Authors Note:
Creating music is a interesting form of expression. I like the idea of using melody to communicate idea's, thus bypassing the need for the words to be understood, in order for an emotional response to be created in the listener.
Despite not being able to write down the notation for the melodies, I've always had a lot of music flowing in my head, bugging me with insistent repeating sequences of notes, that I wasn't able to write down or in any proper way, get out of my consciousness. I've found the best of dealing with it, has always been to ignore it. Stick with words, that at least I can put down on paper and walk away from.
Thanks to some musician friends, I had two attempts to get rid of some of the music I was always hearing - the first time was way back in the mid Eighties, with a happily mad friend called Rusty Stanley. We recorded some material, used repeating sounds of a kitten that happened to be in the area at the time (called 'Audible') and laid further tracks.
There was only one 'song' such as it was, and the lyrics weren't too complex. It was called 'Curse of the Swamp Thing'. Psych fans might be interested though, given the shit-storm raining in my life at that point, to read the lyrics, so its posted below, ahead of the later, and (to me) much more elegant lyrics, that began emerging on my second foray into music.
Some years later, a musician friend Nick Hauser and myself got together and began doing the 'music thing' a little more systematically. I'd take a melody I had in my head, then write down a 'vocal melody' - using each word as a specific note which acted as a counterpoint to the original melody.
Then I'd trundle off to Nick, sing him the vocal melody, and do my best to sing the 'original' melody - and he, being one of those irritatingly talented people, 'got' what I was trying to hum, sing and in various ways communicate to him, and reproduced the original melody, near as dammit.
Then, using a four track mixer, we'd do a busking session, me on vocals, him on whatever instrumentation he felt like - and we'd lay it down and record it. One take, rough, but interesting as hell - given that the music emerging was clearly very different to anything 'local'.
Nick's own musical history was wide and varied, originally from England, he'd been part of Mango Groove (a local pop band) in their early days, and had brought the 'pennywhistle' sound to the group, something he'd grown up with as a kid. As Mango Groove got more and more commercial, and began being on the brink of being 'a commercial success' ie: yet another local pop group, Nick had decided 'euwww' and left.
Mango Groove naturally became local darlings with their supposedly 'African' sounding pennywhistle. Nick however happily dived into another alternative band called Kakhi Monitor, and had a lot more creative fun than he would have, doing the 'pop' thing.
And Nick and I had always got on, I think because we're both 'artistic' types in our different ways, who've always seen the creative benefits of being independent - regardless of the cost. We're also both painfully thoughtful about what we do creatively. So even though I was a wordsmith, and he was a musician, there was always a kind of mutual respect going on.
The music that emerged was a strange hybrid of styles, a very 'old' retro-folk Celtic sound was emerging from who knows where. Nick kept asking me if I'd heard of this or that band, and usually I shrugged and said nope. These were the melodies that I had, and where ever they came from, I had no clue.
We kept recording and laying down songs, I got better and better vocally, and despite Nick's growling, everytime I went outside for a cigarette (he's one of those ex-smokers) - we got on well, both enjoying the creation of something completely different.
We chose an arbitrary name 'Wailing Wall' - who knows why - I don't. And made a few DAT tapes, and sent them off to local radio stations, and got some airplay - the DJ's enthusing over this odd sound.
One of the songs, a one-take special, which happened to have some previous track bleed over into it, accidentally adding another layer of sound to the recording, was a little song called 'Scars From Dreams'. Nick took this to Benjy Mudi at Tusk Music, who fell in love with it, and brought Nick and I into a recording studio to redo it professionally.The song was to be included in some local compilation of music - but that fell through for some unknown reason.
We did some live performances - the best were at small folk music clubs, where the audience could 'get' the odd folk-sound that we were creating, the worst were at large live concerts - where the crowds really weren't interested in a very classical and oldstyle precise sound, that had no relation to anything they'd ever heard before.
