Friday, February 29, 2008

Terrorists and Evil Robots: The Ultimate Nightmare

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Gyro is a beatnik.

What more need be said?

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Mr. Verloc meets his end

"Come here," he said in a peculiar tone, which might have been the tone of brutality, but was intimately known to Mrs. Verloc as the note of wooing.

She started forward at once, as if she were still a loyal woman bound to that man by an unbroken contract. Her right hand skimmed slightly the end of the table, and when she had passed on towards the sofa the carving knife had vanished without the slightest sound from the side of the dish. Mr. Verloc heard the creaky plank in the floor, and was content. He waited. Mrs. Verloc was coming. As if the homeless soul of Stevie had flown for shelter straight to the breast of his sister, guardian, and protector, the resemblance of her face with that of her brother grew at every step, even to the droop of the lower lip, even to the slight divergence of the eyes. But Mr. Verloc did not see that. He was lying on his back and staring upward. He saw partly on the ceiling and partly on the wall the moving shadow of an arm with a clenched hand holding a carving knife. It flickered up and down. Its movements were leisurely. They were leisurely enough for Mr. Verloc to recognize the limb and the weapon.

They were leisurely enough for him to take in the full meaning of the portent, and to taste the flavour of death rising in his gorge. His wife had gone raving mad--murdering mad. They were leisurely enough for the first paralyzing effect of this discovery to pass away before a resolute determination to come out victorious from the ghastly struggle with that armed lunatic. They were leisurely enough for Mr. Verloc to elaborate a plan of defence involving a dash behind the table, and the felling of the woman to the ground with a heavy wooden chair. But they were not leisurely enough to allow Mr. Verloc the time to move either hand or foot. The knife was already planted in his breast. It met no resistance on its way. Hazard has such accuracies. Into that plunging blow, delivered over the side of the couch, Mrs. Verloc had put all the inheritance of her immemorial and obscure descent, the simple ferocity of the age of caverns, and the unbalanced nervous fury of the age of barrooms. Mr. Verloc, the Secret Agent, turning slightly on his side with the force of the blow, expired without stirring a limb, in the muttered sound of the word "don't" by way of protest.
-Joseph Conrad, The Secret Agent

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Sexy Ducks!

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

River Forktine Tippecanoe

It was one of them days--yes the first Thursday of a new month.
When you come to bathe in my river--Forktine Tippecanoe.
I woke up early to fetch my own breakfast,
Shuffled 'cross the deck of my houseboat, I hauled in my line,
And over my rail arched a red slider turtle. His shell made coconut noises
As it bounced across my deck. It Did not break open like some Frenchy's egg-whips.
So I pried open his shell and I shucked his body out.
Far away on the ocean I could hear oysters gigglin'.

Then I pulled out my father's father's helmet, the one that he wore in the Great War.
I Filled it full of water, set it on my hotplate, to heat up my turtle...

Who [I held cradled in my palm,] He looked like a preemie baby wigglin' its undeveloped limbs.
That's when I set him into his hot new shell, it made him give me clouded eye looks.
So I pried open my door, went down to my shore to wash out my helmet.
But you come up behind and then I relieved myself quickly into my helmet.
For I cannot loosen into my river on this first Thursday

You step into my river--Forktine Tippecanoe--but I know that you're ashamed
Of your undeveloped body, so I wait deep inside my houseboat...

While you bathe in my river...

And brother, I've been waitin' all year to commence that joke,
You have pulled year after year after year after year after year after year--
You swim underneath my boat, you rap on its underbelly,
Makin' me shuffle across my deck, makin' me shuck open my door,
Makin' me stretch out my neck, makin' me look at the cloudless sky
Makin' me [lay my head on your door,] makin' me say, "I'm mistaken.
"I thought someone had come callin' for me."

Then you stick your head out my river, you giggle and speak retardedly,
You say, "brother, did you like my joke?" I say "yes, but it's left me hungry.

"Could you catch me one more red sliding turtle?"

