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Six for two...
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Six for two... Some time ago I had used The The’s song «Lonely Planet» as the basis of a post with the same title and somehow I had promised that some other time I would post another great song of them and off the same record...But it could really take a long time for me to post «Slow Emotion Replay» if...if what is happening for two weeks now mainly in Athens but and in other cities of Greece ‒ and sometimes even abroad ‒ hadn’t made me to be reminded of it again because its lyrics really fit very well into this situation. And not only that but I was reminded also and of some more of their songs that have a lot to do with the events us Greeks experience during these two weeks. Not such a big surprise, Matt Johnson ‒ the musician that is not just the creative force but almost the genius behind The The ‒ is one of the most talented, inspired and visionary British songwriters of the last three decades. And obviously his view and take on things is a lot alike mine otherwise I wouldn’t like his stuff so much... That sharing of our opinions goes even up to his fascination with America which ‒ just like me ‒ borders to a love/hate relationship (we are talking about somebody who many times blamed the USA’s policies, imperialism and even culture in his own songs and then he went on to record an entire album - 1995’s «Hanky Panky» - with only covers of Hank Williams songs!). Williams was probably the founder of country music as we know it today, that is a key figure of the American ‒ popular or not - culture and Johnson’s tribute to him is not only sincere and heartfelt but also excellent with «Six More Miles» particularly standing up very well to the original’s deep but proud too melancholy. And if others see that as a contradiction on Johnson’s behalf it makes absolutely perfect sense to me...). So this post is comprised by six of The The’s songs with only the minimum and necessary comments on them by me. And the first one couldn’t be any other but «The Beat(en) Generation» (off 1989’s «Mind Bomb»). Because this generation of that are out in the streets these days is really a beaten generation and in both the metaphorical and the literal sense...Like there were and others before this one, at least in this country...including mine too. When you cast your eyes upon the skylines Of this once proud nation Can you sense the fear and the hatred Growing in the hearts of its population And our youth, oh youth, are being seduced By the greedy hands of politics and half truths The beaten generation, the beaten generation Reared on a diet of prejudice and mis-information The beaten generation, the beaten generation Open your eyes, open your imagination We're being sedated by the gasoline fumes And hypnotised by the satellites Into believing what is good and what is right You may be worshipping the temples of mammon Or lost in the prisons of religion But can you still walk back to happiness When you've nowhere left to run? And if they send in the special police To deliver us from liberty and keep us from peace Then won't the words sit ill upon their tongues When they tell us justice is being done And that freedom lives In the barrel of a warm gun? And it was exactly the warm gun in the hands of a pig that started all this uprising two weeks ago...But some people deny it, refuse to believe even that. Not that strange...«The Violence Of Truth» (again off «Mind Bomb») sometimes is more difficult to be tolerated than even the real one. What is evil? What is love? What is the force that possesses us? Where is the beauty? Where is the truth? Where is the force that watches over you? What is it that makes us ashamed to be white? (When we close our ears to the sound of machine gun) And while the niggers of this world are starving With their mouths wide open What is it that turns the coins we throw at them Into worthless little tokens? Why is it that anything on this earth we do not understand We are pushed onto our knees to worship or to damn? Those are the rules of religion Those are the laws of the land That’s how the forces of darkness Have suppressed the spirit of man That’s why human beings still walk on all fours Whilst in the presence of their so called superiors Something’s telling you to wake up and salute The dangers of<b> obedience </font></b>and the violence of truth God is evil, God is love God is the force that possesses us God is beauty, God is truth God is the force that is watching over you... The dangers of<b> obedience...</font></b>that could be much worse than those of the disobedience. But try tell that to those that are «Jealous Of Youth» (the only not released before song on 1993’s compilation of remixes «Solitude»). Maybe just because they were never young themselves...So how can they ever understand something that they just don’t know? It's funny how as we grow old We cling to the past as we cling to the air And feel nostalgia for things that were maybe never there The town where innocence was bullied and flared The house where desire's first fluids bled But now the autumn leaves are turning to the colour of rust I'm getting jealous for youth's first yearnings for lust I wanna live I wanna live But I ain't a big enough man to anything other than think There's a girl I used to know Who I think still lives 'round here Up there, on top of that council tower I was once her man At the midnight hour When I was as lusty as a dog Come moonshine or fog When our tongues would entwine Long and slow When we thought We'd never let each other go Oh no? But now the autumn leaves are turning to the colour of rust I'm getting jealous for youth's first yearnings for lust I wanna live I wanna live But I ain't a big enough man to anything other than think Yet it's funny how as we grow old We curse and point our finger at those Those, those, those Who made us scared and made us old Who touched our bodies and bruised our souls Who made us scared and made us old It was those God It was those Who made us scared And made us old The autumn leaves are turning to the colour of rust I'm getting jealous for youth's first yearnings for lust I wanna live I wanna live I wanna live I wanna live But I ain't a big enough man to anything other than think... «We cling to the past as we cling to the air...». What the fuck really is it about that damned past? Why so many people can’t just admit to the fact that it’s over and be done with it? Maybe just because they don’t see...they just don’t have any present. And even more any future to look forward to...But that is not the fault of all the others, right? Each one of us makes his/her own destiny...But no, these people just can’t take that. So they call their fucking past «tradition» because it sounds better that way, they masquerade their sick clinging to it as