One of the years, I forget which - we took the music to Grahamstown Arts Festival, which - thinking about it, was a mistake creatively, because the audiences there had so much baggage about me. I was the 'standup comic' 'hellraiser' 'windswept angry and interesting' playwright - so naturally they initially came, thinking this was going to be somehow connected to these other genres they were used to seeing. Instead, what they got was utterly unconnected to any of these other persona's they thought I was.
It was actually kind've a headfuck realisation for me, as I began to see that I'd been so stereotyped as being something I'm actually not - that I was unable to present a different creative/artistic genre to audiences, and have them able to 'perceive' let alone 'enjoy' what I was doing.
As an analogy, to audiences - maybe it was something like Eddie Izzard deciding to create Julian Bream-style music. They weren't interested. Couldn't comprehend that I'm not only not the thing they'd gotten used to, but that I actually clearly prefer this other persona.
To make matters more freaky, at the same time that I was doing the music with Nick (in a glorious old vaulted ceiling cathedral - a perfect setting for the music - I was also performing my own standard 'hellraiser' type comedy shows and other plays. Big clash of preconceived idea's in audiences. People came, and after a while, quite rudely just got up and left midway.
A few of the people stayed, raved and enthused at us - perhaps those who really could 'get' that what they were seeing was a totally unconnected-to-any-other-persona bit of creativity in action.
But the general perception and reaction was total incomprehension.
Meltdown occurred. (It was sad, given that of all the 'creative' work I've done - I have to admit that it was/is the music, that I have found most pleasing, artistically satisfying, and comforting to myself. )
A Sidetrack About Grahamstown Arts Festival:
It was only a year or two later, that I realised, standing after the final show at the Arts Festival, having filled 15 performances in a 600 seater, for my comedy shows, that I looked down at the money I'd made, and realised 'Enough was enough'. This had just been 'work' to me. This was no fun at all, not creatively satisfying anymore - and I was repeating myself.
The other layer, I should add - that few understood, during my 10 year run at the Grahamstown Arts Festival - was that I was there and doing my plays, and standup comedy - not for any ego, glory, recognition, supposed fame, or free pussy (although I did get some of that, I have to say) - I did it because I had things to say. That's the only reason.
So I had many years of walking around, signing autographs and being nice at the public who came up to me, but getting absolutely no ego-gratification out of it at all. Just a nonstop 10 day blur of alienation, massive loneliness usually, and constantly maintaining a front that wasn't 'me' at all.
Adding to this weirdness, was the weird reaction of many of my fellow 'artistes' - who clearly were in it just for their ego's. The desire to be looked at, liked, regarded as being somehow 'special' or better than everyone else. I don't know. (I'm glad I don't fully understand the motivations of those in the creative fields who do things because they want people to like them, or want them to fill up the empty vacuum of their Ego, which seems to be dependent on the admiration of others.)
Whereas I was gratified months earlier by the simple creation of whatever the Play or Work was, and public reaction was just an odd almost unnecessary and difficult 'extra' for me.
I remember standing in the auditorium, the year Capab did 'Blitzbreeker' - and I stood at the back in the darkness watching, and although it was a magnificent production - afterwards, people are coming up to me enthusing about it, and I'm consciously aware that I'm having to 'act' thankful for the praise.
Not because I'm so great or anything - but just because I'm not emotionally connected to the live production at all. It's impossible for me to gain any ego-satisfaction from other people's enjoyment of stuff that I already sucked dry of that possibility, back when I first wrote it.
So I have to pretend that this production they've just seen is somehow of value to me. The truth was and is always, that the valuable part of the creative process for me, was way back when I wrote it. Sitting quietly and relishing the creation of the piece while I wrote. This live performance stuff is disconnected from my ego entirely, so every time anyone said how wonderful a play was - I had to consciously thank them and adopt what I figured was the right kind of response to make the fan feel good. And also not to come over as the wankers preening and gloating over every tiny bit of public attention they got.
Weirdness. Total alienating weirdness..
