This is a Petomane tune for the mooted second album "The Rock Machine Turns You On". It's actually a very old song that Kasch has stripped down and added some Martin guitar. I wanted to include a sample of Edward Woodward saying "Protected by the ejaculation of serpents?" but was shouted down as Kasch doesn't like vocal samples.(he liked them plenty on Fox Base Alpha one of the Petomane's ur-albums! One of our few bonding moments was on a fractious holiday in Portugal where the DJ "dropped" "Nothing Can Stop Us Now" by Saint Etienne)
I didnt take the opportunity of re-writing the lyrics to match the new tune!
The Static Age
Running through the Aquaduct
I got caught in a grating mesh,
I got my goat up I confess,
That's the modern age,
I'm static with rage,
This is the Static age,
Splitting a clementine,
To read the pith and juice within,
A process known as clemency,
I read nothing,
I'm static with rage,
This is the Static Age,
Crushing a serpent's head,
Beneath the tread of my puckered brogue,
Like mythology I've been told,
My shoes are ruined though!
I'm static with rage,
This is the Static Age
Monday, 31 January 2011
The Drunkest Man in the Room
This is another Club of Queer Trades "number" and therefore it was written in 2010 as I suspect all of them were. 2010 was a bumper year for me in terms of songwriting and personal devastation, writing upwards of 60 songs, most of them for The Club. Drinking is one of the mainstays of my ouvre and public and private drunkeness is one of my areas of expertise. Not that I'm an expert drinker my any means; I've always been rubbish at it, as I was at smoking when I gave that a go. I'm currently viceless, not even snuff at parties. This is why:
The Drunkest Man in the Room
I came here to party but the party's petered out
I'm drinking alone in the coat room
the hum of strangers; a strip of light under the door
I'll need another drink soon
A fat couple burst in from the party
she's flushed, he's amorous
I try to speak, slur my words, spill my drink
it's less than glamorous
Once again the drunkest man in the room
A fixed point, the party pivot
Always drinking to forget my life
And my failed attempts to live it
How much I drink, well, it's staggering
‘Round the room with my glass
Around the room with my top up
An own goal from a pretty pass
I'm John and I'm the party pole-star
My light is growing dim
Everybody navigates around me
"At least I'm not as pissed as him"
Once again the drunkest man in the room
A fixed point; the party pivot
Always drinking to forget my life
And my failed attempts to live it
I really like the flavour
I savour every drop
I like what drink does to me
I just can’t seem to stop
I've got a decent palette
And I can be a snob
I sleep upon the sofa
With wine stains around my gob
Once again the drunkest man in the room
A fixed point; the party pivot
Always drinking to forget my life
And my failed attempts to live it
The Drunkest Man in the Room
I came here to party but the party's petered out
I'm drinking alone in the coat room
the hum of strangers; a strip of light under the door
I'll need another drink soon
A fat couple burst in from the party
she's flushed, he's amorous
I try to speak, slur my words, spill my drink
it's less than glamorous
Once again the drunkest man in the room
A fixed point, the party pivot
Always drinking to forget my life
And my failed attempts to live it
How much I drink, well, it's staggering
‘Round the room with my glass
Around the room with my top up
An own goal from a pretty pass
I'm John and I'm the party pole-star
My light is growing dim
Everybody navigates around me
"At least I'm not as pissed as him"
Once again the drunkest man in the room
A fixed point; the party pivot
Always drinking to forget my life
And my failed attempts to live it
I really like the flavour
I savour every drop
I like what drink does to me
I just can’t seem to stop
I've got a decent palette
And I can be a snob
I sleep upon the sofa
With wine stains around my gob
Once again the drunkest man in the room
A fixed point; the party pivot
Always drinking to forget my life
And my failed attempts to live it
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Tell them I said something
One of the neatest, most concise lyrics I've written and one of Martin's sweetest and simplest tunes - I love this one.
The title, of course, comes from Pancho Villa's famous last words: "Don't let it end like this. Tell them I said something."