And deep in my house--I am gigglin', knowin' that I have emptied my river,
Of the last turtle. That's when I hear you come up for air, from hunting my river
And I think ah Christ, come next month there'll be a first Thursday.
What would I like to see you chase with your fingerless body?

Hold it hold it hold it hold it
Hold it hold it hold it hold it
Hold it hold it hold it hold it
Hold it yeah yeah yeah

Well maybe I will dine on the northern pike,
Yeah maybe I will start on some fat sunny perch,
Well maybe I will get me a pregnant rainbow trout.
I can picture it now. I will roll them un-broke eggs around in my mouth,
I will be wearing my father's father's helmet, goosestepping in my hobnail boots,
I'll be rappin' out a message across to the beasts below.
Tellin' them someone be coming down to my river--Forktine Tippecanoe

River Forktine Tippecanoe


My Second Salvation Army Choir

All the horses pulled their face as I was led into the square.
They sense I used to be the leader of the Salvation Army Choir.
I stood atop the drinkin' trough. I leaned into my song.
The song I sung at my first salvation: words confuse; I still sing it wrong.
And this is what I first tried to sing:
La la la la la
La la la la la

The bay and appaloosa capsized me off their water trough.
It had been dry for years and when I hit the ground they let out a horsey cough.
This is the way the two horses sing:
Yo yay yo yay yo yay
Yo yay yo yay yo

I remember through my sickness how my army was towards me.
In my second salvation I will get well on them.

I grabbed the youngest yearling; I planned to harness him to a cart.
The bay broke the wheels; the appaloosa head butted my chest for my part.
The horses stood in a choir formation, rolled their eyes to gauge my worth.
The appaloosa bit out all my hair; the bay baptized me dry in the dirt.
And all I can do is cough:
La la la la la
La la la la la

Underneath the dry water trough's where I hid from the horses' rant.
On the trough they hoofed out a [?] dance that coupled perfectly with their chant.

They chant:
Yo yay yo yay yo yay
Yo yay yo yay yo

I remember through my sickness how my army was towards me.
In my second Salvation I will get well on them.

And the big bay slammed his head into the youngest yearling,
Made him spread-eagle sprawled on the dirt.
he bit off his baubles and dipped 'em in the copper of pitch-pine.
And the appaloosa ripped out twenty-four of the yearling's tail-pieces,
And attached 'em to the pitch-pine baubles.
And Doin' a fancy basque step over the dirt, he come to me,
The device hung from between his horsey teeth
As he urged my humanness to grab and take.
I s'ppose he wanted me to swing it like some caballero-whip--
But I ain't gonna get Mexican on you--I swung it like a Catholic censer.
Hypnotized they followed the device, begin to sing their imperfect horse cough.
I joined in with my own application, and together, I hope we don't sing it wrong!

Yo la yo la lo
Yo la yo la lo

I stood bent with the water trough saddled across my back.
the bay he mounts, felt like a dry hump I sound like them wheels he cracked.
Now I carry my Salvation Army Choir singin' all on to rebirth
And in my second salvation, I hope it's better than my first
My new Choir sang:

Yo yay yo yay yo yay
Yo yay yo yay yo


Jacob Dumb

(the name "Jacob Dumb" also figures in the song "Circle 'round My Bedside" from The Jimmy Carter Syndrome)

She gave me head and heroin as sure as the sun would set.
She let me come onto her chin yet there's one thing that I still regret.
She gave my son name of Jacob Dumb this child has been my hell.
Nary a one with a like tongue to wean him from himself.

And Jacob Dumb...
You wean from yourself

And Jacob Dumb he'd sit with us on our pineboard each night.
Mumbled out the songs I sang; he sat between the legs of my wife.
Paws on her thigh, tried to pass his age, he sang though his throat was young.
A fly laid an egg, my wife shifted her weight, Jacob, don't live your name Dumb.

Jacob Dumb...
Well don't live your name

Our porch became a teeter totter
When Jacob came down he fell far from his father.
My wife shift of weight forced Jacob so much closer.