nostalgia ‒ or traditionalism ‒ and demand from all the others to believe and feel the same. To take a bow before «things that were maybe never there»...And anybody who doesn’t succumb to that...is just a pariah. Of those for whom there is no place in «Heartland» (off 1986’s «Infected»). So they have to be out of it...with their own will or without it. And by any means necessary... Beneath the old iron bridges, across the Victorian parks And all the frightened people running home before dark Past the Saturday morning cinema That lies crumbling to the ground And the piss stinking shopping centre in the new side of town I've come to smell the seasons change and watch the city As the sun goes down again Here comes another winter of long shadows and high hopes Here comes another winter waitin’ for utopia Waitin’ for hell to freeze over This is the land where nothing changes The land of red buses and blue-blooded babies This is the place where pensioners are And the hearts are being cut from the welfare state Let the poor drink the milk while the rich eat the honey Let the bums count their blessings while they count the money So many people can't express what's on their minds Nobody knows them and nobody ever will Until their backs are broken and their dreams are stolen And they can't get what they want then they're gonna get angry! Well it ain't written in the papers but it’s written on the walls The way this country is divided to fall So the cranes are moving on the skyline Trying to knock down this town But the stains on the heartland can never be removed From this country that's sick, sad and confused The ammunition's being passed and the lords been praised But the wars on the televisions will never be explained All the bankers gettin’ sweaty beneath their white collars As the pound in our pocket turns into a dollar This is the 51st state of the U. S. A. «The 51st state of the U. S. A.», that is ‒ like he had called it in another song ‒ «the United States Of Amnesia»...Because «happy countries have no History» like the saying goes, right? And when they just want to believe that they are happy...they choose the option of forgetting their own History. As simple as that...But really Matt my friend...you would be very surprised if you could see how much your England’s «Heartland» that you described so well fits perfectly into some other countries twenty two whole years later. Like Greece right now, another «land where nothing changes». Once again, like so many other times, waiting for «another winter of long shadows and high hopes», once again «waitin’ for utopia»...Though the bankers here don’t get sweaty at all, their euros are more than safe...and together with them and those of the rest of us too! According to them I guess much safer than they would be if there were still in our hands and not in their safes... And most probably, if you were here now, you would have the people that still live in the godforsaken past asking you too «and what can you do about all those smartass?». Of course the only thing that you could answer to them is «very little actually and unfortunately, just my best...But at least I am aware of all that and I’m trying to do something about it the only way I can. By making myself a little better...». But what can you really say, does it really have any meaning in telling to people that almost ignore the fact that there are others except them on this planet about another «Slow Emotion Replay» (off 1993’s «Dusk»)...and any possible use of such a thing? They just don’t know...and they don’t even want to know... The more I see The less I know About all the things I thought were wrong or right And carved in stone So don’t ask me about War, religion or God Love, sex or death Because Everybody knows what’s going wrong with the world But I don’t even know what’s going on in myself You’ve gotta work out your own salvation With no explanation to this earth we fall On hands and knees we crawl And we look up to the stars And we reach out and pray To a deaf, dumb and blind God who never explains Everybody knows what’s going wrong with the world But I don’t even know what’s going on in myself Lord I’ve been here for so long I can feel it coming down on me I’m just a slow emotion replay Of somebody I used to be... That’s really the whole thing Matt...That so many people think that they «know what’s going wrong with the world» without having the guts even to say «I don’t even know what’s going on in myself». Let alone of course admitting to the latter and trying a little to do something about it, try to learn about themselves a little more...So what about the very few of us that do it, preferring to give trouble to ourselves than to anybody else? Nothing I guess...Except maybe the knowledge that we had the courage to go into this struggle and for the whole of our lives. And maybe just because of that the justifiably gained right to give ourselves not any reward...only a small compensation. Just by saying, even if it is only for a few minutes everyday...«Good Morning Beautiful» (off «Mind Bomb»). Though it’s not just something, better than nothing...but much more than that. Probably just about everything... Satellite, oh satellite Who sits upon our skies How deep do you see when you spy into our lives? I know that God lives in everybody’s souls And the only devil in your world Lives in the human heart So now ask yourself What is human? And what is truth? Ask yourself Whose voice is it that whispers unto you? From the cellars of your homes From the tops of your city roofs Ask yourself Whose voice is it that whispers unto you? Who is it? That turns your blood into spirit and your spirit into blood Who is it? That can reach down from above and set yours souls ablaze with love Or fill you with the insanity of violence and its brother - lust Who is it? Whose words have been twisted beyond recognition In order to build your planet earth’s religions Who is it? Who could make your little armies of the left And your little armies of the right Light up your skies tonight Now some of you may live and some of you may die But remember That nothing in the world can kill you inside For He is thinking of you In your great cities of great solitude Oh you’ve still got a lot to fuckin’ learn The only path to heaven is via hell Good morning beautiful, good morning beautiful Good morning beautiful, good bye world...  Just me but with all the ego left at the door... |
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12/20/2008 5:21 pm |
the road to truth needs not only courage but a vision too....and lots lots of pain and cry and maybe even shame......wonderful post buddy clown in the shadows
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well, this comes to me "crude and raw but precisely for that there is no shame" Thank You. Quite impressive I must say.
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