Painting’s hard, with all those tiny strokes, And poems are endless rhymes, And anyway, they’re the preserve of snooty folks And so behind the times. And architecture’s super-hard to build With all that carving and stuff I mean, who’s got the time to be that skilled ? Just pour the concrete rough. And music’s hard, not worth the perk To learn an instrument – Just sample other people’s work, And pay them not a cent
Creating beauty’s hard, we can’t be arsed, We’re far too lazy – But critics dig our arsey arts, And worship us like crazy. Make it ugly, hard to parse, This public-funded junk – The future finds it vain and sparse, Agog at how we’ve shrunk. We’re sinkholes in the bedrock karst, And ev’ryone knows we’re farces. Amazing how we can’t be arsed, And yet we’re up-our-own-arses.
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You Know What I Mean ?
The trouble with pop songs is how they say so little, Popping with so few words – They open a question they barely can answer, With most of their meaning inferred.
And choruses, of course, Just underscore – They only reinforce What’s gone before.
It’s not like they’re frightened to tackle the big themes, They’re sometimes incredibly plucky. It’s not that they’re vapid, it’s just that they’re brief – With two verses, three if we’re lucky.
And choruses repeat, That’s what they do – The feelings are complete, And they are few.
So much time is wasted, wasted, Misplaced in repeat repeatings – Saying all the same things That you said it all already. So much wasted time repeatings, Same things all the saying wasted – All already is misplaced In that repeat you said it.
Now hip-hop has plenty to say for itself, But pop is a hit-and-run lover. A beautiful thought or a rallying cry, And time’s up !, it plays us another.
And choruses declare The point is made. They’ve nothing more to share – Repeat to fade.
I’ve got a sampler at my feet, I’ve got a long synthetic beat I’m strumming my guitar, But there’s no-one on the stage but me…
It backs me up just fine, And it always keeps in time When I’m strumming my guitar, But it never lets me change the key
I’m a one-man band With my digital friends, Just playing a solo that never ends. And I can’t speed up, And I can’t slow down, So see me next week in Camden Town.
I’d love to sing a duet with someone Who’s backing me up in analogue. Could you syncopate me, someone, To put some roll in my rock ?
I’d love to thrash about the stage, I’d love to whip you to a rage, But I’m strumming my guitar To a hundred-and-twenty beats, inspite.
I’d love a ballad to unroll, I’d love an easy slice of soul, But I’m strumming my guitar To a hundred-and-twenty beats, all night.
I’m a one-man band, And it takes too long To set up the backing for every song. So I can’t slow down, And I can’t speed up, So see me next week in Lower Sidcup.
I’d love to sing a duet with someone, Without the need of a metronome. Could you be my freestyle, someone, And let my tempo roam ?
All of the best tunes are already written, I swear, Before I was even born. I spent my teens so acutely aware I was out of my time and the world didn’t care. So all the best tunes have already bitten me, Hooked me, then left me forlorn, Changed the planet, and now they are history, Un-recreatable, storied in mystery, Came and then went and it’s not even fair – Each time that I sing them I mourn. It’s not my aloofness, it’s not of my choosing, It’s downright confusing why I cannot bear Whatever my peergroup is eager to share – I call theirs noise and they call mine corn, Abusing the ears of the other, with no tune to spare. But that’s just me, ignore my scorn, I guess we each tootle a different horn. So set it to music, and that is my essence – An unrequited adolescence, Only enlivened by songs from the dead and the square. But throw in the Trident piano, and baby I’m there !
My daughter is getting into vinyl, And I wonder why, She can’t have much nostalgia For its world of middle-fi. It ended long before she even started, Dead and gone, Revived by boomer hairshirts Who cannot accept the world moves on.
She’s far too young for this old man’s hobby, Far too poor for these rich man’s toys, She never had to twiddle knobs To boost the signal, damp the noise. She never had the pops and crackles From the deep-down dirt that rocks her records as they roll – She never had to live with scratches, Etched across her far-too-fragile sheened and spiralled soul.
Give me digital to feed me, Give me digital to save, Give me megabytes of songs To last me to my grave. She’ll find out in her own time, And till then, let’s let have her thing – To swing the arm into the secret vault That makes the diamonds sing.
My teenage self would envy all her Easy access to her tunes, With soundwaves at her fingertips For filling busy afternoons – And not just playing them, but finding them, No matter how obscure. And yet, she wants to give it up For the world of the analogue-pure.
But maybe she’s cosplaying other lives, With second-hand vinyl bought-up cheap – I’d gladly give her my old forty-fives, But I long since chucked the useless heap. Music shouldn’t need kid-gloves, To tiptoe past, afraid to jive, to keep her groove on track. Let each girl play the songs she loves In beautiful fidelity, unshattered by shellack.