And Jacob Dumb...
Well you are my shame
You are my shame
You are my shame
You are my shame
You are my shame
You are my shame
We lost again
We lost again

She gives him head and heroin and now he's truly dumb.
Now not even Nestor could bring peace between myself and my son.
Jacob fell far from his father's heart though the distance was not too long.
Dumb, take my wife, my black tar vice, but don't take from me...

Child, don't take my songs...
Don't take my songs


Of Silas Fauntleroy's Willingness to Influence the Panel

My wife she opened up her mouth, she hands her teeth to me--
She tell me not to return 'til I get her teeth fresh 'n' clean--
remember me to Silas; tell he's filled my dance card tonight.
Remember, boy, I want my mouth fresh. Get them teeth bright white.
Bright white--get them bright white.

Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah

I walks down center street, I walks downs the left-hand side.
Silas he was gussied up in a Fauntleroy of bright bright white--
Silas flashed his red wet smile, says I's just the man he need.
He took my tin of tailormades, then he smile leavin' one for me--leavin' one for me.

Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah

And Silas ask what's I gots in my hand. I say "well they's my wife's old teeth"--
And then he pat me down for a light, he says "you know, they don't look none too clean."
Silas say my tailormades, he'll use 'em for the judge as bribe--
"Remember me to Dr. Hammer," and asks him if he gottsa light--if he gottsa light.

And I walked into Dr. Hammer's shop and told him of the dance contest tonight,
I Said I didn't want my wife to be disgraced with her old second hand-me-down teeth.
And Dr. Hammer say he surely knew how to influence the panel.
And he grabbed my wife's teeth from me 'n' shoved his fist inside this can.
And as he danced his hand around inside Doc said he saw me
Speaking with Silas Fauntleroy outside--and I could only purse my lips tight like.
And then Hammer asks if Silas got anything offen me.
And I could only put my now-empty hand over my pursin' lips.
And then Hammer withdraws his hand and say those teeth are clean, boy,
But you know, they'll taste...
They'll taste of gasoline.

Well back down the center street not on the left but the right hand--
And Silas liked the look of my wife's teeth he said he needs to get some of them--
And then Silas reached for my wife's teeth; Dr. Hammer blew his Chevy on by.
In this tinderbox town he found the only mud-puddle,
And he dirtied up the Fauntleroy--he dirtied up the Fauntleroy.

Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah

And Silas cried he'd never win the dance if he go there lookin' unclean--
I strip him of his Fauntleroy and I dunk it in the gasoline--
And I return with his Fauntleroy that's once again bright white.
Silas asked "what about them matches?" I say "I'll leave 'em with my wife--
So have a blast tonight.

Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah

Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah


The Denver Boot Redux

the original "Denver Boot" was a song from Munly's previous album, The Jimmy Carter Syndrome. That song is narrated by the father in this one. It's far too strange to summarize, but it ends up with him casting the infant adrift in the Pacific Ocean in the boot in question)

I'm no longer the newborn,
Though that's all I know as true,
I've returned from the ocean,
Cradlin' the Denver boot.
Bare feet walk the hills of Frisco,
Soft boys cut their eyes to me.
The truth is, I let down my Father,
I throw my boots back in the water,
They are hollow, they are hollow.

Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow,
Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow,
Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow,
Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow

At that dead goat farm outside Denver,
Father was living in his broken-down coupe.
The helling held him in a bad way,
His body revenged as he asked for the truth.
I cradled my father in my arms;
With my nails I scraped his sick away;
I put my nail clips in a bottle, a trophy on the dash...
But when the sun shine through the bottle
It is hollow, it is hollow.

Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow,
Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow,
Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow,
Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow

I can't wear the Denver boot,
I can't wear the Denver boot,
I can't wear the Denver boot,
I can't wear...

And I will bronze my father's body,
Mount it outside my factories.
The first will be a see-through glassworks;
The other will be a true goat farm.
And I will blow perfect bottles,
And I will squeeze the goats myself,
I will drown the world of its helling.
I hope my will don't come up hollow...

Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow
Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow
Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow
Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow
Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow
Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow


A Gentle Man's Jihad

I walk around on these rooftops of your Denver town,
Tryin' to take the same view as you all, always lookin' down.
And up on these roofs I put my ear westward and I hear,
"We gotta take him down."
Well that's not polite to listen in. I suppose I'm not a gentleman.
You us'ta want me, you used to need me, but now you only want them gentlemen.

Ladies of Denver town, one and all gather 'round;
We will take the gentlemen and dress them down.
Ladies of Denver town, one and all gather 'round;
We will take the gentlemen and dress them down.

Still up on these rooftops, I do my best to cross over.
At the six hundreds, to the five hundreds, and the four hundreds,
I might be one of them.
On the roof of the 404, this lady of Denver
Speaking sweeter than the Lord.
It makes this weak, weak man, she makes me weep, weep...oh man.
Then Nonny swings her head out the door,
Says "don't you make a flood on my roof, your floor.
"You'll never be as slim as Slim; you ain't actin' like a gentleman."

Ladies of Denver town, one and all gather 'round,
We will take the gentlemen and dress them down.
Ladies of Denver town, one and all gather 'round;
We will take the gentlemen and dress them down.
Dress them down,
Dress them down,
Dress them down,
Dress 'em down, girls.

And I have claimed your rooftops, all for myself,
But there's another one up here (just like he said); it's creepin' about.
See I pitch, dive, and leap over to him; I see it ain't a gentleman
(it's a woman).
And I ask, "what you doin' rippin' up the roofs of my friends?"
She says, "I'm taking up all these roofs so on us you can no longer look down."
Then with that shaker in her hand she swings it to bring me down.
I get a skin on skin hold to fight her sin. My friends' roofs I will defend.
Then David, Frank, Junior, JP, and Slim,
Shakin' their heads and witnessin' my sin.
Sayin', "boy you've got presumptive ways to walk our rooftops in defend.
"You've got one-eyed intentions, your timin' was wrong,
"You'll never be a gentleman."
"No gentleman
"No gentleman."

I set myself to this--to fight a constant war--you claim it is holy--I claim that it's the law.


The Leavening of the Spit-Bread Girls

Do you believe the people who be surroundin' me?
(yes we will believe we will believe)
The spit-bread girls got somethin' that I need
(yes we will believe we will believe)
Girls I'll take a loaf if you're offerin'
(yes we will believe we will believe)
Scrub your webbed hands 'cause you girls are none too clean
(yes we will believe we will believe)

Now spit!

Girls you spit all day, your throats will dry and flake.
Here's my offering: take my spit-kiss and your dry will go away.

With my spit-kiss you will become clean
(yes we will believe we will believe)
No more shall you gather; I got's everything you need.
(yes we will believe we will believe)
The buckets 'round my waist hold your new bread mixin's
(yes we will believe we will believe)
Work your piston arms inside my buckets then spit my needs
(yes we will believe we will believe)

Now spit!

(you did us wrong you did us wrong you did us wrong you did us wrong
you did us wrong you did us wrong you did us wrong you did us wrong)

Girls you are pure clean females,
You must realize my buckets they need refilled.
The poor-folks laws, well those are my ways.
I make sugary lip moves, yes, I will persuade
You to wear my gatherin' buckets,
But before you leave how's 'bout one more spit-kiss?

We were brought up by hand, ate flower and water,
Not soft-lip waifs raised on the breast of the mother.
We walked the woods with baskets tied 'round our waists.
We were generous and kind with everything we ate.
But we got lazy, went against the poor-laws,
Our baskets grew holes droppin' everything we got.
I made them unclean with my mixed-up offering.
I need spit-girls to leave.


Goose Walking over My Grave

(it might be relevant to note that the lyrics on the DVD specify "our *dead* child doing his chores")

She said "punch me in the stomach."
I said "girl I do not know.
"If I punch you in the stomach,
"Then our child inside will not grow."
She said "if you truly love me,
"You'll do this thing for me."
So I punched her in the stomach,
And she fell down to both of her knees.

