Lyrics

[JAW]

Here's my little additon to the list. Could have been any one of so many Ray Davies lyrics, but this is the one that gave me the travel bug to stop me ending up like the character!!! Thanks Ray!!!!!! Hard to leave out Days, Waterloo Sunset, Sunny Afternoon, Victoria, etc., though.

From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar,
When the dawn begins to crack.
It's all part of my autumn almanac.
Breeze blows leaves over, mostly coloured yellow,
So I sweep them in my sack.
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac.

Friday evenings, people get together,
Hiding from the weather.
Tea and toasted, buttered currant buns
Can't compensate for lack of sun,
Because the summer's all gone.

La-la-la-la...
Oh, my poor rheumatic back
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac.
La-la-la-la...
Oh, my autumn almanac
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac.

I like my football on a Saturday,
Roast beef on Sundays, all right.
I go to Blackpool for my holidays,
Sit in the open sunlight.

This is my street, and I'm never gonna leave it,
And I'm always gonna stay here
If I live to be ninety-nine,
'Cause all the people I meet
Seem to come from my street
And I can't get away,
Because it's calling me, (come on home)
Hear it calling me, (come on home)

La-la-la-la...
Oh, my autumn Armagnac
Yes, yes, yes, it's my autumn almanac.
La-la-la-la...
Oh, my autumn almanac
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

The Kinks - Autumn Almanac

[cybot]

That was brilliant Johnny. Thanks for that :-).....and welcome back. I knew that he (Ray) was supposed to be a writer of repute but I wasn't aware he was that good!?!?!?

[fergus]

That was brilliant Johnny. Thanks for that :-).....and welcome back. I knew that he (Ray) was supposed to be a writer of repute but I wasn't aware he was that good!?!?!?

I would consider him to be one of the best writers of a pop song ever!

[cybot]

That was brilliant Johnny. Thanks for that :-).....and welcome back. I knew that he (Ray) was supposed to be a writer of repute but I wasn't aware he was that good!?!?!?

I would consider him to be one of the best writers of a pop song ever!

To tell the truth I'm going to pin those lyrics up somewhere I can see them because they have a rare,rare resonance with an uncanny air of bittersweetness and resignedness that I simply haven't come across before! Can I have some more please...

[Adrian]

One of my favourite songs, Solitude by Billie Holiday.



In my solitude you haunt me
With reveries of days gone by
In my solitude you taunt me
With memories that never die
I sit in my chair
I’m filled with despair
There’s no one could be so sad
With gloom ev’rywhere
I sit and I stare
I know that I’ll soon go mad
In my solitude
I’m praying
Dear lord above
Send back my love

1956 I think, even though the song was first released in 1934.

Sometimes the older ones are the best!!

[Adrian]

Stairway to the Stars.. Ella Fitzgerald, from the Album "Watching the Music go by"

INTRO
There's a silver trail of moonlight leading upward to the sky
And the night is like a velvet lullaby
There's a heaven of blue
And we'll go there, just you and I


Let's build a stairway to the stars
And climb that stairway to the stars
With love beside us to fill the night with a song

We'll hear the sound of violins
Out yonder where the blue begins
The moon will guide us as we go drifting along

CHORUS:
Can't we sail away on a lazy daisy petal
Over the rim of the hill?
Can't we sail away on a little dream
And settle high on the crest of a thrill?

Let's build a stairway to the stars
A lovely stairway to the stars
It would be heaven to climb to heaven with you



Let's build a stairway to the stars
A lovely stairway to the stars
It would be heaven to climb to heaven with you

[cybot]

This is beautiful. I remember getting the Lp and often wondering what he was singing. Years later I came across the original lyric sheet in a junk shop somewhere in Dublin on it's own!?!? I got it for nothing too as the very nice person who was there that day let me have it foc :-) BTW the classical backing is sublime....



DAVID ACKLES MONTANA SONG (American Gothic)


I went out to Montana
with a bible on my arm,
Looking for my fathers
on a long-abandoned farm,
and I found what I came looking for.

I drove into a churchyard
of what used to be the town;
Walked along a cowpath
trough the fences falling down,
'til I found what I came looking for.

Through the dust of summer noons,
over grass long dying,
To read the stone and lumber runes
where my past was lying.
High among hillsides and windmill bones,
soft among oak trees and chimney stones,
Blew the wind that I came looking for.

And the wind blew over the dry land,
and dusted my city soul clean,
To read in my great-grandfather's hand
from his bible newly seen :

Born James McKennon, 1862
Married Leantha, 1884
two sons born in Montana,
Praise the Lord !

The gentle wind
of passing time,
Closed the bible pages;
and took my hand
and had me climb
closer to the ages.

The picket fence, the lattice frame,
the garden gone to seed,
Leantha with the fragile name,
Defying place and need,
Declares this bit of prairie "tame",
and sees her fingers bleed,
and knows her sons won't live the same,
but she must live her creed.