I think I still hold the record at Grahamstown Arts Festival for the most numbers of performances of a single persons' work. One of the years, I think it might have been the year that Ben Kruger brought down casts to do Sleeping Chickens, Heart Like a Stomach, Sugar Plum Fairy - and I was doing my own play as well as a standup comedy show, I vaguely recall counting total performances of my work - and it was something ridiculous like 36 - 45 performances in total of stuff I'd written.
Now imagine a disconnected headspace, having to deal with x35 or so loads of audiences who've all just seen this or that production, and want to enthuse about it. Never mind the growling envy of the actors and actresses who seemed to need to have the high profile and attention that I was desperately trying to avoid, and didn't want at all.
To keep myself otherwise focused, I'd get stoned, stay stoned, and hand out literally thousands of leaflets as adverts for my shows. It gave me the chance to personally and consciously develop my social skills, interact one on one with audiences and the public - as well as kill time inbetween doing shows.
I recall one year letting my guard slip, and bursting into tears and sobbing uncontrollably in front of some woman I was sitting chatting with - I think the alcohol I'd had - like one drink's worth - was just enough to rip down my already abraded psychic defenses. I'm sure that to most folks, ten days of adulation and glory is a positive thing - but not to me. I can't process it, can't file it, or use it in any positive way for myself. And I tried to cover it up as best as possible, and probably over-compensated at times, and appeared to be revelling in the glory.
By my final year at the Festival, although I'd given up dope, I developed a nasty coke habit, which kept me going through the 24/7 freakout of the Festival (to the point where the local dealer was trying to buy product back from me, I'd bought so much. Yeehaa.)
Besides, what else was there to do? I didn't really drink, there wasn't any art that I wanted to see, I moved around looking at the people, and enjoying the interactions with them, far more than anything inside any galleries or venues. I also began to find I had far more in common with the New Agers and 'hippies' that were beginning to make their presence felt each year, than I ever did with the 'upper ranks' of the Festival organisers or fellow artistes.
With hindsight, the drug use probably was a good catalyst for me - as it helped bring home to me the crashing alienation and creative boredom that I'd avoided facing, for so long. So it was either '94 or '95, I forget - that I reached the end of that years Festival, having clawed my way through the days and people and shows, by what felt like torn and bloodied fingertips, and reached the end, the last show - and decided, in the words of The Smiths - 'never never never again'.
The only benefit remaining that I was getting from doing this, namely 'the money' - was just not a good enough reason, given the amount of angst I was having to deal with, intellectually and artistically. The positive responses from whoever, gave me no real happiness, merely insecurity and a further layer of things I had to intellectually be on guard against.
(After all, if you 'believe' people when they tell you that you're good - you'll believe them when they decide you're bad, as well. ) So you better get be guard against absorbing either of those extremes, when it comes to your own creative work.
You know if it's good or not. Trust yourself. Delight in your own creativity - and beware of ever relying on, or needing anyone elses opinion, approval, acceptance or awards, in order to 'confirm' that what you create, is 'good'. Please yourself completely, and if the Fates will it, others will enjoy it too. If they don't, well - tough. The object of creativity, to me, isn't about pleasing others, or using creative work to get yourself any 'pats on the head' for being a Good Dog - its about expressing yourself, to yourself. Making sense of the world as YOU see it and feel it.
So ignore your teachers, and anyone else who tries to make you conform to some preconceived idea of what is 'acceptable' in structure, form, and especially content. Don't fall into the trap of thinking that the only 'good' Art is that which everyone else SAYS is Good Art.
Decide for yourself.
And differentiate between your ego's need for comfort, adulation and acceptance by others - and the satisfying creation of Art, as a solo action to please yourself, as a fine end result in of itself.
Who cares what the 'reason' is for the creativity - the only bad reason for Art - is maybe to try and get the love you perhaps never got as a little kid. Use a therapist rather.
Although I'm a fine one to talk. A lot of what I've done, has been, it seems with hindsight - therapeutic creativity, to make myself feel better, and understand reality and myself a little more - using creativity to prune the dead wood off my own psyche.
(And along the way, oddly enough, I seem to have pleased other people who've seen some of the things I've made. But it was only ever for me.)
So what do I know?
