Why Anything? Why This? LYRICS & CREDITS for downloadees.
SHOVELHEADS Draining off the charge-grid. Dresssing up the cats Leaning on the Mercy Weights the days go by like that. Hosing down the Love Bus That’s how I got my start To seal the deal - now I reveal the secrets of the art…
So I say: ‘Hey Mr Cronenburg show me inside. Hey Mr Cronenburg, what you got to hide?’ I’m out with the new crew. I’m down with the Shovelheads - solving mysteries at night down on the riverbed - I’m out with the Shovelheads - the oxen have been bled - and I feel fine..
Live at the Boiling Statue, my new friends entertain. Their furious intensity I cannot quite explain. Winding up the rheostat: hear that sucker whine. Do not crank the handle if you cannot do the time.
I said: ‘Hey Mr Carradine you’re a friend of mine, spare me all that violence that you peacefully decline. I’m lost to a new groove, I’m down with the Shovelheads (being constantly dismayed by what is done and said). I’m out with the ShovelHeads the mall rats have been fed - not before time.
Fondling the spectre. Strapping on the cape. Feeling extra special as I’m peeling off the tape.
All this new oblivion really hits the mark. I fall asleep and feel the deep enchantment of the dark.
And I said ‘Hey Liebermann show me your disguise. Hey Mr Liebermann Don’t try to be that guy’ You’re in with with a cool scene. You’re rocking the Shovelheads. You’re one of the angels levitating on the needle’s head. You’re with the Shovelheads give them their daily bread (cos I got mine).
I’m out with the Wild Bunch I’m in with the Shovelheads I got a panoramic view from on my waterbed I’m down with the Shovelheads and I’m a Shovelhead and i feel fine…
AND THE RAIN
Some spooky cowboy voodoo what did you do on the plain? Marlboro man is decomposing got Jack Daniels on the brain All the fatal hesitation in opening the files Incidental caterwauling of the lord of the flies
Some neat holistic vision deft incisions sliced around There’s a different city showing now the weather’s broken down A little nuclear friction upending all the lies Got sunburst and distortion on these unsceptred isles
When the half-light starts to rise And the long gone come back again After the shortcuts and the highs Comes the pain And the rain and the rain and the rain And the rain and the rain and the rain
Some hokey-cokey money sweet as honey nothing found There’s a Bitcoin river rising the dam is coming down A hint of degradation hanging on a sigh Now slogans and perversions just don’t raise a smile
As the deep force evolves a form When the dead loss outweighs the gain Inside the cold eye of the storm Hides the shame And the rain and the rain and the rain And the rain and the rain and the rain
And the rain And the rain keeps falling And the rain And the rain keeps falling And the rain And the rain keeps falling And the rain And the rain keeps falling…
When the half-light starts to rise And the long gone come back again After the shortcuts and the highs Comes the pain And the rain and the rain and the rain And the rain and the rain and the rain And the rain and the rain and the rain And the rain and the rain and the rain
CATMANDU
Had a giraffe With the dandy lion Watched the leopard skin With the ol’ skunk eye
Then squirrel away All the missing lynx Take a baseball bat To the hippocrites
Tell that wasp to let me bee I’m staggered deer hart you’re moosin’ me
High as a kite Down at ‘eel Hear the killer whale And your fate is sealed
Swanning around on pigeon toes Duck and cover hawk it up and crow
Don’t know why but I know it’s true The dogman don’t but the cat man do
Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do
From throbbin’ red breast To cold blue tit Was it the horsin’ around Or the pony club hit?
Bullshit comin’ down the chicken wire Tern and swallow set your heron fire
Don’t know why but I know it’s true – The dogman don’t but the cat man do
Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do Dogman don’t but the cat man do
Such, Such Are The Joys
Mud-wrestling the bride Lamenting loud and wide All of the stuff implied: the wax, the weed, the cyanide.
No bruises that will show. And still an inner glow but still you do not know: the flak, the fuel, the quid-pro-quo.
All the little secrets and the toys All the little tricks that .. time destroys don’t bother me so much. I tell you such, Such are the Joys
The liquids that remain. The Armagnac and rain leave quite a livid stain (I will not bother to explain).