The fallen barn, the broken plow,
the hoofprint-hardened clay;
where is the farmer, now,
who built his dream this way ?
Who felled the tree and cut the bough
and made the land obey,
who taught his sons as he knew how,
but could not make them stay.

Who watched until the darkness fell
To know the boys were gone, and never loved the land so well
from that day on.

"Father James," they wrote him,
each a letter once a year,
words of change that broke him
with the new age that was here,
and the new world they'd gone looking for.

The clouds arose
like phantom herds,
and by the dappled lighting
I read again
the last few words
in a woman's writing :
March 1st,1921
last night, Papa died.
Left one plow, a horse, his gun,
his bible, and his bride.

The long grass moved beside me
in the gentle summer rain,
and made a path to guide me
to a sudden mound of grain.

A man and wife are buried there,
children to the land;
with young green tendrils in her hair,
and seedlings in his hand.

I went out to Montana
with a bible on my arm,
Looking for my fathers
on a long-abandoned farm,
and I found what I came looking for.

[mcq]

Three of my favourite songs by Peter Hammill.

The Lie (Bernini's St. Theresa):

Genuflection, erection in church.
Sacristy cloth, moth-eaten shroud.
Secret silence, sacred secrets
accumulate dust, aggravate the eye.

Incautious laughter after confession.
Benediction, fictional fear.
Hidden faces...Grace is a name,
like Chastity, like Lucifer, like mine.

You took me through the window-stain,
drowned in image, incense,
choir-refrain and slow ecstasy.
I'd embrace you if I only knew your name.

The silent corner haunts my shadow prayers.
ice-cold statue, rapture divine,
unconscious eyes, the open mouth,
the wound of love,
the Lie.

You took me, gave me reasons for
saints and missals, vigils,
all the more holy martyrs.
I'd embrace you and walk through
the one-way door.
I'd embrace you, but it would be
just another lie.


The Mousetrap (Caught in):

After all is said and done, not very much will have been either way:
I'm a chronicler of action, I'm an actor in the play.
I know the lines I have to speak,
I know that I won't ever quit, corpse, or dry,
but the performance gets so pointless
and the days just drift on by.
Every time that I go to turn the pages of the calendar
in the third act of this twenty-ninth year of the show
I'm aware of the latest leading lady and get mad at her...
it's perfunctory, but why she'll never know.

When I began I had my hopes,
believed that I could be a leading light of the stage,
but now I've stunned myself to silence,
exhausted all my inner rage,
extinguished all my joy and violence,
trapped all my feelings in a cage.
Every time that I go to turn the pages of the calendar
I can see that I'm not really going anywhere;
all these years I have skirted round experience like a scavenger.
Can I really feel? I wonder if I dare?
At the end of the run, will there be anyone who cares?
And behind the actor's pose, heaven knows
if there's anyone left in there.


Too Many of My Yesterdays:

So many years ago, I thought you were the one -
who knows when people change, surrender into strangeness,
adrift upon their lives, encompassed by the past?
Who knows which one becomes the last goodbye?
Don't try to tell me nothing dies.
Don't try to tell me nothing's changed,
don't try to tell me nothing's new,
too many of my yesterdays belong to you.

I shelved my broken heart, I put you from my mind,
I got up from my knees, I picked up all my pieces,
but seeing you again puts shakes into my soul.
Just when I think I'm finally over you,
don't come and show me that's not true.

Tell me about it, talk to me - I hear it coming, I feel it coming,
the way you want this thing to be.
You're only trading on our memories
don't go and say you still love me.

You're trading on my memories, you're trading in a rosy past;
you know I'm lost on stormy seas...but I still stand before the mast,
beneath the stars and under sail towards horizons out of true....
Behind the dance of seven veils I still see you....

Tell me about it, have your way;
I see it coming, I hear it coming,
I know what you're about to say.
You've had too many of my yesterdays,
and I don't want to fall again.

Don't try to tell me nothing's changed,
don't try to tell me nothing's new,
too many of my yesterdays are lost in you.

[mcq]

3 great songs from Bob Dylan.