Given this blatant contradiction, between my advice, and my behaviour - I'm clearly full of shit myself.
Here are the song lyrics, finally. These probably come closest to honestly showing aspects of 'me' - than any of the untold quantities of writings I've ever done. Although you're not getting the music side, of it - they more or less work as 'poems' (ewww - hate that stuff).
If I can find online storage space, I'll link to audio files of the songs themselves, so you can hear the complete audio artwork in action, and decide for yourself if they suck or rock. And thanks again to Nick Hauser, for helping me do it - even though I'm a smoker.
-Ian Fraser, 2005
The Dancer
With no rights to be proud,
shadows on the Turin Shroud,
life comes life goes-
and round and round and round she goes
(and where she stops nobody knows)
All the books burned in vain.
All the lives lived in pain -
never stopped the falling rain,
we are able Sons of Cain.
(I suppose)
and round and round and round she goes,
(an where she stops nobody knows)
A Dancer whirls whirls in an empty room,
(gone with the wind like a lost balloon)
never talks, never speaks-
on friction-burnt red pointed feet-
She never slows.
And round and round and round she goes,
(an where she stops nobody knows)
Beam me up, I don't wanna live this life no more.
My hands are cuffed, eyes watch from the peephole on the door.
The Master calls ( through the walls )
dance alone in a green forest when a silent tree falls-
Who knows?
and round and round and round she goes-
(an where she stops nobody knows)
Dance.
Towards the Light do not be afraid,
we're just a Game that unseen Players play.
In a star-filled room.
They laugh,
well they may
(you know?)
and round and round and round she goes-
an where she stops nobody knows-
and round and round and round she goes-
(an where she stops nobody knows)
You know?
You know?
You know.
SCARS FROM DREAMS (recorded by Tusk Music SA)
My mouth can't chew, my eyes don't blink it's hard to say, just what I think-
trapped here in this place without a rhyme or reason-
My legs can't move, me towards you
my ears can't hear, but I'm alone without fear
(A thousand years ago I would've been Moses)
There're wolves out there
( or so it seems )
I've got snakes for hair
( and scars from my dreams- )
I could differentiate in the state of leaves, I could tell the change of seasons-
but I remember when I didn't want to know
I didn't want to know reasons-
My hands can't feel, just what is real my tongue can't taste, so food is a waste
so the Sphinx just stares-
and the pyramids are there-
the lines on the Plain
well, they remain-
There're wolves out there
( or so it seems )
I've got snakes for hair
( and scars from my dreams )
The game goes on,
there're songs to be sung-
my dreams take place,
whether I'm asleep or awake-
There're wolves out there
( or so it seems )
I've got snakes for hair
( and scars from my dreams )
So who moved the Stone?
And where is home?
For now I burn,
awaiting Your return-
There're wolves out there
( or so it seems )
I've got snakes for hair
( and scars from my dreams- )
The Primary Colors
So where are you?
So where are you?
The primary colours of my state are black and blue-
(all for the lack of warmth,
and some enchanted meaning)
The rising sun can't warm the cold depths of my heart
has the runner yet been born
for the race that is to start?
So where are you?
So where are you?
The primary colours of my state are black and blue-
(all for the lack of warmth,
and some enchanted meaning)
I can't see through the mists of time-
the Fates with traitors do contrive,
I dont just want my elbow to be adorned-
no cardboard cut-out,
that folds in the wet mists before dawn-
Wanna take a sentimental journey?
Wanna take a cigarette an burn me?
Have I lived too early?
Or have you died too late?
Is all this a christening - or is it just a wake?
Got a Gesthemene in my heart
got a Redeemer in there too,
Judas has gone to do what he always does,
the Last Supper's for me and you.
The hiss of the foam from the incoming tide.
It's warmer in here an it's cold outside.
The cold vacuum of outer space.
The unblinking stars shine down on our faces.
So where are you?
So where are you?
