We rack them out between bridges and nuts, And crank till they must reply. And those low, low throbs that we feel in our guts – Well, the sheep feel them too, by-and-by. But it’s never their bleats or their baas that are scored, It’s never their voices that sing from each chord, And it’s never their own requiem we applaud. In life and in death, so their tension will always be high.
How many hundreds of thousands of sheep Have our symphonies dispatched ? Every cello has reason to weep, And scream as its sinews are scratched. How many flocks must we cull to the muse ? How many sacrificed lambkins and ewes ? On the altar of Bach shall their entrails ooze. They live for this music, but always do strings come attached.
A-Side Why do I hate Phil Collins ? Well, I try not to hate anymore But why do I so dislike Phil Collins ? Do I ? I’m not so sure. I still think Air Tonight is a classic, At least, till the kit kicks in – The rest, I mostly could leave ’em, But if you dig ’em, I guess you win.
No, the reason I hate…no, never hate, But maybe biting my thumbs, Is all because he single-handed killed the 80s With his drums – His thudding, crushing, reverb-hushing, Stop-and-starty gated drums ! His all-commanding, corp’rate-branding, Undecaying zombie drums !
It’s not all of Phil Collins’s fault, of course, He only rubbed the lamp, And soon the genius was loose To spread itself through desk and amp – Producers loved its soulless beats That never swing or soothe, And ev’ry engineer beheld The emperor’s new groove.
It took us all the decade to wake up, Ten years too late, To suss the subtleties we’d lost When drumskins don’t vibrate. How many tunes that now sound dated, Could instead have sounded great ? So this is why I curse Phil Collins – Cos he opened up the gate !
B-Side But what do I know, and what does he care ? He’s loved by thousands ev’ry day – So he’s the famous millionaire, And I’m just the whinging, self-smug square Who cannot even play. So I don’t like his drums ? So what ? Is that the best I’ve got To think that I can moan away ?
You know what I hate about Phil Collins ? I hate how he makes me hate. How all of my petty ugliness Is rising to the bait. He lets me let myself off the hook And lets my mouth run free – As if my taste is the only taste, And I dare you to disagree.
So sing it, Phil ! Sing it inspite of me, Sing it to frighten me Out of my combative them-and-us cry. Ignore my stridency, Forgive my overkill, Try to enlighten me – Live and let live till we die.
I guess this is where the toms come in, The final chorus beckons, I see. Could we just let them ring out for once, do you reckon, Just for me ? Ungate my heart, take me out of the 80s, And into a decade of long decay – Or else let’s part, and never be haters. Bang the drum – not fade away.
Strike a note – an A – with a delay to fade away and underlay the next you play. Strike a note – an E – and you will see how easily it echoes free within the key. Now slide away and do you see how this delay shall carry me Across the stay, the next, and three, till they decay in filigree ?
The hymns we used to sing at school, The same we sang again in church – With dreary verse by dozen verses, Crawling by as slow as hearses. Hymns we had to sing at school Beneath the master’s gaze and birch, We mumbled and we croaked along In vain attempt to kill the song. Amazing Grace, Thou art no friend – Oh, will thy tortures never end ?
But maybe those Victorians Were not so grim in what they wrote – They knew the lack of vocal fires Within the souls of conscript choirs. Those mutton-chopped Victorians Were scoring for the weary throat – Just make it monotone and slow, And not too high and not too low. Oh, Rock of Ages, Hear our shout – Pray let thine organ drown us out !
Of course, they almost killed the music, Almost beat the rhythm from us – Generations, stripped and cold, With not one note that we could hold. But still…there sang another music, One with joy and lust and promise – Yet the faithful still can’t figure How the Devil’s tunes are bigger… Hallelujah ! Mutants rule ! With our song Bright and Beautiful !
I heard a cautious plucking Of a rubber-banded string, And a nervous, tuneless whistle, And a doorbell’s lonely ring. While the birds were oddly quiet Till a starling risked a ping, And a chorus of the grazing ewes replied.
As note by chord by tonic, So the melodies returned – For all we needed silence, They cannot, will not be spurned. We’ve lost them many times before, But somehow never learned – On the day beyond The day the music died.
I heard the constant background hum Change key, To slowly raise the dead – From tinnitus to the thrum of industry, In C, Inside my head. From the tapping of the plumbing To the footsteps that I tread, Even my heartbeat was a drum Which would not be denied.
Where are all the protest songs ? Where is all the agit-pop to tell us ev’rything is wrong ? I hear they’re out there, chanting still – But somehow never reach me, and they prob’ly never will.
Where are all the protest songs ? I mean, I know that pop has always Been obsessed with love and lovers. It’s rare than politics belongs Beside the sugar on the airwaves, Saving all its love for brothers.
They try to set the world to right, But only in a quiet corner of the dial, late at night, And fight-the-power-chords and tears Are never crossing-over into unsuspecting teenage ears.
Best to use the tools you find By marching to a funky beat And tapping into pop’s romance – For if you want to move the mind, Then first you move the feet, By making earworms of your chants.
Sing it if you want to, Cos I can’t even stop you. Pay me my royalties, Do with it as you please. Just don’t go switching lyrics, Or stray from the original. Don’t change it up too much without permission – Stay traditional. But otherwise, it’s yours to sing – It’s all of yours – cos here’s the thing – It’s just one more addition to the public offering.
For once a song is out there, Then it’s out there for ev’ryone – It’s out there for evermore, They’re all out there together. Until I’m dead for three score ten And then it’s all for free forever. But until that day, If the author gets their pay, Then the artist gets to sing away. Permission isn’t ours to grant, And nobody tells anyone they can’t.
