I got eyes in my backside
That see electric tomatoes
Hello is that SpecSavers?
"Yes, how can I help you?
Well..... I was wonderig if you can help me. I was wanting a pair of custom made glasses with a specific lens type........
There are children in washrooms
Holding hands with a queen
A back-up role for one Mr G.Glitter.pdf ??
But I enjoyed that little 'trip' back in time.. Fanx.
The 1980's/90's Australian band The Church had a lot of songs that didn't really make any sense lyrically, or at least when you listened to them:
For example
Our instruments have no way of measuring this feeling
Can never cut below the floor, or penetrate the ceiling.
In the space between our houses, some bones have been discovered,
But our procession lurches on, as if we had recovered.
Draconian winter unforetold.
One solar day, suddenly you're old.
Your little envelope just makes me cold,
Makes destination start to unfold.
Our documents are useless, or forged beyond believing.
Page forty-seven is unsigned, I need it by this evening.
In the space between our cities, a storm is slowly forming.
Something eating up our days, I feel it every morning.
Destination, destination.
It's not a religion, it's just a technique.
It's just a way of making you speak.
Distance and speed have left us too weak,
And destination looks kind of bleak.
Our elements are burned out, our beasts have been mistreated.
I tell you it's the only way we'll get this road completed.
In the space between our bodies, the air has grown small fingers.
Just one caress, you're powerless, like all those clapped-out swingers.
Destination, destination.
They're still at it, and noone's to this day succeeded in fully getting Syd's lyrics down. A very irregular head, indeed. Or maybe not, as these lyrics are easily (to me) attributed to some girlfriend situation in Syd's post-Floyd life. There's noone like Syd in the history of rock, not even close. Well, Marc Bolan looks a bit like him, but that's another story.
You would hold your head up high
You even try
You would hold another hand:
Oh understand!
They even see me under call
We under all,
We awful, awful, crawl
To hear my hour
Come see me cry...
Just searching you even try
I can make you smile
If it's there will you go there too?
When I live I die!
They even see me under call
We under all, we awful, awful, crawl
Because of you, to see me be.
[Very garbled here....you can make out "Tell me, Tell me, Tell me Yippee" and "Heavily Spaced"]
I'm spinning out spinning out
Don't wanna know what this is all about
Trancing baby like we don't exist
Lay around and do the pretzel twist
Because I like it
When we were laughing
The pressure lifted
And we went dancing
Goodnight dreamtime transform
She can't hold on no more
Goodnight dreamtime transform
She can't take it no more
I'm flippin' out flipping out
Everyone I know is shipping out
I know some tables that are spreading their legs
And several chickens who are boiling their eggs
You know I like it
When we were laughing
The pressure lifted
And we went dancing
Goodnight dreamtime transform
She can't take it no more
Goodnight dreamtime transform
She can't take it no more
Because I like it
When we were laughing
The pressure lifted
And we went dancing
Goodnight dreamtime transform
She can't hold on no more
Goodnight dreamtime transform
She can't take it no more
theracer120 wrote:The 1980's/90's Australian band The Church had a lot of songs that didn't really make any sense lyrically, or at least when you listened to them:
For example
Our instruments have no way of measuring this feeling
Can never cut below the floor, or penetrate the ceiling.
In the space between our houses, some bones have been discovered,
But our procession lurches on, as if we had recovered.
Draconian winter unforetold.
One solar day, suddenly you're old.
Your little envelope just makes me cold,
Makes destination start to unfold.
Our documents are useless, or forged beyond believing.
Page forty-seven is unsigned, I need it by this evening.
In the space between our cities, a storm is slowly forming.
Something eating up our days, I feel it every morning.
Destination, destination.
It's not a religion, it's just a technique.
It's just a way of making you speak.
Distance and speed have left us too weak,
And destination looks kind of bleak.
Our elements are burned out, our beasts have been mistreated.
I tell you it's the only way we'll get this road completed.
In the space between our bodies, the air has grown small fingers.
Just one caress, you're powerless, like all those clapped-out swingers.
Destination, destination.
That's rather brilliant, actually.