The primary colours of my state are black and blue-
(all for the lack of warmth,
and some enchanted meaning)
The Games People Play
The games people play,
an nothing ever stays the same-
the thoughts of a disordered mind,
keep on walking don't look behind-
Coz the wind blows-
and glittering pearls
float in the sky,
(seeds sown from on high)
And this I know you sometimes sense-
there's no such thing as coincidence..
Midnight, and half the world's asleep-
it's allright, miles to go before we weep-
the wind blows-
yeah the wind blows-
blows the mist before us on the Path,
and when it goes,
those who now are first will be last.
Dawn-
the birds sing in the eaves of the asylum-
Dawn-
the sun hits the pan of the sky and starts frying-
Dawn-
like any tree we are seed then sawed,
(up and down and back and forth)
as the wind blows
as the wind blows..
The moaning tidal wave we call 'the future'-
the unexposed film of 'next year'-
the Serpents Egg of our actions,
waits to be hatched,
its shell is like mist it's unclear-
as the wind blows,
as the wind blows
as the wind blows
dead earth
A Republic of Insects and Grass-
dead earth,
A monument to a farce-
The burned remains of humankind,
float as ash and rest on our shoulders,
like arrowed blankets,
showing us-
the way to
dusty
death.
As the wind blows.
As the wind blows.
As the wind blows.
The Last Chance (for couples in love)
It's the last chance for
couples in love
it's the last chance they'll have to breath,
on the altar there's a coffin or is it a ring-
(if you listen carefully you can hear red velvet heart sing)
and they say
I love you just for the moment,
I love you just for the thrill
we're the only lovers through recorded time
to know exactly how this really feels-
With this ring I thee wed
(two children later she wishes she was dead)
but for now she can feel that it's real-
for now it's really sublime-
(staggering in a tunnel with lights in her eyes)
would pulling the switch be such a crime?
on the altar there's a coffin or is it a ring-
(if you listen carefully you can hear red velvet heart sing)
and they say
I love you just for the moment,
I love you just for the thrill
we're the only lovers through recorded time
to know exactly how this really feels-
the candles have burned down
the room has grown cold,
(facing the prospects of being home alone and old)
when you fall in love with a dream,
be prepared to lose your mind
I've got no reels,
to rewind,
in my refridg-erated mind
amidst the mists and coldest frosts
she beats her fists against the posts
and still insists she sees the ghosts
on the altar there's a coffin or is it a ring
(if you listen carefully you can hear red velvet heart sing)
and they say
I love you just for the moment,
I love you just for the thrill
we're the only lovers through recorded time
to know exactly how this really feels.
The Tooth Fairy
The tooth fairy's come with pliers and files
leprachauns shiver through the Emerald Isles
can rage rise off the printed page?
Set free the bears, unlock their cage.
(You can't see me now.)
I removed the boxes of all my possessions,
gotta say thanks, for teaching me a lesson in life-
(You can't see me now.)
Went through my phone book, erased your friends names,
threw all your photographs into the flames-
my naivety was an armchair to your desire,
pictures of you hisss in the fire-
(You can't see me now.)
I wash my hands at the thought of your face,
my expression shows a perfected state of grace-
into the big world into the night
we're scribbles on a board, a sum wrong and right-
Here there be Dragons, Here there be Tigers
the loneliness of the long distance riders-
(soft air being pushed, before a storm)
Tie me down light the stake let me get warm-
In time, we'll all be ashes-
In time, we'll all be slime-
Bow to your partner, assume the stance-
a stately Pavane, devoid of romance.
Another cask of Amontillado
My tell-tale heart, for now beats slow-
this place is not what it seems,
the blasted heath where
nothing grows green-
The tooth fairy's come with pliers and files
leprachauns shiver through the Emerald Isles,
can rage rise off the printed page?
Set free the bears, unlock their cage-
Sometimes I Wonder
Sometimes I wonder what they're saying-
Are they swearing
Are they praying?