These ample plates of food This quite delicious mood, There’s no need now to brood on things with wings and attitude.
All the recreation and the noise All the little tricks the flesh employs: you say they are a crutch but I tell you such.. Such are the Joys
Me and my anima try to examine her: her core, her lamina, her lips, her locks, her stamina
The AmDram in the rain. The melancholy Dane These tableaux will remain And animate the helpless brain
There is a vast supply of things that dream and die and couple up and cry beneath a katabatic sky
Some shabby revelry. This low spec devilry: not what I’d thought would be the Photoshop that rendered me..
If some of your illusions start to annoy: have a little word: send round the Boys. Innocent as such quite sticky to touch ..such are the Joys.
Innocent as such..
..such are the Joys.
WRIGGLE and DRONE
On the way home from the Blade Bone, you see a lot of wriggle and drone. All the shamen and some gay men walk it back as they wriggle and drone. On the flightpath, after the bloodbath, it’s a feast of wriggle and drone. My favourite pop group with their drumloops lock it down as they wriggle and drone…
All the subtle links are severed to the coiling arcs of pleasure. Though it seems it lives for ever - there’s nothing left but wriggle and drone…
So bracing, south-facing, in the sun we wriggle and drone. On the back foot, when I last looked, you couldn’t move for wriggle and drone. All the Greek boys, with their bleak noise: Ruritanian wriggle and drone. Feel the blastwave from the Batcave: cataclysmic wriggle and drone…
There is nothing left to hope for or to push the envelope for. Not inclined to drop the soap for anymore of that wriggle and drone…
On the shake-down we had a scrape round. All bound for wriggle and drone. With the grindcore on the shop-floor. They’re all for wriggle and drone… On the blindside slightly pie-eyed won’t be denied some wriggle and drone. Out in deep space and at the duck race, we got a taste for wriggle and drone…
Quite a lot of now or nevers. Surreptitious use of feathers. All those classical endeavours: file em under wriggle and drone…
(wriggle has a thing that doesn’t quit drone has a wriggle inside of it)
(drone gotta wriggle on the blindside wriggle got a drone it cannot hide)
The Painter Paints
Skyball the endless highway, holy stocking-top sunrise, doctor ricochet live and otherwise, the rip-off, the kiss-off, neutral density: blue is blue and I am too. Clouds harden.
Somewhere else, files deleted reappear, reassigned, mouse-handed cat burglar booty, raw material ahead of blade and edit, an impact shine at the black/silver interface, mountain-textured, ice-burned… beautiful.
The painter paints and the writer writes What will you do, what will you do? The painter paints and the writer writes What will you do tonight?
Hanging on and standing alone, beyond salvation, beyond standard procedure, with the jagged loops and loopholes closing up, we are living defining moments in stupidity, ego-powered, transient.
In the give and take and borrow, when accountability is forgotten or futile, the degradation of detail is not only likely but is likely to be desirable: decay is a feasible strategy.
The painter paints and the writer writes What will you do, what will you do? The painter paints and the writer writes What will you do tonight?
Alternatively, we advance through memory and moonbeams, past malevolence and moodswings, to a state of continuous unreasonable excitement, vibrant, untenable and momentous.
So follow, follow, follow the lonely, lowly, lovely cowboy wandering thoughtless into the supermarket supermodel sunset. The painter paints and the writer writes: what will you do tonight?
The painter paints and the writer writes What will you do, what will you do? The painter paints and the writer writes What will you do tonight?
Church of the Louder Light
The phantoms reign where no gods are. Their indiscreet abominations are spectacular If there’s a lousier scene, I haven’t seen it yet (we been ridden hard and put away wet - been ridden hard and put away wet).
There comes a day you see what we are: closer in nature to the tapeworm than the jaguar. And we’re the feast of germs - lest we forget. (Hey - are we having fun yet? Are we having fun yet?)
Bring us the Louder Light. Bring us the shining noise. Bring the kind of mess the ghost of Elvis enjoys. Join the Windowlickers in the holy night. We make our own kind of entertainment in the Church of the Louder Light.