Simple Twist Of Fate:

They sat together in the park
As the evening sky grew dark
She looked at him and he felt a spark tingle to his bones
’Twas then he felt alone and wished that he’d gone straight
And watched out for a simple twist of fate

They walked along by the old canal
A little confused, I remember well
And stopped into a strange hotel with a neon burnin’ bright
He felt the heat of the night hit him like a freight train
Moving with a simple twist of fate

A saxophone someplace far off played
As she was walkin’ by the arcade
As the light bust through a beat-up shade where he was wakin’ up,
She dropped a coin into the cup of a blind man at the gate
And forgot about a simple twist of fate

He woke up, the room was bare
He didn’t see her anywhere
He told himself he didn’t care, pushed the window open wide
Felt an emptiness inside to which he just could not relate
Brought on by a simple twist of fate

He hears the ticking of the clocks
And walks along with a parrot that talks
Hunts her down by the waterfront docks where the sailors all come in
Maybe she’ll pick him out again, how long must he wait
Once more for a simple twist of fate

People tell me it’s a sin
To know and feel too much within
I still believe she was my twin, but I lost the ring
She was born in spring, but I was born too late
Blame it on a simple twist of fate


Blind Willie McTell:
Seen the arrow on the doorpost
Saying, “This land is condemned
All the way from New Orleans
To Jerusalem”
I traveled through East Texas
Where many martyrs fell
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

Well, I heard that hoot owl singing
As they were taking down the tents
The stars above the barren trees
Were his only audience
Them charcoal gypsy maidens
Can strut their feathers well
But nobody can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

See them big plantations burning
Hear the cracking of the whips
Smell that sweet magnolia blooming
See the ghosts of slavery ships
I can hear them tribes a-moaning
Hear that undertaker’s bell
Nobody can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

There’s a woman by the river
With some fine young handsome man
He’s dressed up like a squire
Bootlegged whiskey in his hand
There’s a chain gang on the highway
I can hear them rebels yell
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

Well, God is in His heaven
And we all want what’s his
But power and greed and corruptible seed
Seem to be all that there is
I’m gazing out the window
Of the St. James Hotel
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell


I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine:
I dreamed I saw St. Augustine
Alive as you or me
Tearing through these quarters
In the utmost misery
With a blanket underneath his arm
And a coat of solid gold
Searching for the very souls
Whom already have been sold

“Arise, arise,” he cried so loud
In a voice without restraint
“Come out, ye gifted kings and queens
And hear my sad complaint
No martyr is among ye now
Whom you can call your own
So go on your way accordingly
But know you’re not alone”

I dreamed I saw St. Augustine
Alive with fiery breath
And I dreamed I was amongst the ones
That put him out to death
Oh, I awoke in anger
So alone and terrified
I put my fingers against the glass
And bowed my head and cried

[mcq]

Nothing less than sublime perfection, Dermot, as is the entire album. And to anybody who has not heard it, I really can't recommend it highly enough. In fact, I envy anyone who is just stumbling on Ackles' music for the first time. If you think you've heard all the great music, and that there are no surprises left in music, listen to this and prepare to be enchanted.

This is beautiful. I remember getting the Lp and often wondering what he was singing. Years later I came across the original lyric sheet in a junk shop somewhere in Dublin on it's own!?!? I got it for nothing too as the very nice person who was there that day let me have it foc :-) BTW the classical backing is sublime....



DAVID ACKLES MONTANA SONG (American Gothic)


I went out to Montana
with a bible on my arm,
Looking for my fathers
on a long-abandoned farm,
and I found what I came looking for.

I drove into a churchyard
of what used to be the town;
Walked along a cowpath
trough the fences falling down,
'til I found what I came looking for.

Through the dust of summer noons,
over grass long dying,
To read the stone and lumber runes
where my past was lying.
High among hillsides and windmill bones,
soft among oak trees and chimney stones,
Blew the wind that I came looking for.

And the wind blew over the dry land,
and dusted my city soul clean,
To read in my great-grandfather's hand
from his bible newly seen :

Born James McKennon, 1862
Married Leantha, 1884
two sons born in Montana,
Praise the Lord !

The gentle wind
of passing time,
Closed the bible pages;
and took my hand
and had me climb
closer to the ages.

The picket fence, the lattice frame,
the garden gone to seed,
Leantha with the fragile name,
Defying place and need,
Declares this bit of prairie "tame",
and sees her fingers bleed,
and knows her sons won't live the same,
but she must live her creed.

The fallen barn, the broken plow,
the hoofprint-hardened clay;
where is the farmer, now,
who built his dream this way ?
Who felled the tree and cut the bough
and made the land obey,
who taught his sons as he knew how,
but could not make them stay.

Who watched until the darkness fell
To know the boys were gone, and never loved the land so well
from that day on.

"Father James," they wrote him,
each a letter once a year,
words of change that broke him
with the new age that was here,
and the new world they'd gone looking for.

The clouds arose
like phantom herds,
and by the dappled lighting
I read again
the last few words
in a woman's writing :
March 1st,1921
last night, Papa died.
Left one plow, a horse, his gun,
his bible, and his bride.

The long grass moved beside me
in the gentle summer rain,
and made a path to guide me
to a sudden mound of grain.

A man and wife are buried there,
children to the land;
with young green tendrils in her hair,
and seedlings in his hand.

I went out to Montana
with a bible on my arm,
Looking for my fathers
on a long-abandoned farm,
and I found what I came looking for.