Lay-low, lay-low, lay-low low,
There's a goose walking over my grave.
Lay-low, lay-low, lay-low low,
There's a goose walking over my grave.

And we went on down the mountain,
We paid up for the county fair.
All the men they spied her flat gut,
And the women sent birds up to air.
Then we found ourselves a half-breed,
To tell us our fortune today.
And he painted my hands a deep dark red,
Said "now boy, you know that you gotta pay."

Well she spat, she swore and she ground all her teeth,
Then she swelled up all her veins.
She said "mister for claimin' all that you know,
"Don't you know my brother's bird-brained?"
"Hey whoa back up girl, didn't you hear the half-breed,
"Sayin' somethin' 'bout...well, I don't know."
Yeah she pulled me away by my goose-fleshed flesh,
She's too late; I caught up to my slow.

We went back up the mountain;
We sat down upon our front porch.
And come yonder carryin' a bucket
Was our child doin' his chores.
So we drunk down a bucket of choke-cherry wine,
And she dunked her thumbs inside.
With her thumbs dyed red she grabbed my head,
And she gouged out both of my eyes.

Lay-low, lay-low, lay-low low,
There's a goose walking over my grave.
Lay-low, lay-low, lay-low low,
There's a goose walking over my grave.

So I drug her down the mountain,
Turned her over to the town youths.
As she lay there squibblin' and squallin'
I said "girl, well now you're my goose."
Then she crawled up to me
On her bloody red knees
And said "why did you do this to me?"
I said "sister let me tell you what you do not know,
"I was blind but now I can see.

"I was blind but now I see."


Song Rebecca calls "that birdcage song," which it never was called but now kind of is because of her influence...

Them jays done bombed the mices
Those mices squeak like the entrance gates
You know what those jays did?
They made a home in my ribcage.
There was forty-one horseflies tip-toein' across the horse's flank.
That horse, he ain't got no feathers,
But with his shank he just ruffles.
'N then, the furnace, it combusted,
And it burned away the jays' cage.
That's when underneath, they saw Herod's face.
Then there was all this confusion from the hot air,
And those jays, they got me aggressive
By takin' my eggs from me.
But my knife is gone,
An' them jays, they got aggressive,
An' they nested in my empty sheath.

I rub my hand over your hair.
I rub my hand over your hair on your throat.
I rub my hand over your hair on your throat,
Pull it out, and set it in my pocket.

I talk a bird off my tree, shove him deep down,
He 'lites in your nesty hair.
Now we roam between the cities
And folk in their country speech and manner
Say the sing-song you's do's speaks of true new prophesies.

But there is a whistle ebbing from a growing crack in his beak.
The crack is mappin' out the country,
Educatin' all of where we've been.
And me and my bird have a growin' influence
Over people of country persuasion,
Over people of country persuasion.

You see it's Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John--
They're comin' after me,
Re-re-educatin' all them my birdie has seen,
Sayin' country people, unlearn what you seen,
that bird's got a crack in its beak.
Go back to ginseng and senna pods and fennel seeds,
Learnin' spells in your old Gullah speech.
But they tell the flock to go back to the city
And let this bird sing!

And my bird does sing to the country.
And my bird decrees to the people of country persuasion.

I rub my hand over your hair.
I rub my hand over your hair below your stomach.
I rub my hand over your hair below your stomach,
Pull it out and set it in my pocket.

And my bird he mends his broken beak with your hair.
Now the message is mumbled and mistranslated,
But the country people believe it even harder.
They leave the country, 'lite upon the city,
Swellin' the IQ in both locations.
Re-education is all they need.
The city nods, bein' told to agree.

And me and my bird have a growing influence
Over people of country persuasion.
Oh my soul, soul, soul
People of country...
You see it's Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John,
Still chasin' after me,
They got so close, finally heard my bird sing.