Tell them I said something
And if you find me, small and yellow
On a pillow
On some hospital ward that can’t afford
A working nursing staff
Tell them I had the last laugh
And tell them I said something
And if you ask me, semi-conscious
In a taxi
In sotto voice but sort of blotto
And maudlin in my cups
For heaven’s sake make something up
And tell them I said something
The title, of course, comes from Pancho Villa's famous last words: "Don't let it end like this. Tell them I said something."
Tell them I said something
And if you find me, small and yellow
On a pillow
On some hospital ward that can’t afford
A working nursing staff
Tell them I had the last laugh
And tell them I said something
And if you ask me, semi-conscious
In a taxi
In sotto voice but sort of blotto
And maudlin in my cups
For heaven’s sake make something up
And tell them I said something
My Single Friend
This is a Red Atlas song and quite an early Red Atlas song. It's possibly still a staple of the theoretical Atlas live-set. It's necessarily a theoretical live-set as we haven't played now for nearly two years (can that be right? two years?). More than that we havent actually met each other en-mass since, I think, and I'm working sans diary here, last October. Now I have to take some responsibility for the former:I stropped off in a taxi after the last gig (third on the bill at the Legion in Old Street)in fully moody singer pomp. And I was right to do so: we had no soundcheck, nobody was in time or tune, the guitars were cranked-up so much that half way through the set the guy working the desk shrugged and sat down as there was no way to make the sond any better. The only person in the entire building who could hear me was me because my pr-eamp was working. I was in good voice!
It was a disaster and when I confronted the others about it they looked at me as if I had a small, lemon-coloured cat wedged behind my ear.The idea that the gig had not gone well was utterly alien to them. But then they are musicians: they have planks of wood and a wall of sound to hide behind. I am not, most assuredly I am not, a musician, but rather a red-faced, grey-haired, overweight man blithely miming through a selection of inaudible 80s indie songs, with the cheeks of Dizzy Gillespie and the auto-motive prowess of Bobby.
Things have rarely gone smoothly in the studio either. We've been in three times and have probably attempted an albums worth of material. I think there are perhaps three I'm "okay" with. This would be one of them.
My Single Friend,
My single friend,
Ticking like a cartoon bomb,
My ear-ache is now beyond repair,
My friends keep well away from me,
But my single friend, oh no, not my single friend,
My friends keep well down wind of me,
But not she, she won't let me alone,
My friends keep well down wind of me,
But not she, she won't let me alone,
My single friend,
A catalogue of woes,
She's teaching "Applied Neurosis 101"
My friends all shy away from me,
But my single friend? Not my single friend,
My friends cross the street when they see me,
But not she, she will not let me be,
My friends cross the street when they see me,
But not she, she won't let me alone,
My single friend,
What can it mean?
"His feet sweat, he really has to go!"
My friends burn photographs of me,
But my single friend? Not my single friend,
My friends stick pins in dolls of me,
But my single friend, not my single friend,
My friends stick pins in dolls of me,
But she, she will not let me be,
My friends stick pins in dolls of me,
But she, she will not let me be,
My single friend,
Tells me I'm,
Her straightest, gayest, straightest, gay best friend,
My friends stick daggers in my back,
Infamy, they've all got it in for me,
My friends burn me in effigy,
But she, she will not let me be,
My friends would remove me from history,
But not she, she'll always stick by me
It was a disaster and when I confronted the others about it they looked at me as if I had a small, lemon-coloured cat wedged behind my ear.The idea that the gig had not gone well was utterly alien to them. But then they are musicians: they have planks of wood and a wall of sound to hide behind. I am not, most assuredly I am not, a musician, but rather a red-faced, grey-haired, overweight man blithely miming through a selection of inaudible 80s indie songs, with the cheeks of Dizzy Gillespie and the auto-motive prowess of Bobby.
Things have rarely gone smoothly in the studio either. We've been in three times and have probably attempted an albums worth of material. I think there are perhaps three I'm "okay" with. This would be one of them.