Just one caress, you're powerless, like all those clapped-out swingers.
may I say, oh baby, that it is found on another plane?
Yes I can creep into cupboards, sleep in the hall
your stars - my stars, a simple cock bar's
only an impulse - pie in the sky
mumble listen dolly
drift over your mind-holly
creep into bed when your head's on the ground
she held the torch on the porch,
she winked an eye
Reason it is written on the brambles
stranded on the spikes - my blood red, oh listen:
remember those times I could call
through the clear day
time - and you'd be there...
braver and braver, a handkerchief waver
the louder your lips to a loudhailer
growing together, they're good of each other
no wondering, stumbling, fumbling
rumbling, minds shot together,
our minds shot together...
So equally over a valley, a hill
wood on quarry stood, each of us crying
a velvet curtain of gray
mark the blanket where sparrows play
and the trees by the waving corn stranded
my legs move the last empty inches to you
the softness, the warmth from the weather in suspense
mock to a grog - the star a white chalk
minds shut together, our minds shut together...
It is obvious
may I say, oh baby, that it is found on another plane?
Obvious. It's LOVE. The rest is poetic vaxing of the romantic/erotic/pornographic kind.
Ozzy wrote:Is it the end, my friend?
Satan's coming 'round the bend
People running 'cause they're scared
The people better go and beware!
No, no, please, no!
4:30---> Satan's coming 'round the bend, then, eh? In his Satanmobile Mk. 666, I bet? Yeah, I suppose you'd better go and beware, and all...
Gordon Haskell wrote:Well, who put the P in the Pelican Pie
Well, who put the P in the Pelican Pie
And who put the glass in the old man's eye
Who put the P in the Pelican Pie
The bowl and the bucket and the bungalow
Will never do you any good at all, you know
Architect Brown and Belinda Tease
Are never gonna get down from the Pyrenees
Permanent jobs and electric chairs
Are never any good to get you anywheres
Flesh and blood and your skin and bone
Only gonna leave you when you're dead and gone
But who put the P in the Pelican Pie
Yeah, who put the P in the Pelican Pie
And who put the glass in the old man's eye
Who put the P in the Pelican Pie
You can make T in a paraffin can
Looking at the belly of a tattooed man
In your 30 piece suit rubber gloves
Peeling a banana everybody loves
You can make Major if you learn to speak
But you're never gonna make it with an ancient Greek
Flesh and blood and your skin and bone
Only gonna leave you when you're dead and gone
Who put the P in the Pelican Pie
Yeah, who put the P in the Pelican Pie
And who put the glass in the old man's eye
Who put the P in the Pelican Pie
Haskell's on this, as well. Pete Sinfield in rather a frivolous mood, I guess:
---
Happy family, one hand clap, four went by and none come back.
Brother Judas, ash and sack, swallowed aphrodisiac.
Rufus, Silas, Jonah too sang, "We'll blow our own canoes,"
Poked a finger in the zoo, punctured all the ballyhoo
Whipped the world and beat the clock, wound up with their share of stock.
Silver Rolls from golden rock, shaken by a knock, knock, knock.
Happy family, wave that grin, what goes round must surely spin;
Cheesecake, mousetrap, Grip-Pipe-Thynne cried out, "We're not Rin Tin Tin."
Uncle Rufus grew his nose, threw away his circus clothes
Cousin Silas grew a beard, drew another flask of weird
Nasty Jonah grew a wife, Judas drew his pruning knife.
Happy family one hand clap, four went on but none came back
Happy family, pale applause, each to his revolving doors.
Silas searching, Rufus neat, Jonah caustic, Jude so sweet.
Let their sergeant mirror spin if we lose the barbers win;
Happy family one hand clap, four went on but none came back
---
When/if you care to think about it, this is of course about The Beatles and the Hippie-movement in rock, turned corporation, at the turn of the '60s. In which case it's the greatest lyrical lampooning of any rock band, in history. Timeless satire. The nick-names fit the band members to some extent, but I haven't a clue as to who Grip-Pipe-Thynne might be. In any case, he ain't Rin-Tin-Tin... The album cover of the Lizard-album has another clue, up in the top right corner, with the letter I, containing a caricature of The Beatles. Not a lot of people know this...
