1. |
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One last kiss and the Peppermint Twist.
The Monster Mash and Dead Man's Curve and Shangri-Las crying crash.
45s with Capitol swirl, Swan, and Tollie and VeeJay.
Don't drop out -- no way, I'm here to stay.
Again and again, and it never ends, from now to then.
Always my best evil friend.
Scratch my back, ride my pony!
Ups and downs on the Merry Go Round.
Show me a girl with skinny legs.
Everybody loves a Cathy's clown.
Tighten up with the Dixie Cups, Count Five and Petula, take us downtown.
KLIV 1590, my own Syndicate of Sound.
Again and again, and it never ends, from now to then. Always my best evil friend.
James Brown screamed on the night of the phantom moves.
I found a wife in wipe-out sonics, knifed-in strychnine grooves.
Top Of The Pops, time is on my side, whenever the needle drops.
Push that rock again, it's my family stone, and it never stops.
Again and again, and it never ends, from now to then. Always my best evil friend.
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2. |
304 Molino Way
03:07
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Nuzzled on a hillside, high — high in Mill Valley.
You opened the door to Harmless and Halfwit.
Blind Johnny and me.
With tin heart of palms, exotic your hands, keys to wide ocean.
Five perfect creations.
Two boys in the clouds.
We sat on the floor beneath the piano.
To us you were a star.
Double sun went gold if records not quite.
And in my hallucination, he’s there and how we found you.
In my hallucination, he’s there and it's real.
Such a stylish hippie, a violet, the gentlest of souls.
The closest I'd been to that Laurel Canyon.
Swim now with dolphins, turtles dance hulu.
Sun went platinum.
We were your dolphins, the Blind Johnny 3.
We sat on the floor beneath the piano.
To us you were a star.
Double sun went gold if records not quite.
And in my hallucination, he’s there and how we found you.
In my hallucination, he’s there and it's real.
In my hallucination, two sad dogs bark at the sky.
In my hallucination, on Molino Way.
The sun turns to moon, on Molino Way.
In my hallucination.
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3. |
Phil Ochs Is Dead
03:36
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Wine is soaking up the song.
Words are marching from the field.
Awful bleak on Bleecker now, and The Troubadour cares less.
“Phil Ochs is dead!”, the village idiot once cried out loud, but he was wrong.
Phil Ochs is dead.
Well yes, I guess, but never too far gone.
I’m on my way.
I've been underneath too long — too much seaweed in the eye.
A bay of frightened pigs, I stand in my pea coat and my cap.
More chords, less fame.
Phil Ochs is dead.
The singing journalist was tried and found guilty of trying.
Phil Ochs is dead.
The sad-eyed patriot was never too far.
He’s in my way.
(The revolution was ridiculous. Turned out Elvis couldn't work with Mao or Che.)
There's a spotlight on the shadow, but the shadow left the boards.
The beats are drowning — so are we.
The war is over in Grant Park.
Mad cowboy loose in Tombstone town.
Phil Ochs is dead.
The sinking socialist got lost and found guilty of belief.
The Folk Singer’s dead.
Well yes, I guess but never too far gone.
I’m on my way.
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4. |
Song for George
03:53
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In the garden, in the grotto, I will roam behind the stonework.
I have planted every tree that an eye should see.
There are rivers, slide beside me, like a Roman beyond the waters.
I have planted every seed that a soul can need.
Cocaine isn't funny.
Sometimes booze can make you choose between spiritual addiction and which of us is best unseen.
Love is breaking, love's a break-in.
It will run as wild as the weeds do.
I'll let it grow where and when, let the walls all fall.
Good karma isn't quiet.
Sometimes madness makes a sadness seem like spiritual affection, when a saint is torn between.
There are secrets, hidden mystery.
I can lose myself, but only
when I'm alone.
It's not because I'll never be lonely.
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5. |
Blue Cheer Captain
02:41
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My Blue Cheer Captain, when you're caverning at home.
Keeping afloat on pool of sound.
My Blue Cheer Captain, I would never paint you black.
You've had worse takes to fill a track.
Riding the waves, yeah, I'm a surfer too.
We can't be bored here in an endless sea.
Eternity likes me.
Picture an airless vault, ten kegs of Ballantine’s.
Lying in state on bricks and hash.
My Blue Cheer Captain, hear the mutineers all sing for one.
There are worse ways to come undone.
Riding the waves I can be endless too.
Let go the board, rise with the spray.
My Blue Cheer Captain, I'm a lot like you.
Our best mistakes should stay that way.
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6. |
Cameo Parkway
04:12
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He sang: "I don't know what your face looks like”.
He sang it again — spit into the mic.
Wasn't afraid to hit that fader too fast.
She just a shadow, she out of the past.
Didn't care how it looked in the dark day.
Couldn't see her in the bright night light.
Detroit to Philly, Cameo Parkway.
Ride that Vox Continental out of sight.
I said: "Hey, what you're face looks like" three times.
That's the best way to make sure that it rhymes.
Who could be sure about the color and shape?
How to catch those Mysterians on tape?
Didn't care how it looked in the dark day.
Couldn't see her in the bright night light.
Bay City on, Cameo Parkway.
Ride that Vox Continental out of sight.
He sang: "I don't know what your face looks like”.
He sang it again — spit into the mic.
Wasn't afraid to hit that fader too fast.