They heard through your healthful hair,
Blushed a deep dark red,
Said "oh, I see!"
They rubbed on ginseng and senna pods and fennel seeds;
Their speech they changed to the local speak.

Creatin' new maps with an educator's need.
They're now quiet in the country as my bird he does sing!
And my bird does sing to the country;
My bird decrees to the people of country persuasion.


Ragin' Cajun

Mother mother mother mine,
I wager you sent me here,
To this house in New Orleans
Where I've become your fallen son.
You thought to make homemade wicks
So by our lanterns we might see
The cotton strips that you tore and let soak in the kerosene.

And while you slept I pierced the strips
And found a map down to New Orleans.
When I woke with the sun I put on my old blue jeans.
In the pocket I found the wicks that lead down to New Orleans.
I filled my trunk with my trade dice and homemade liquor.

I followed the map put, on my prison face
And now prepared to ply my trade.
I emptied my trunk, I took them in dice
And overcharged for my homemade
And they said "boy it got us drunk; this stuff tastes like the kerosene"
And They did offend, then I struck a match;
I ain't my father I'm no thief

That place flared up as sure as an eastern sun
I could already hear my mother saying "son what has you done?"
I ducked into my trunk,
As the people around me screamed.
I was safe inside my trunk as I brought down that place in New Orleans.

Mother now I send this telegram though you cannot read.
Please send me a map to return, return me from Orleans.
And then you can rip this telegram and soak it in kerosene
To replace the wicks I stole from you;
The light will guide me back from New Orleans.

And here is me with this apology of a life.
And here is me with this apology of a life.


Cassius Castrato, the She-Male of the Men's Prison

Boys, I've shaven my knuckled head,
For to cushion my pillow case.

Boys, I've traded the laces of my boots,
And for 'em I got an ol' spoon.

Now to get some food.

Boys, I have sold off my last buttons of brass,
They got me a loaf of bread.

Now to make it last.

Every night I sing all the boys to sleep,
In the night's dark war.

Hard boys, join me...weep.

Boys, I've got none of nothin' left to trade.
So I cut off my ear and went to the gate.
The unsmiling guards in their buffalo voices said,
"We need more."
I severed my left hand.
I pulled all my teeth.
I left on my right hand to wield my piece.

I disconnected my testicles,
Gave 'em to the prison guards,
But the guards said,
"We need more."

Hang all my belongings on a one-inch nail.


Another Song about Jesus, a Wedding Sheet, and a Bowie Knife

Someone needs to take a rusty Bowie knife to you--
From your groin to your chest-bone, spill the truth.
That way you might touch yourself on the inside like I has to,
Like you always make me do.

And someone spaded Jesus Christ through skin, meat and bone.
The iron from the spikes, it starts at rustin',
The iron from his blood, it adds to the rustin'.

His blood rolls down the hill and pools up in the cotton field,
Well the cotton, it be twice growin.'
And it is cherished for its red red hue,
And it is marveled for its stiffness,
And it is revered for its twice growin,'
Berthed from the earth, thrown back into the earth
Spat back out the mool
It twice growing--like Jesus Christ will,
To return like Jesus Christ.

And centuries has passed and I met you,
And you love me, Christ girl, you know how much you love me.
And someone made for us this old wedding sheet,
One side of the sheet, well it be the man side,
The other side of the sheet, well it be the woman side.
I fit myself into the pre-made hole in this wedding sheet,
When I lay down on top of you.

And someone says I am hard--
But I'm never hard enough for you.
Especially when you take your sewing needle
And scratch a mark on your wrist,
Especially when you take your sewing needle
And scratch a mark on your ankles,
Especially when you take your sewing needle
And close up that hole in our sheet,
Then you use this sheet to wipe away your inside

And now our sheet, it's got a red red hue,
And now our sheet, it's got this stiffness,
And now our sheet is going twice growing,
The iron from your inside, it re-opened up that hole,
Yes it did rust it--your blood did rust it,
Your iron did rust it
Your iron did rust it
And everything is rusted
And everything is rusted
And everything's been rusted
And everything will rust for you as well.