Give me digital to sing to, Give me digital romance, Give me cold hard ones and ohs On which the lasers dance. She’ll find out in her own time, And till then, let’s let her have her bliss – To open up the gatefold gates Of needle-drop and soothing hiss.
Disco sucks When it’s made by corporations, Disco sucks When it’s got no good vibrations, Disco sucks When it’s played to saturation, Disco sucks – On ev’ry bloody station till the end of the dials, With mindless hedonism and compulsory smiles, Just smothering with strings, suffocating other styles, With too much of a good thing round the clock. So if we just can’t face it, Then that doesn’t make us racist, Or homophobo hateist, Just because we wanna rock. Yet rock music sucks When it’s made by corporations, But all music rules When it undergoes mutations. So play your disco, sure, But play other stuff as well, To live in multi-Heaven and keep out of mono-Hell. When I hear too much rock, Then I mentally must clear it, To find something else pumping At a thousand kilojoules – And if I don’t hear disco for a while, And then I hear it, That hearing is the time when Disco rules !
Does the Devil lurk at crossroads ? Doesn’t he have some place to go ? It’s a waypoint, not a terminus. But strum a guitar to the croaking toads And see if the Highway Lord will show – Or, failing that, the midnight bus.
Isn’t this where mediaeval priests Would bury the suicidal souls ? Is that why Satan’s such a fan ? But no undeads tonight, at least, Just jamming with the bats and moles, With not a trace of a bogeyman.
Of all the places to meet with fate, A junction seems a strange address – It sounds like the Devil’s lost his way. Whatever, the hour is getting late, With only the hedgehogs to impress – Time, perhaps, to call it a day.
These roads are just two country lanes, That even in daylight are pretty stark – The Devil has better things to do. Now, which way did I come, again ? All these paths look the same in the dark – Where’s the signpost ? Not a clue…
Hey Jude, have you heard, There was once a piano That achieved far more than you and I ever shall ever. It’s a little bit funny, if that’s the word, How much this piano Brought more of us smiles than all of us manage together. But the rumour mill will grind on, come what may – What can I say ? It had a busy day today.
Sure, it’s all just circumstance, Such a perfect day, Such a god-awful small affair. We’ve fallen for the neat romance Just because it’s true, But ought we disbelieve it, if we dare ?
With a hub-cap diamond-star halo, And with dynamite with a laser beam, And how can we ever compete with such a daydream ? Let it go. But if living is without you, Then you think the song is about you – But the thing is, this isn’t your show. Coincidences leave a daunting trail, But in the end, they have no horns and they have no tail.
We’re committing the crime of the century, otherwise, Holding-up standards we never can realise, What reasons do we need to be told ? So best to shrug and cheer up, dude. It’s just a piano that rocked and rolled – Don’t make it bad, hey, Jude.
This music’s sounding all the same, I must be getting old. The world moves on, the fashions change, The safe and known is new and strange Of course, there’s nobody to blame, But now it leaves me cold And really, this makes perfect sense – I’m not the target audience.
But once I was the golden ears The bands would want to please – A guarantee my mind would blow Each time I tuned the radio I thought, despite the passing years, Their music tastes would freeze – But songs move on – the future tense Will be the target audience.
This music’s sounding all the same, I must be getting old. And all the tunes from in my prime, I’ve heard them far too many times. We get one chance to play the game To be that big and bold – And then, we’re drifting in suspense, Beyond the target audience.
When we are puzzling-out our teens, The music matters most – It comforts us, it lights our fires, It strengthens us against the liars But as we grow and gain the means, We can’t remain its host – It must move on, to bring defence To a brand new target audience.
Pop – music for optimistics, Music for singing at two ayem. Vinyl that wears its gist on its sleeve, And makes us believe in them each times we play them. Sure, we may attempt to rebel, Claiming to be serious nerds, But when we hear its tempo swell, We find we still know all the words. Cos pop music is just so poppy, Music for yelling “There’s no-one can stop me !” It’s music for happiness, Music for crying to, Brings out our best when it’s not even trying to.
Pop – music for earworm farmers, Music for dancing the daily commute. It pierces our armour, it captures our cortex, Deep down in the vortex and never be mute. Our parents, they just don’t get it, Just as their folks just didn’t get them in their turn, And we likewise just can credit What turns-on our kids – but no cause for concern. So keep the upbeat up, we’ve learned, For ballads and minor keys have to be earned. Some say it’s artifice, Some say it’s cash – A flash in the pan, they insist – but oh, what a flash !
Rhyming Couplets 