She just a shadow, she out of the past.
Didn't care how it looked in the dark day.
Couldn't see her in the bright night light.
Saginaw on, Cameo Parkway.
Ride that Vox Continental out of sight!
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7. |
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Mirror ball and big bout.
Lions of love are ready to howl!
The present is tense; boxing is now.
Everybody here, policing their fear — is nature too foul?
Sweat on the mat, blood in the towel.
Oh what a match!
Oh what a thrill in store!
One night at the Fillmore.
You’re better off dead.
Tomorrow is gone.
Last row is the skids.
Richard Bright in a light show: Billy the Kid.
In the other corner, caged like a fox and fondling its fur: Billie Dixon as Harlow (pronouns: she/her).
Oh what a match!
Oh what a thrill in store!
One night at the Fillmore.
It’s not that weird.
It’s only The Beard, not war.
One night at the Fillmore.
Welcome to the ballroom.
Poster the ghosts of spaces and ages.
Seduction of words and sound on stages.
We are all bags of meat, dreaming long-haired girls and boys.
Still capable of such beautiful noise.
Oh what a match, oh what a thrill!
Oh what a trip, oh what a film!
Oh what a shrine, eternity divine.
Mammals fill the floor, spill out the door.
One night at the Fillmore.
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8. |
Throwdown in Whispertown
02:50
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Sugar Pie so high, she sings like a trampoline.
Some Sister Sledge guitar, a percolating funk machine.
Damning all torpedoes, we baking love not war.
Music in every inch, lay my head on a vintage keyboard.
Throwdown in Whispertown —1800 from a sweaty sack.
Throwdown in Whispertown, it’s a holy hippie shack.
Archie Fisher shots go down, mystic mountain rain.
Drag the needle back again, he can murder me with no refrain.
DJ Jake and Morgan, see, they go together best.
Like a Sears clock radio, magic when you don't know what's next. Throwdown in Whispertown —I ’ll remember where an end begins. Throwdown in Whispertown, hard to find but full of friends.
Throwdown in Whispertown.
Team Human is bringing the beauty back.
Throwdown in Whispertown — it’s a stone get-happy shack.
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9. |
Time Sent Lewis
04:03
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Time sent Lewis to the canyons, with song like no one else before.
A daughter of melody, strange as one, and so many more.
A rabbit tripping through cat doors.
You are highly functional — you're functionally high.
They'll never bring you down, and who the fuck would try?
Time sent Lewis to meet cancer, with heart to wrestle down the past.
A daughter of mother lost, now as one, together at the last.
Love is the weight, the heavy answer.
You are highly functional — you're functionally high.
They'll never bring you down, and who the fuck would try?
Time sent Lewis such a castle.
She said: "I need much less than more.”
A daughter of harmony, so much undone.
Love is the last war. Peace is never naff, only the gun.
You are highly functional — you're functionally high.
They'll never bring you down, and who the fuck would try?
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10. |
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When I was just 16, I was loser to my dreams.
One future clutched at me with a careless hand.
Stumbled about the lot, encouraged by sods and gods.
When I came out of the fog, it wasn't by plan.
Now the band without a head has no pillows for smothering.
A headless band needs nothing to be another band with no head.
Back in Cavendish Avenue, a room of one's own view.
What I wanted to prove was near and grooving.
Yesterday on High Street, Chiswick came down on me.
The future found my feet
and they kept on moving.
Now the band without a head has no pillows for smothering.
A headless band needs nothing to be, just a band with no head.
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11. |
We Are Your Band
03:37
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Turn it off. Read a book.
Shut your mouth.
Think aloud.
Close your eyes.
Open mine.
Turn it on.
Let it flow.
Cut me up.
Now again!
I am lame.
But I'll try.
We are your band.
Join with us.
Ring the land, our magic bus.
We were two, in love with love.
"No, no still water" - just sky above.
Wooden stage, preen a disc.
Needles dig.
All speeds go!
Born to knit.
Loud as earth.
We are your band.
Join with us.
Clap your hands on Plastic Bus.
We were two, but everyone.
We are your band. Join with us.
Paint the land, our magic bus.
We were two, but everyone.
"No, no still water" - outshine the sun.
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12. |
The After Party
03:17
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The show was spotted, less than triumphant.
My flow was clotted, encore redundant.
But now it's over, the night just starting.
I'm getting closer to the after party…
The Russian Tea Room — yes, Bowie will be there.
A basement flat / tomb, doesn't matter where.
At The Palomino, Miss Christine appears.
Dan Tana's with Dino, I feel them draw near.
I'm getting closer to the after party…
That's me in the corner.
Don't spoil my reverie.
But soon come the morning.
More mourning, less revelry.
No, no wake-up bomb — who would care to go home?
The hands of Blind Tom, pumping at the piano.
And Booker Little jams.
He's pushing Lena Horne to sing to pretty lost lambs that came to be reborn.
We're all dead drunk and we're all drunk dead.
The difference is none — nothing less is said.
I'm getting closer to the after party…
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The No Ones Portland, Oregon
The No Ones are Arne Kjelsrud Mathisen, Scott McCaughey, Frode Strømstad and Peter Buck. A band that stretches from the southwest of Norway through Athens, Georgia to the northwest corner of the USA, consisting of members from I Was A King, The Minus 5 and R.E.M. ... more
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