This is history now.
But two weeks before any of the vehicles and tears of joy were to be identified as belonging to the sundry pillow talk of mercantile insurance agents, this band of strangers, thrown together in a flight of fancy, something of a j'oke, and yet something much more serious. They had flannel and they had morse. They didn't know it yet, or course, but one of these days when you least expect it, somethings gonna bite like a small insect. It might be right, or wrong or more or less in line with what they knew, or you knew, if you knew what you knew and what the hell kinda question is that anyway...
Sure, it makes sense now, but well inside the copious vats they called home and hosed, the boys were on their way to being boys and far from the men they would eventually have to confront, well after, no, well after the second act, or even the third. It was as if they were on a bus, chasing down another bus, but which one? Which one? You cannot chase 'em all down, you have to make a choice and say "That's the bus we chase", and hope like hell that it turns right into Jackson, takes a hairpin left just after Red Bean, and parallels the gravy train down to where the docks used to be.
The funniest thing about it , well it's funny now, and only because the tragedy has passed and isn't that what humour is all about? They don't talk about it, if they talk at all, but the second-hand lives they wanted to lead, led dead straight into the arms of a first-rate twist of the knife, the twist of fate, the medical jab that came after the fact, but changed little outside of room ownership for the next twenty minutes, so what was the use? It didn't seem so flippant then, though, it was all work and no play makes Jack a dull, dull boy....and she was, and she was, and she was. EMI wanted them, but wanted them thinner, as if that would make a difference to sales. They argued the point, but the cover art got stretched and the boys grew taller, if only for those who look at things from the other way 'round. Lobbed into a room with Lloyd, argued with Rob about 301, when a secretary crashed in, all tears and makeup with "John..John Lennon...someone's just shot and killed...
John Lennon.
And any chance the boys had to fill the room with...what? Shocked silence, then, from the desk. "Make sure all shops are stocked with Lennon and Beatles records. Ring the chains and ask if they want any stock..."
Ring the chains, ring the bells.
Sound out the death knell of the season of the witch.
"Missed by that much."
"Who...?"
The songs, if they meant anything at all, were introduced like stangers at a party, all electric and eclectic, all together now, all apart, they'd fall apart and the boys would so carefully put them back to bed, for a sleep and feel better in the morning. After a while the songs began to resent the performers as they, 'm talkin' 'bout the songs now, they existed in a state of perfection. The band'd play it was like a blind girl suddenly seeing for the first time, noticing how degenerate objects were. Each chord staggering, drunkenly, embarrassed at its inability to fit in with the other chords, asking at the bar if anyone had been to the bridge, expecting replies...
Cars were driven wild. One of them went out of its head. One thought of a name change, "Bastions Of Fidelity", but the true meaning soon became clear and he was severley bypasssed, momentarily. Anyway, time is short, so let's press on. The road crew always made a treasonably good living, at least they went around with smiles on their faces, but only with each other, like an unwritten law. Road crew members are generally generous, and willing to try anything if it'll make this work. "This", of course, could be stacking stories of speakers together in the hope of achieving either liftoff or nirvana before 2 am, or it may relate to the small small window of opportunity a quick lug might mean.
Look, when the bullets were flying, they stood with their backs to the wall, played the game thoroughly and convincingly....
in the 1980's.
This is history now.
But two years before any of the vehicles and fears were realised by agents of Smosh as belonging to the part of the bulding nobody visited, this band of strangers, thrown together in a flight of fancy, something of a j'oke, and yet something much more serious. Ahead of their time, they had flannel and they had morse. They didn't know it yet, or course, but one of these days when you least expect it, somethings gonna bite like a small insect. It might be right, or wrong or more or less in line with what they knew, or you knew, if you knew what you knew and you know the answer to that anyway...
Sure, it makes sense now, but well inside the copious vats they called home and hosed, the boys were on their way to being boys and far from the men they would eventually have to confront, well after, no, well after the second act, or even the third. It was as if they were on a bus, chasing down another bus, but which one? Which one? You cannot chase 'em all down, you have to make a choice and say "That's the bus we chase", and hope like hell that it turns right into Jackson, takes a hairpin left just after Red Bean, and parallels the gravy train down to where the docks used to be.
