—makes perfect sense. Once a serious contender to be a state capital, Ipswich had ambition. Infrastructure. Even a zoo. But it never happened. Brisbane rose, Ipswich faded. As a kid, I caught glimpses of that old world of grandeur, and even now it lingers over the city. Ipswich invites the idea it is city that used to be better.

Today, Ipswich is a refuge for many looking to escape the rising rents and house prices of Queensland’s capital city Brisbane. I speculate The King of Ipswich faces a ripple effect. One pushing those already on Ipswich’s fringes even further out of the city. Curse gives voice to those living in an economic squeeze.

His words aren’t polished—they’re real. The “King” becomes a symbol of resistance and decay. He’s a man tough enough to “rip the moon from the sky” but can’t live in a modern city. Like Shakespeare‘s King Lear, he rants madly against a storm yet is helpless in the face of forces larger and more powerful than himself.

Language and Landscape? Offensive, But Real

Let’s talk about the language of this album. It’s brutal. Relentless. And yes—words like “c***” do little to advance the cause of women. But they do reflect the real speech of ex-prisoners, teenagers, young adults, and the homeless. It’s how people in many spaces really do speak.

Politeness can be a form of erasure.

The Forgotten Fringe of Australian Identity

Outsider music—like Curse’s Limbo Lagoon project—doesn’t chase trends or seek validation. It captures a version of Australia that rarely makes it to the spotlight, unless parodied from a distance in standup comedy or on television series such as Kath & Kim.

It’s convenient to laugh at others. To make light of a “bogan” or a burnout. Easier still to feel morally superior.

But people such as The King of Ipswich live in the same country, under the same systems. The cultural myth of a free and equal Australia often ignores the reality of many here.

Poverty—when it’s not aestheticized—grinds people down to the inconvenient places and conditions in which we find them.

Charles Curse Isn’t Comfort Listening

Charles Curse’s album offers a striking reflection on personal and societal dynamics. Through ‘Cancel Me’, he flips the mirror back onto the listener, urging self-examination. Like Sesame Street’s Cookie Monster or Eminem‘s Slim Shady, he critiques behaviors by embodying them. He highlights, through exaggeration, what we should avoid.

His album dives deeper into the challenges of urban life and economic pressure. It reveals the alluring myth of success the draws many to a city often masks its hidden struggles. Charles Curse’s storytelling exposes these patterns while resisting invisibility. He is part of a local culture fighting not to be forgotten.

The ‘King of Ipswich’ embodies traits we can admire in masculinity. He’s mentally tough and ready to act in an instant, perhaps he even has some of the noble qualities of the upright man Confucius and Socrates idealized. Yet, caught up in a broader system, he’s just as helpless as a child in William Blake’s Satanic Mill.