Let the Imponderables foam as they may. We haven’t reached the point of peak psychosis anyway Interrogate yourself before the moment’s gone - ‘is this the hill that you wanna die on? Is this the hill that you wanna die on?’
Bring us the Louder Light. Echo the blinding sound Let’s all go into the cyclotron and wander around. Check out the monster in his silver tights! It’s a new kind of Wrestlemania in the Church of the Louder Light.
We’re Synaesthesiacs for the New Age. Purifying the ether from the Pyramid Stage. A consummation by a thousand drums All aboard for the life to come. All aboard for the life to come
Bring us the Louder Light. White Noise Perpetual Bring us the party we can hear through the wall. Slake your lumosonic appetite. You can see through the veil of silence in the Church of the Louder Light .
Sons Of The Dirt
Walking on sunshine stepping in shit It’s not so bad when you understand You gotta get in to get out of it
Higher than mighty lower than bass Made a stand for the white van man Turned your back and now he’s in your face
The market stall that falls apart The bargain bin where I saw my heart The quick quick slow the quid pro quo Rashomon Pokémon go man go
Sons of the dirt sons of the dirt The children of confusion are the fathers of hurt Sons of the dirt sons of the dirt Filthy urchin scruffy bastard Sons of the dirt
Burn down the library build up the wall A wonderful time for the philistine You win a little wager then you lose it all
Chain up the wild ones unleash the clowns Getting down with the kids putting on the ritz Then the game is up and the house falls down
The empty promises just get worse The blindfold driver hits reverse The body blow the same old show Touchdown meltdown no-one knows
Sons of the dirt sons of the dirt The children of confusion are the fathers of hurt Sons of the dirt sons of the dirt Filthy urchin scruffy bastard Sons of the dirt
Quick quick slow, quid pro quo Rashomon Pokémon go man go Body blow, same old show Touchdown meltdown no-one knows
Sons of the dirt sons of the dirt The children of confusion are the fathers of hurt Sons of the dirt sons of the dirt Filthy urchin scruffy bastards Head ass-backwards to disaster Raging in the hard hereafter Sons of sons of sons Of the dirt
THIRTY SEVEN
I was running interference I was coping with demand and the litany of facts had me weeping on my back as they all gathered in the yard.
It got the better of me, that lyrical disdain. All the roses and the brass and the discussions of the past. all that confusion in the rain.
Thirty Seven Fishes in the snotgreen sea Thirty Seven sugars in the old man’s tea all the doves are here and cooing love’s sweet song keep it all on lockdown till the doves have gone
..and god forbid that they should love me and keep me company at night. God knows we all need a friend and it’s as easy in the end just to erase or overwrite.
Then a troubled intervention by the broken, busted moon. But the smoulder in the wires and the various small fires said it would all be over soon
Thirty Seven shovels gonna bury me Thirty Seven windows where the doors should be Everybody and his dog knows what went wrong Count to Thirty Seven it will not take long
Thirty Seven fishes in the snotgreen sea Thirty Seven sugars in the old man’s tea All the doves are here and cooing love’s sweet song keep it all on lockdown till the doves have gone
It’s a clumsy entertainment All the hawks have got the floor. And the major takeaway from that hideous display we’re not eager to explore
One bloody thing after another it’s numerical and clear. It’s just points upon a line which will disappear in time: nothing you can engineer.
Thirty Seven sherberts and the band played on Thirty Seven doves are cooing Love’s Sweet Song Count to Thirty Seven as the wheels scrape round Count to Thirty Seven and we all fall down
Thirty Seven fishes in the snotgreen sea Thirty Seven windows where the doors should be Thirty Seven’s hard enough to contemplate Don’t know anyone who got to Thirty Eight…
CREDITS: Written, performed and produced by Shriekback: Barry Andrews, Martyn Barker & Carl Marsh. Bass - Scott Firth, backing vocals - Wendy & Sarah Partridge. Mixed and Mastered by Stuart Rowe. Live drums recorded by Christoph Skirl except 1,3 &4 by Ian Caple. recorded at Mart’s Bubble and Echo Zoo studios Eastbourne, Yellowfish Studios Lewes, St Joes (BA), Delafield Rd (CM), Mixed at the Lighterthief Bunker, Swindon.