Saigon Kick wrote:Yes, I am from the Peppermint Tribe
Where people come and then they die
To hail me, oh, hail me
With tomahawks of candy cane
We split their heads and eat the brains
Hail me, oh, hail me
All the while I see your face is turning
Hold your fire while the clock keeps ticking
Talk of Jesus, still your pain won't end
Ask forgiveness though your mind is lying
Slippin' through, time's slippin' through your hands
With guns of chalk we write our names
We wrote the book, we author pain
Hail me, oh, hail me
The TV speak in murderous rhymes
The clues we leave and hope you'll find
Hail me, oh, hail me
All the while I see your face is turning
Hold your fire while the clock keeps ticking
Talk of Jesus, still your pain won't end
Ask forgiveness though your mind is lying
Slippin' through, time's slippin' through your hands
Hold your fire while the clock keeps ticking
Talk of Jesus, still your pain won't end
Ask forgiveness though your mind is lying
Slippin' through your, slippin' through your hands
Yes, we come from the Peppermint Tribe
Where losers come to fix their mind
To hail me, oh, hail me
With giant walls are sugar made
We close you in and build the grave
Hail me, oh, hail me
And all the while I see your face is turning
Hold your fire while the clock keeps ticking
Talk of Jesus, still your pain won't end
Ask forgiveness though your mind is lying
Slippin' through your, slippin' through your
The witches dancing inside their caves
The people all go insane from the Peppermint Tribe
From the Peppermint Tribe, from the Peppermint Tribe
Rare one this, amidst tons of anti-evangelist stuff in 80s Metal, but this was one of the more cute examples of satirical spot-on allegoric lyrics. Saigon Kick seem to have been somewhat underrated, generally, tho they were big in the States, this was their 2nd album. They never toured Europe, I think.
A bit sinister and ironic, considering the Japanese endgame of WW2, but this 1940 swingtime jazz gem must have kept morale up in dark times, up here.
Cecil Aagaard (singer) was a Norwegian jazz vocalist genius, and Leo "The Lion" Mathiesen (piano/cigars/composer) was a Danish living legend, until the Wehrmacht censored him, and 30 seconds later, he was a legend once more, all he did was scat the lyrics, instead (as English was suddenly totally verboten), and then the people would jive, all the same. The lyrics of "Nagasaki" are:
Hot ginger and dynamite
There's nothing but that at night.
Back in Nagasaki where the fellers chew tobaccy (I could swear he says "shoot a Paki")
And the women wicky wacky woo.
Say, the baby entertain
Would hurry a hurricane.
Back in Nagasaki where the fellers chew tobaccy
And the women wicky wacky woo.
Say, in Fujiyama got your mama
Then your troubles increase, boy.
In some pagoda she orders soda
The earth shakes milk shakes ten cents a piece.
They kissee and huggee nice
Oh, by jingo it's worth the price.
Back in Nagasaki where the fellers chew tobaccy
And the women wicky wacky woo.
It's a gross perversion of the truth, tho. No Jap chick ever said she'd fu'uh yoo lo'o ti'i. The sailor-style levity is entirely down to the 1928 Warren/Dixon.
The most thought-provoking album of the last 25 years to me is this one by Helmet.
The tic begins where's the manned end?
The climate change will never get in
Silent and strong and prepossessed
You never need to make your own mess
Weasel to me charming to some
Loathsome and glib
Habits like self-love
Wearing slim fast carve your niche
Lean smug back work your own pitch
And all the way I'm gone,
no demon race to find
You paint it up and know
that any face can lie
Affect my greatest style,
what suits me best of all
Keep my pocket filled,
lean right and fall
Can think of a few possible avenues of interpretation of that one, tho. Possibly, there is no mystery around us, just hypocrisy, which is the lowest level of idiocy. The worst hypocrisy, however, is in the last line. I'd suggest leaning to the right as far as you can, while stretching your arm back to the left. Might work, you know.