And here I sit all brokenhearted-
( We're at the movies but the film hasn't started)
Come closer to the fire, and get warm
have you got your orange juice and popcorn?
my heart, bleeds on the seats
I'm a carnivore in a field of wheat-
I throw my head back stare at the sky
I'm too bemused to ask why
my throats too sore to speak aloud
so I stare
at the birds and bee's and clouds
- Sometimes I'm happy,
sometimes sad
I cry when I get too glad
so I
control that line of thought
So I
control just how I'm bought
So I
control just what I see
So I
control what you mean to me-
But let me take control of my heart
I'm putting the horse before the cart,
we're at the start,
of the story
we're gagged and bound
gagged and bound for glory..
Gagged and bound for glory..
At Sixes And Sevens
I went to the Buddha there was no one home
A note on the door 'leave me alone'
Went to church but God wasnt there-
Just people singing songs
and Satan grinning as they talked in tongues-
And why's it always raining in Heaven?
Why's my mind and body at sixes and sevens?
so is yours so is mine-
(Comes the dawn it'll be fine-)
I went to the parties I cruised through the night
Ideology is grey but we are black and white,
-And I smell the blood of the little boys
Who went to war and broke their toys-
And why's it always raining in Heaven?
Why's my mind and body at sixes and sevens
so is yours so is mine-
(Comes the dawn it'll be fine-)
And I bark and spin and jump for joy
on the graves of all the deluded boys.
who wonder
why's it always raining in heaven
-and why the mind and body's
at sixes and sevens
so is yours?
so is mine-
(Comes the dawn it'll be fine)
Come let's talk about the death of kings
And puppets dancing on their strings
( I'm a ghost dancer with a hole in my soul-)
(I'm a ghost dancer with a hole in my soul-)
(I'm a ghost dancer with a hole in my soul-)
The Blues
When I was a child, when I was a little boy..
When I was a child-
I put on a uniform an played the game of war
when I was a child-
I mistook kicks for caresses blood for love,
but not anymore-
when I was a child
when I was a little boy.
when I was a child-
I learned how to sing the anthem and salute the flag
when I was a child-
I thought fear and pain were the only feelings to be had-
when I was a child
when I was a little boy.
when I was a little boy,
I believed what they said on the radio
when I was a little boy-
I thought it was clever saying I dont know
when I was a little boy
when I was a little boy.
when I was a child-
I looked at people dancin' an thought they're having fun,
when I was a child-
now I'm not I see they're not an in thinking this I know I'm not the only one-
when I was a child
when I was a little boy.
Now I'm a man-
wet from the womb destination: A Cold Tomb
now I'm a man-
my back to the Cross with no sense of loss
Now I'm a woman-
and I cant get to sleep at night
Now I'm a woman-
an in this whole wide world there's gotta be someone who'll treat me right-
break my heart,
take my soul
turn diamonds back to coal-
when I was a child-
I believed we were all born to be free
when I was a child-
I believed what they said about Democracy-
when I was a child
when I was a little boy
Something old, something bought
one or two of my thoughts,
when I was a child
when I was a little boy-
Wanna take a sentimental journey?
wanna take a cigarette and burn me?
Burn baby burn baby
burn burn burn
burn baby burn baby
burn burn burn
when I was a child
when I was a little boy.
Heart Like a Stomach
the battle is won but the war is lost,
lust to dust and heat to frost,
oranges lemons and tangerines,
gotta heart like a stomach an I must feed-
I'll bloat up as I pig out-
twist an scream an shake an shout
come on spin that roulette wheel,
my fists are claws an my soul is steel
Like an eagle I am soaring,
indulging in debauched whoring-
come on spin that roulette wheel,
my fists are claws an my soul is steel-
At the abbatoir buy by the pound
(keeps me busy till the moon goes down,)
make a line, gimme some speed-
got a heart like a stomach an I must feed.
Fly in spiderweb on wall, you can't run if you crawl,
if I cut you would you bleed?
got a heart like a stomach an I must feed-
Miles of road across your throat,
four letter words like Love and Hope,
we are just products of seed,
got a heart like a stomach an I must feed.