Old Service Road

He shoved me inside his government truck,
The color of a bruise.
He drove a country mile outside of town,
Said get out boy, and that's what I did do.
I walked over to that sign;
It read the Old Service Road.
He had his window up tight shut,
When I asked "hey mister where does it go?"

He mouthed "you don't, you don't want, you don't want to know.
"You don't want, you don't want, you don't want to know.
"You don't want, you don't want, you don't want to know.
"Go down now, the Old Service Road."

He left me with a tire iron, instructions,
And a list of names.
And I was left to guard that road,
In that service I did remain.
I stuck the list to the back-side of the sign,
'Cause that list it held the name of my brother.
I used the iron as a baseball bat,
And when the rocks hit the sign,
It made the sound of forever.
I thought to re-arrange the list,
To knock them letters round,
But the front still read the Old Service Road,
And on the back my brother's name I still found.

Well I don't want, I don't want, I don't want to know,
I don't want, I don't want, I don't want to know,
I don't want, I don't want, I don't want to know.
Go down there, the Old Service Road.

A hand-built two-seater come down the service road;
The driver avoided my eyes.
He was a mix-skin of Mexican descent.
he opened the window shy.
I tapped my iron 'gainst his metal car.
I went giddy at the sound of forever.
Un-shyly out the window leaped a dog,
And to the dog I applied the traits of my brother.
It slunk over to the sign,
Let loose and made the sign its own.
I scanned the list for some sign of a dog,
But there was now only my brother's name alone.
I scratched off his name, said goodbye Argos,
And the dog went down the Old Service Road.
Shyly out the window the Mexican said
(something mix-skin that don't translate)

You don't want, you don't want, you don't want to know,
You don't want, you don't want, you don't want to know,
You don't want, you don't want, you don't want to know,
Go down there, the Old Service Road.

You don't want, you don't want, you don't want to know,
You don't want, you don't want, you don't want to know,
You don't want, you don't want, you don't want to know,
Go down there, the Old Service Road.


Big Black Bull Comes like a Caesar

This is what it sounds like when my brother calls me:
(wordless female vocals)

My parents, they up and passed when I was none then three.
I forced myself onto my brother, I made him watch me swell.
And when we'd sit 'round the kitchen table,
He would whip out his brand new blade.
He'd scratch out words in the wood of the table.
I never could tell what they say,
But I could tell they were dirty. Dirty, dirty.
Lord they were dirty. Dirty. Dirty, dirty.
Lord they were.
I brought them letters on down to the elementary,
I took the other boys behind the elementary wall,
And I spoke them words hard--yes, I did.

When my brother was a child he was given an animal.
He raised it up to be a big black bull;
It never did pitch or sway.
It never ride on the back of a flatbed.
It looked like one of them Greek Caesars,
And when we go to the McCintyres'.
The McCintyres gots a pen with a she-cow.
And when that she-cow saw his chariot comin',
She gave the bull her big soft cowy eyes,
And then she started talkin' to him.
And she was talkin' dirty. Dirty, dirty.
Lord she was dirty. Dirty. Dirty, dirty.
Lord she was.

Then the big back bull he fell down hard off the flatbed,
He forced himself inside the pen with the she-cow.
he stood up tall on two legs,
Like a man does,
He swoll himself up hard.
Me myself, I got on the back of our flatbed.
You see, I pitched when I saw them sway.
And when that bull he came back down to four legs,
My brother forced himself on me in the flatbed.
He handed me his brand new blade, he said,
"Scratch out the word on the wood of the flatbed."
And I did...

When I, when I was none, I fell out my mama,
I was her breach-born son, I come backwards.
And when the calf come, it come, like I come,
It come backwards.
And my brother, he called the calf my name.
And its mother, she called the calf my name.
My brother, he called the calf my name.
And its mother, she called the calf my name.