My Single Friend,
My single friend,
Ticking like a cartoon bomb,
My ear-ache is now beyond repair,
My friends keep well away from me,
But my single friend, oh no, not my single friend,
My friends keep well down wind of me,
But not she, she won't let me alone,
My friends keep well down wind of me,
But not she, she won't let me alone,
My single friend,
A catalogue of woes,
She's teaching "Applied Neurosis 101"
My friends all shy away from me,
But my single friend? Not my single friend,
My friends cross the street when they see me,
But not she, she will not let me be,
My friends cross the street when they see me,
But not she, she won't let me alone,
My single friend,
What can it mean?
"His feet sweat, he really has to go!"
My friends burn photographs of me,
But my single friend? Not my single friend,
My friends stick pins in dolls of me,
But my single friend, not my single friend,
My friends stick pins in dolls of me,
But she, she will not let me be,
My friends stick pins in dolls of me,
But she, she will not let me be,
My single friend,
Tells me I'm,
Her straightest, gayest, straightest, gay best friend,
My friends stick daggers in my back,
Infamy, they've all got it in for me,
My friends burn me in effigy,
But she, she will not let me be,
My friends would remove me from history,
But not she, she'll always stick by me
Friday, 21 January 2011
Cell Phone & Celebrity Price Tag
I can't believe we live in a society where there is a consensus on the expression "celebrity price tag". Hello. These are two more songs for the mooted girl-band The Namedrops.
Cell Phoneis that staple of the tin pan alley/ hollywood teen experience - waiting for the telephone to ring. Blondie nailed this one of course with "Hanging on the telephone" and then, rather rudely, did it again with "Call me" . And of course there's the timeless classic "Clouds across the moon" by The Rah Band , giving the concept a much needed Sci Fi re-boot.
But I thought the time had come for another slightly duller and less inspired version. The title is, of course, a pun: the telephone has literally become a prison cell as she is waiting on a call, she is trapped and unable to function.
But obviously we're far sighted enough to have our eyes on the American market too.
Celebrity Price Tag is about my hatred of tabloid culture and the toxic overspill into other areas of life; advertising being an obvious choice. I find much of the modern world disgusting: from it's values, aspirations and cultural heroes to Ugg boots and tattoos popular entertainments. (whilst enjoying the availability of wireless-internet, disposable contact lenses and good food in pubs!)
Cell Phone
I'm in a mess
And my best party dress
I finally got into after 7 weeks
How could you go and do this
I look like a member of Kiss
My mascara running down my cheeks
O-oh oh maybe I got mixed signals
O-oh oh but you're so hard to figure
O-oh oh our date was a disaster
O-oh oh you didn’t call me after
You got me trapped like a prisoner
Hung up and alone
Waiting for your name on my cell phone, cell phone
You're on vibrate in my pocket
But you would never know
Cause I never see your name on my cell phone, cell phone
My friends all said
You'd leave me for dead
You've got a reputation follows you around
But I'm still in a state
Did i some how orchestrate
this communication break-down
O-oh oh maybe I got mixed signals
O-oh oh but you're so hard to figure
O-oh oh our date was a disaster
O-oh oh you didn’t call me after
You got me trapped like a prisoner
Hung up and alone
Waiting for your name on my cell phone, cell phone
You're on vibrate in my pocket
But you would never know
Cause I never see your name on my cell phone, cell phone
predictive text tells me next
time I'll do it all again
my phone thrown at the wall exactly as you call
tells me I've done it again
You got me trapped like a prisoner
Hung up and alone
Waiting for your name on my cell phone, cell phone
You're on vibrate in my pocket
But you would never know
Cause I never see your name on my cell phone, cell phone
Celebrity price tag
Tandooried in fake-tan
Tramp-stamp, thank you ma’am
Wicked-whispers and ugly rumours
You look like a panda drawn on a Satsuma
Leaking your sex-tapes
Selling your arsehole
Blinded by false lashes, driven by fame
Dancing up the greasy pole again and again
I don’t need the bag
Never read a fashion mag
Telling me what I should own?
