THE LOWER NORTH SHORE LEDGER – SCANDALOUS EXPOSÉ
Circa 2026 – The Secrets They Tried to Drain Away
“CREMORNE: WHERE THE SCREECH OF PARROTS DROWNS OUT THE SCALE OF PIANOS”
By Our Special Correspondent
Cremorne. The name conjures images of leafy streets, gentle
harbour breezes, and an almost aggressive respectability. It is a suburb of grand Victorian terraces, impeccable gardens, and—according to local lore—more piano teachers per square inch than any other postcode in Australia. The air is perpetually filled with the tinkling of scales, the wafting of Chopin, and the determined trills of countless students attempting to master their Grade 5 exams.
For three of the world’s most famous women—who, by a bizarre twist of rental fate, all found themselves living within earshot of each other on the same prestigious stretch of Grasmere Road—Cremorne was a cacophony. A racket. A relentless assault on the senses that would test their patience, their sanity, and their plumbing.
Lady Gaga, Rihanna, and Catherine Zeta-Jones sat down with the Ledger to finally release the pent-up frustrations of their year in Sydney’s most musically overpopulated suburb. And before we proceed, Catherine Zeta-Jones has some thoughts about the suburb’s sonic landscape.
“Cremorne is too noisy,” she declares, her Welsh lilt sharp with indignation. “Do you know why? Because there are more piano teachers per square inch here than anywhere else on Earth. I have counted. I have done the research. I am not a mathematician, but I know torture when I hear it. From dawn until dusk, it’s scales. Scales! And not even good scales. It’s the sound of children being forced to practice against their will. I would rather listen to a cockatoo having a tantrum. At least that’s honest.”
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Catherine’s Crescendo Catastrophe
Catherine’s plumbing nightmare began during what should have been a moment of tranquillity. “I was attempting to meditate. A simple, ten-minute mindfulness exercise to centre myself before the onslaught of the day’s piano recitals. I lit a candle. I assumed the position. And then, from the walls, came a sound.”
She shudders. “A gurgle. A low, rhythmic, almost musical gurgle. It was synchronising with the piano scales from next door. I thought I was hallucinating. Then the gurgle became a cascade. The bathroom sink erupted—not with water, but with a brown, sludge-like substance that I can only describe as ‘the interior of a thousand years of Cremorne’s musical history.'”
The plumber—a grizzled veteran named Bruce—arrived and delivered his diagnosis. “It’s the main drain, love. Completely clogged with years of… well, everything. But look here.” He pointed to the vent pipe on the roof. “See those cockatoos? They’ve been dropping bottle caps, seeds, and what looks like a child’s recorder down there. They’re making music too. Just a different kind.”
Rihanna’s Rhythm Rebellion
Rihanna, resplendent in a jumpsuit that could fund a small nation’s plumbing infrastructure, lets out a knowing laugh. “Catherine’s story is charming. Mine was a duet from hell.” She describes the evening she was working on a new track, headphones on, lost in the creative process. “I take my headphones off to get some water, and I hear it. A thumping. A banging. A relentless, rhythmic percussion coming from my laundry room.”
She leans forward. “I open the door. The washing machine is shaking violently. Water is spewing from the hose connection. But the sound—the sound was a beat. It was banging in perfect time with the piano scales from the house next door. The water hammer in my pipes was literally keeping tempo with a nine-year-old practising ‘Für Elise.’ The plumber—a man named Kev who had clearly given up on life—said, ‘The king parrots, love. They’ve been chewing the rubber seals on your outdoor tap. The pressure’s all over the place. They’re not destroying. They’re composing.'”
Gaga’s Glissando of Grief
Lady Gaga, wearing an ensemble that appears to have been inspired by a broken flute, speaks with operatic gravity. “Mine was not plumbing. It was a collaboration.” She describes the afternoon she was writing a new ballad at her grand piano. “I was in the zone. The melody was flowing. And then, the floor drain in my kitchen began to sing.”
Not metaphorically. Literally. “It was emitting a low, mournful hum in perfect harmony with the piano teacher’s scales from across the street. The water in the pipes was vibrating at a specific frequency, creating a resonance that turned my kitchen into a instrument. The plumber—a surprisingly philosophical man named Dazza—arrived and said, ‘The rosellas, miss. They’ve been dropping seeds and twigs into the downpipes. They’re creating blockages that change the water flow. It’s like they’re tuning your pipes. They’re musicians, these birds.'”
The Feathered Philharmonics of Cremorne
One third of this auditory nightmare can be attributed to a single, terrifying truth: the parrots of Cremorne are not merely birds. They are a full-blown orchestra with a vendetta, a sophisticated understanding of acoustics, and a pathological hatred of quiet.
“The cockatoos are the percussion section,” Catherine declares, her voice rising. “They don’t just damage things. They create rhythm. I watched one land on my metal gutter and tap-tap-tap with its beak for twenty minutes straight. It was playing a drum solo. The piano teacher next door started playing along. They were jamming. I was trapped in a bird-human musical collaboration I never asked for.”
Rihanna nods vigorously. “The sulphur-crested ones are the brass section. They have that piercing screech that cuts through everything. One of them sat on my balcony railing and screamed a single note for forty-five minutes. It was a B-flat. A very flat, very aggressive B-flat. The piano teacher across the street started tuning to it. The bird was setting the pitch for the entire neighbourhood.”
But it was the king parrot and the rosella that Gaga found most disturbing. “The king parrot is too beautiful. It looks like a stained-glass window come to life. But it has a specific obsession with creating echoes. It drops things into drainpipes just to hear the sound of them falling. The plumber told me they do it for entertainment. They’re bored. And when they’re bored, they compose. The rosella—the little blue-cheeked one—is the conductor. It sits on the power lines and watches everything, coordinating the chaos.”
The Sisterhood of the Screech
The three women formed a support group they called “The Cremorne Cacophony Collective.” They shared recordings of bird-induced pipe sounds, commiserated over the constant noise, and plotted their revenge.
“We learned the orchestral hierarchy,” says Rihanna, now an unwilling expert in avian acoustics. “Cockatoo is percussion. King parrot is special effects. Rosella is the conductor. They’re making a symphony of destruction, and we’re the unwilling audience.”
Their collective breaking point came during a single, hellish afternoon. Catherine’s sink erupted. Rihanna’s washing machine flooded. Gaga’s floor drain sang a mournful dirge. The piano teachers on all sides played louder in response.
“We all called the same emergency plumber,” Catherine recalls, her voice trembling. “He arrived with three vans and a set of earplugs. He fixed us all. And as he left, a cockatoo landed on his van and started tapping out a rhythm on the roof. He didn’t even react. He just drove away, defeated.”
The Final Crescendo
Rihanna grins, shaking her head. “Cremorne taught me that you can have everything—fame, fortune, a Grammy collection—but you cannot silence a cockatoo with a drum solo. Would I do it again? For those harbour views?” She pauses. “Probably. I’d just invest in soundproofing. And earplugs. And a plumber on retainer.”
Gaga raises her champagne glass—which, for reasons unexplained, is filled with something that gurgles. “Cremorne was a symphony. A terrifying, waterlogged, beaked symphony. I emerged stronger, more creative, and deeply suspicious of birds.”
Catherine raises her glass with a defiant cry. “To Cremorne! The noisiest, wettest, most musically traumatised suburb in Australia! I am against piano teachers, generally speaking, but Cremorne?” She grins. “I am strongly in favour of never hearing scales again!”