Amen Corner

It's glorious today so you know it will pass away.
The doves and snapping turtles bite at me.
Catatonic ash, don't bump against them tender wounds.
This petunia land smells of timothy.

I have read the maps of the Patron Saint of Haggard.
Arm the minds of midwives who deliver thee
My hands are not enough; I will swing a hammer
Amen Corner's where they'll gather and meet.

On Amen Corner is where they gather,
All them midwives who delivered me.
Their looks are unwashed, ashamed, and haggard,
Seeing my hand empty of offerings.

They took my rolled map, ripped it to tatters,
Turned their backs, and they commenced to sing.
I stroke my dark dove, I pat my turtle,
But their response is as cold as charity.

Snapping turtles hide, Scrape their teeth against their hide,
Doves stumble 'round turned dark from timothy.
The midwives turn to saints swinging what's delivered.
On Amen Corner the haggard hammer sings.

My snapping turtle it still be snapping,
My dark dove can only bark at me.
I pull his dark down, rip it to tatters,
Glue the feathers to my turtle's covering.

I will swing it, my soft-hard hammer,
To my midwives this is my offering.
On Amen Corner, I'll be delivered,
My soft-hard hammer will sing as it swings.


Coming up next: Munly lyrics

Munly is the tall, pale, skeletal one at Slim Cessna concerts, stalking through the audience and ranting like a maddened pentecostal preacher. That, my friends, is good times. I hope he's featured prominently on the new album. But of course, he also has his own music, which is unimaginably strange and nightmare-inducing.

I've had a digital copy of Munly & the Lee Lewis Harlots for a long time, but I just recently obtained a copy of the disc. The good part about this is that, in addition to the CD, there's a bonus DVD that includes, among other things, a feature where Munly recites the song lyrics--like poems, which they kind of are--over images of the lyrics. This is excellent, because this album has a LOT of otherwise indecipherable lyrics. Now that I've been able to absorb them, I appreciate this album even more. If there's a greater level of warped intelligence in music today, I don't know who it is. You can only take so much of it before it starts to fuck with your head, but as far as darkly southern gothic, backwoods fables go, I think this is about the ne plus ultra.

So anyway, you would have thought someone would have transcribed these lyrics and put them online. But they haven't. But you know who's about to do it? Me, that's who. I transcribed all of them, and then compared them to the music to make sure they matched--there were fairly substantial discrepancies at a number of points. These versions represent what's on the music CD. Were were a few instances where there was STILL something I couldn't quite get, but only a very few. I've bracketed those parts.

Probably some jerk music site will take these without bothering to ask. It's not like I mind THAT much, but still. This did involve a somewhat substantial time commitment. Sure, anyone could have done it, but they DIDN'T. I did. Me, I was the one what done did it. Uh-oh, now I'm talking like Munly. Anyway, please enjoy.


Saturday, February 16, 2008

Because if I can't indulge my nonsensical whims here, where CAN I indulge them?

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

If you're so great... come YOU'RE not being spammed with offers of review copies from a Christian vanity press? Huh? Huh?? Huh???

Monday, February 04, 2008

New Slim Cessna album in March!


Capsule review: There Will Be Blood

Stephanie Zacharek's reviews typically annoy me, but I feel like she's more or less right about this one. All the individual pieces of the movie are immaculate: the cinematography is stunning, the score is eerie, and Day Lewis acts his ass off. But as far as I'm concerned, the parts never really cohere into a meaningful whole. I think the main problem is that, imposing though Plainview is, he remains a cypher throughout. Is he supposed to be losing his humanity? There's no way to really tell, because there's just no window into his character. But if there's not SOMETHING going on in his head, then what's the point of all this? Because there sure isn't any dramatic development anywhere else. Without the audience having any real idea of who he's supposed to be, the gruesome, over-the-top final scene--impressive in and of itself--just feels like it comes out of nowhere. You--or I, at any rate--am left wondering: okay. And your point is...? The whole thing feels like a joke without a punchline.

Sunday, February 03, 2008

Patriots crash; burn

A grateful nation rejoices.