I don’t think so
No celebrity price tag
No celebrity price tag no
Consumer consumptives
Presumably presumptuous
Papparazzi shoot you like they’re shooting fish
I’ve seen more culture in a Petri dish
Leaking your sex-tapes
Selling your arsehole
Blinded by false lashes, driven by fame
Dancing up the greasy pole again and again
I don’t need the bag
Never read a fashion mag
Telling me what I should own?
I don’t think so
No celebrity price tag
No celebrity price tag no
Forced to start necking the tabloidese
I feel sanatogen with these seven c’s:
Celebrity crack-den, caught out clubbing
Cancerous crotch rot, Conservative slumming
Our queen of hearts with a bun in the oven
Death by botox for the Grubb street coven
Grazia, nein danker yer wanker
I don’t need the bag
Never read a fashion mag
Telling me what I should own?
I don’t think so
No celebrity price tag
No celebrity price tag no
Cell Phoneis that staple of the tin pan alley/ hollywood teen experience - waiting for the telephone to ring. Blondie nailed this one of course with "Hanging on the telephone" and then, rather rudely, did it again with "Call me" . And of course there's the timeless classic "Clouds across the moon" by The Rah Band , giving the concept a much needed Sci Fi re-boot.
But I thought the time had come for another slightly duller and less inspired version. The title is, of course, a pun: the telephone has literally become a prison cell as she is waiting on a call, she is trapped and unable to function.
But obviously we're far sighted enough to have our eyes on the American market too.
Celebrity Price Tag is about my hatred of tabloid culture and the toxic overspill into other areas of life; advertising being an obvious choice. I find much of the modern world disgusting: from it's values, aspirations and cultural heroes to Ugg boots and tattoos popular entertainments. (whilst enjoying the availability of wireless-internet, disposable contact lenses and good food in pubs!)
Cell Phone
I'm in a mess
And my best party dress
I finally got into after 7 weeks
How could you go and do this
I look like a member of Kiss
My mascara running down my cheeks
O-oh oh maybe I got mixed signals
O-oh oh but you're so hard to figure
O-oh oh our date was a disaster
O-oh oh you didn’t call me after
You got me trapped like a prisoner
Hung up and alone
Waiting for your name on my cell phone, cell phone
You're on vibrate in my pocket
But you would never know
Cause I never see your name on my cell phone, cell phone
My friends all said
You'd leave me for dead
You've got a reputation follows you around
But I'm still in a state
Did i some how orchestrate
this communication break-down
O-oh oh maybe I got mixed signals
O-oh oh but you're so hard to figure
O-oh oh our date was a disaster
O-oh oh you didn’t call me after
You got me trapped like a prisoner
Hung up and alone
Waiting for your name on my cell phone, cell phone
You're on vibrate in my pocket
But you would never know
Cause I never see your name on my cell phone, cell phone
predictive text tells me next
time I'll do it all again
my phone thrown at the wall exactly as you call
tells me I've done it again
You got me trapped like a prisoner
Hung up and alone
Waiting for your name on my cell phone, cell phone
You're on vibrate in my pocket
But you would never know
Cause I never see your name on my cell phone, cell phone
Celebrity price tag
Tandooried in fake-tan
Tramp-stamp, thank you ma’am
Wicked-whispers and ugly rumours
You look like a panda drawn on a Satsuma
Leaking your sex-tapes
Selling your arsehole
Blinded by false lashes, driven by fame
Dancing up the greasy pole again and again
I don’t need the bag
Never read a fashion mag
Telling me what I should own?
I don’t think so
No celebrity price tag
No celebrity price tag no
Consumer consumptives
Presumably presumptuous
Papparazzi shoot you like they’re shooting fish
I’ve seen more culture in a Petri dish
Leaking your sex-tapes
Selling your arsehole
Blinded by false lashes, driven by fame
Dancing up the greasy pole again and again
I don’t need the bag
Never read a fashion mag
Telling me what I should own?
