Saturday 9 April 2011

The Deep, Deep Sleep of England

Here's a Red Atlas one and for my money one of the best songs that we ever wrote. It remains pretty galling that we never successfully translated these things into decent recordings or effective live-gigs. It really is hard to say how great this band was - there is no evidence to support the claim. Nevertheless on occasion it was great.

Lyrically this is well into my "women are spooky, other-worldly beings, ultimately unknowable and treachrous, but, y'know, a nice shape" period. Amazingly I was in my late thirties, not my late teens!

The song is also about the mystery and lore of terrible old Britain, the weight of its old bones. The title is from Orwells's "Homage to Catalonia" and the opening is in part a reference to Ben Thompson's "Beef and Liberty". The body of the verse is a murder with no mystery and the occasional nod to a dimly remembered "The Ghost of Thomas Kempe" and Katharine Brigg's "Abbey Lubbers, banshees and boggarts".

(In fact an early version of Red Atlas was called The Lubbers. Until we weren't.)


The Deep, Deep Sleep of England

The deep sleep of England,
Sweet dreaming England,
Dozing and Dappled,
Leading by Example,

The deep sleep of England,
Dark satanic England,
Boiled beef and Liberty
Bucolic misery,

The deep sleep of England,
Imagined England,
Carry on and keep calm,
Can I be excused ma’am,

The deep sleep of England,
Mysterious England,
Ancient and monstrous,
Hiding your secrets,

The deep sleep of England,
Sweet dreaming England,
Dozing and dappled,
Leading by example,

Her hair was awfully long,
Her eyes were awfully pretty ones,
I know she hasn’t forgotten me,
It’s taken ten years of therapy,
Her life was always mine to take,
And I would take it for heavens sake,
My spinning this neat planchette,
Gave her this caveat,

Clay pipe found, underground,
You’ll be groggy, my hot sweet hot toddy,
Childish scrawl on the wall,
This time I cannot kill it
This buttery spirit,







Unfolded on the grass,
The hard edges of her pale limbs,
Looked softer than moss,
Her lips still bruised from kissing,
She makes the teacups fall,
The pictures spin upon the wall,
There’s no happy ever after,
The eaves echo with her laughter,

Clay pipe found, underground,
You’ll be groggy my hot sweet toddy,
Childish scrawl on the walls
This time I cannot kill it,
This buttery spirit,

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