Brown Eyed Moon
The moon is full
but my heart is fuller
tonight,
The moonlight's still
as the evidence
is lowered from sight,
And the grave
yawns beneath covering thorns,
my claws
become hands
my pads
become toes
when I'm back home I'll put on fresh clothes-
Dont worry Ma,
I was only dreaming-
The moon is full
but my stomach is fuller
tonight-
So don't worry Ma,
just don't turn on
the light-
Rings in circles
rings on bells,
you an me will burn in Hell
an no one will know
that you
ever cared-
An no one will guess
that you an I
ever were here-
The moon is full an it's so bright
I don't need eyes to see you tonight
so don worry Ma
It's not your son
who's bleeding-
The moon is full an my course is set
I don't know
where I'm headed yet
I cleaned my nails an scrubbed my clothes
I been a bad boy
again I suppose
tonight-
But don't worry Ma
just don't
turn on the light-
I been good-
I been good-
I been good-
good.
I been good-
I been good-
I been good-
good.
Ma.
Fly to the Moon
We're gonna leave the barbed wire behind.
Gonna see what Mysteries there are to find..
Swim on moonlit waves,
liquid roads that are paved,
we'll glide as we fly to the moon-
through gossamer clouds, above frenzied crowds-
who all want to be Me and You-
The witches are dancin' around the fire,
our leaders are talking, but they are liars-
the New Age as a concept is not coming true,
only thing we can do is fly to the moon-
Come ride with me-
above the tree's,
Come fly with me,
to when we all were free,
and had nothing to be afraid of-
The animals call you by your name,
your dreams at night make you wake in shame,
this cannot last it should all end soon-
come with me baby come fly to the moon.
The witches are dancin' around the fire,
our leaders are talking but they are liars-
the New Age as a concept is not coming true,
only thing we can do is fly to the moon-
Air surfing at night makes no sound,
truth wont set you free it'll just make you frown,
block your ears my dear, an hum a tuneless tune-
to muffle the screams as we fly to the moon-
The bare Globe shining, (yellow wine)
in Heaven, everything is fine-
with your arm in mine
it'd be too good to be true,
we'll set the night on fire as we fly to the moon-
An skim on moonlit waves
liquid roads that're paved-
come with me baby come fly to the moon-
Fly, (fuck) Flee-
Fly, (fuck) Flee-
Fly, (fuck)Flee-
Fly away with me..
Never Get Old
Walking down the street, shuffling your feet-
with a nurse at your back well how about that-
take a walk in the park (feed the coughing pigeons)
but be locked in your flat, when it gets dark-
me? me?
I'll never get old.
(You wont need Winter, to feel cold.)
Breaking glass, hissing geyser
another pot of tea move close to the heater-
me? me?
never get old-
(You wont need Winter to feel cold.)
It's really a rave.
Oh yes-
It's really a rave.
(Waiting to fall into a silent grave.)
Installments in the mirror, stroking the cat,
memories of picnics by softly gurgling rivers but now they're sewers,
well how about that?
me? me?
never get old..
me? me?
never get old..
(You wont need Winter to feel cold.)
Mozart
-There was a piece of Mychael Nyman re-orchestrated Mozart, which I really liked. So took each note, and paired words to it, wrote a song, following the exact melodic progression. Ultimately creating a strange but beautiful soaring choral prayer - using just Voice and organ.
Which way to Never Never Land?
There where the sea meets the sand-
I know we can't really see,
through the spray on the beach-
Now
-the dawn's head's in the sky-
Now
-angels no longer fly-
Now
-the dragons have all gone-
Now
-the magic carpet's,
undone.
Which way to Never Never Land?
There where the sea meets the sand-
I know we can't really see,
through the spray on the beach-
Now
-we go from gold to blue
On
-our knee's before You,
Crisp,
-and kissed we are golden
Ice
-before You becomes molten-
Which way to Never Never Land?
There where the sea meets the sand
I know we can't really see
through the spray on the beach-
It's beyond belief,
Time
is the thief,
increasing our fear
-blood turns yellow when mixed with tears.
Which way to Never Never Land?
There where the sea meets the sand
I know we can't really see
through the spray on the beach-