I don’t think so
No celebrity price tag
No celebrity price tag no
Forced to start necking the tabloidese
I feel sanatogen with these seven c’s:
Celebrity crack-den, caught out clubbing
Cancerous crotch rot, Conservative slumming
Our queen of hearts with a bun in the oven
Death by botox for the Grubb street coven
Grazia, nein danker yer wanker
I don’t need the bag
Never read a fashion mag
Telling me what I should own?
I don’t think so
No celebrity price tag
No celebrity price tag no
Short Man Blues & Fat Today
These too are jokes. Short Man Blues was written about a friend who, while claiming that she was desperately lonely and would try anything for love, maintained an aggressively heightist agenda. Men under 5'11" were simply not up for consideration.
Fat Today is me channeling my own woes through a "Loose Women" filter.
Short man blues
I’ve got the short man blues
I’m drowning myself in yellow fizzy booze
I’d cheer myself up with some impractical shoes
But then I’d tower over him
I’ve got short man syndrome something rotten
I’m Miss Woeful, Miss Wistful and Miss Begotten
A blue eyed boy in my bed seems somehow verboten
Replaced by something grim
Here comes another knee- high Napoleon
His bony-parts exposed, there’s no consoling him
Lying on his back on the linoleum
I’ll need to get out the vim
fat today
I felt fat today; it was hanging over my belt
How I wish, to paraphrase the bard
This solid flesh would melt
I pinch the flesh above my hip
Soft beneath my thumb and knuckle
I think I’ll join a gym, I muse
But pour a gin and then do fuck all
Come friendly bombs and fall on blokes
Their farting and their dirty jokes
The loo seat left up every time
Our partners in a life of grime
If we could break them in like horses
Send them off on umpteen courses
Till Stepford boyfriends were returned
Much humbled by lessons learned
Manicured and ripped and toned
Empathic skills all neatly honed
We’d learn to hate this new edition
We couldn’t stand the competition
Fat Today is me channeling my own woes through a "Loose Women" filter.
Short man blues
I’ve got the short man blues
I’m drowning myself in yellow fizzy booze
I’d cheer myself up with some impractical shoes
But then I’d tower over him
I’ve got short man syndrome something rotten
I’m Miss Woeful, Miss Wistful and Miss Begotten
A blue eyed boy in my bed seems somehow verboten
Replaced by something grim
Here comes another knee- high Napoleon
His bony-parts exposed, there’s no consoling him
Lying on his back on the linoleum
I’ll need to get out the vim
fat today
I felt fat today; it was hanging over my belt
How I wish, to paraphrase the bard
This solid flesh would melt
I pinch the flesh above my hip
Soft beneath my thumb and knuckle
I think I’ll join a gym, I muse
But pour a gin and then do fuck all
Come friendly bombs and fall on blokes
Their farting and their dirty jokes
The loo seat left up every time
Our partners in a life of grime
If we could break them in like horses
Send them off on umpteen courses
Till Stepford boyfriends were returned
Much humbled by lessons learned
Manicured and ripped and toned
Empathic skills all neatly honed
We’d learn to hate this new edition
We couldn’t stand the competition
Friday, 14 January 2011
That wasn't me (that was Stewart Lee)
This song is so new it doesn't even have a band or tune yet. It's been given to both Doug and Martin and I envision the verses sounding something like "North American scum" by LCD Soundsystem. But faster.
This a song born of jealousy really. Stewart Lee looks a bit like me (we're both ex-thin men with quiffs who have probably drunk more than is good for us) and he lives near me, he has simillar interests and likes a lot of the same music as I do. However he is almost universally acknowledged as the finest comedian of his generation and I am an anonymous sad-sack who can't get his book published. So, as you can see, I would seem to be motivated solely by jealousy.
And yet...
I can't even sustain even that level of bitterness, as the all too telling last verse records...
n.b. my first novel "A Devil in Camelot" is much better than Stewart's first (and to date only)novel "The Perfect Fool" and yet his, and only his, was published. This is because he is an award winning comedian with a proven fan-base and a television career stretching back almost two decades and the only time I've ever been on T.V. is when I was stopped by the cameras of "Thames Valley T,V." and asked about the mooted closure of Reading town centre's infamous "smelly alley".
Later that same day, on trying to buy a pair of shoes, I went to the cash machine and realised that I had completely forgotten my pin-number. It was just gone; forever. I had to ring the bank and ask for a new one and I never got the shoes.
This never happens to Stewart Lee who can afford expensive plastic surgery in order to render his pin-number handily on the back of his eyelids for safe and secure retrieval. He favours comic sans. But then he would.
That wasn’t me ( that was Stewart Lee)
Did I see you at the gig last night,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
Alone at the bar and your jacket too tight,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
You sneered and you snorted at every song,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
And then went home before the main-act came on,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
Did I see signing copies of your book,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
The one that rambled on and on like a song without a hook,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
Did I hear you got a second series on BBC2
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
Love all the rolling on the floor stuff that you do
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
I look in the mirror and my face is a mess,
Stewart Lee haunts me like the ghost of success,
Like the same things, dress the same way, lives close by,
He’s a much better version of myself though I try and I try,
Did I hear you mostly wasted your time,
Yeah that was me not Stewart Lee,
Booze, broken bones and the search for semi-accurate rhymes,
Yeah that was me not stewart Lee,
Did I hear that you still don’t make any money,
Yeah that was me not Stewart Lee,
You’re a fat smart arse in a bad suit who thinks he’s funny,
Hey that both me and Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
This a song born of jealousy really. Stewart Lee looks a bit like me (we're both ex-thin men with quiffs who have probably drunk more than is good for us) and he lives near me, he has simillar interests and likes a lot of the same music as I do. However he is almost universally acknowledged as the finest comedian of his generation and I am an anonymous sad-sack who can't get his book published. So, as you can see, I would seem to be motivated solely by jealousy.
And yet...
I can't even sustain even that level of bitterness, as the all too telling last verse records...
n.b. my first novel "A Devil in Camelot" is much better than Stewart's first (and to date only)novel "The Perfect Fool" and yet his, and only his, was published. This is because he is an award winning comedian with a proven fan-base and a television career stretching back almost two decades and the only time I've ever been on T.V. is when I was stopped by the cameras of "Thames Valley T,V." and asked about the mooted closure of Reading town centre's infamous "smelly alley".
Later that same day, on trying to buy a pair of shoes, I went to the cash machine and realised that I had completely forgotten my pin-number. It was just gone; forever. I had to ring the bank and ask for a new one and I never got the shoes.
This never happens to Stewart Lee who can afford expensive plastic surgery in order to render his pin-number handily on the back of his eyelids for safe and secure retrieval. He favours comic sans. But then he would.
That wasn’t me ( that was Stewart Lee)
Did I see you at the gig last night,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
Alone at the bar and your jacket too tight,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
You sneered and you snorted at every song,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
And then went home before the main-act came on,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
Did I see signing copies of your book,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
The one that rambled on and on like a song without a hook,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
Did I hear you got a second series on BBC2
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
Love all the rolling on the floor stuff that you do
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
I look in the mirror and my face is a mess,
Stewart Lee haunts me like the ghost of success,
Like the same things, dress the same way, lives close by,
He’s a much better version of myself though I try and I try,
Did I hear you mostly wasted your time,
Yeah that was me not Stewart Lee,
Booze, broken bones and the search for semi-accurate rhymes,
Yeah that was me not stewart Lee,
Did I hear that you still don’t make any money,
Yeah that was me not Stewart Lee,
You’re a fat smart arse in a bad suit who thinks he’s funny,
Hey that both me and Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
That wasn’t me that was Stewart Lee,
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