This is history now.
But two weeks before any of the vehicles and tears of joy were to be identified as belonging to the sundry pillow talk of mercantile insurance agents, this band of strangers, thrown together in a flight of fancy, something of a j'oke, and yet something much more serious. They had flannel and they had morse. They didn't know it yet, or course, but one of these days when you least expect it, somethings gonna bite like a small insect. It might be right, or wrong or more or less in line with what they knew, or you knew, if you knew what you knew and what the hell kinda question is that anyway...
Sure, it makes sense now, but well inside the copious vats they called home and hosed, the boys were on their way to being boys and far from the men they would eventually have to confront, well after, no, well after the second act, or even the third. It was as if they were on a bus, chasing down another bus, but which one? Which one? You cannot chase 'em all down, you have to make a choice and say "That's the bus we chase", and hope like hell that it turns right into Jackson, takes a hairpin left just after Red Bean, and parallels the gravy train down to where the docks used to be.
The funniest thing about it , well it's funny now, and only because the tragedy has passed and isn't that what humour is all about? They don't talk about it, if they talk at all, but the second-hand lives they wanted to lead, led dead straight into the arms of a first-rate twist of the knife, the twist of fate, the medical jab that came after the fact, but changed little outside of room ownership for the next twenty minutes, so what was the use? It didn't seem so flippant then, though, it was all work and no play makes Jack a dull, dull boy....and she was, and she was, and she was. EMI wanted them, but wanted them thinner, as if that would make a difference to sales. They argued the point, but the cover art got stretched and the boys grew taller, if only for those who look at things from the other way 'round. Lobbed into a room with Lloyd, argued with Rob about 301, when a secretary crashed in, all tears and makeup with "John..John Lennon...someone's just shot and killed...
John Lennon.
And any chance the boys had to fill the room with...what? Shocked silence, then, from the desk. "Make sure all shops are stocked with Lennon and Beatles records. Ring the chains and ask if they want any stock..."
Ring the chains, ring the bells.
Sound out the death knell of the season of the witch.
"Missed by that much."
"Who...?"
The songs, if they meant anything at all, were introduced like stangers at a party, all electric and eclectic, all together now, all apart, they'd fall apart and the boys would so carefully put them back to bed, for a sleep and feel better in the morning. After a while the songs began to resent the performers as they, 'm talkin' 'bout the songs now, they existed in a state of perfection. The band'd play it was like a blind girl suddenly seeing for the first time, noticing how degenerate objects were. Each chord staggering, drunkenly, embarrassed at its inability to fit in with the other chords, asking at the bar if anyone had been to the bridge, expecting replies...
Cars were driven wild. One of them went out of its head. One thought of a name change, "Bastions Of Fidelity", but the true meaning soon became clear and he was severley bypasssed, momentarily. Anyway, time is short, so let's press on. The road crew always made a treasonably good living, at least they went around with smiles on their faces, but only with each other, like an unwritten law. Road crew members are generally generous, and willing to try anything if it'll make this work. "This", of course, could be stacking stories of speakers together in the hope of achieving either liftoff or nirvana before 2 am, or it may relate to the small small window of opportunity a quick lug might mean.
Look, when the bullets were flying, they stood with their backs to the wall, played the game thoroughly and convincingly....
in the 1980's.
This is history now.
But two years before any of the vehicles and fears were realised by agents of Smosh as belonging to the part of the bulding nobody visited, this band of strangers, thrown together in a flight of fancy, something of a j'oke, and yet something much more serious. Ahead of their time, they had flannel and they had morse. They didn't know it yet, or course, but one of these days when you least expect it, somethings gonna bite like a small insect. It might be right, or wrong or more or less in line with what they knew, or you knew, if you knew what you knew and you know the answer to that anyway...
Sure, it makes sense now, but well inside the copious vats they called home and hosed, the boys were on their way to being boys and far from the men they would eventually have to confront, well after, no, well after the second act, or even the third. It was as if they were on a bus, chasing down another bus, but which one? Which one? You cannot chase 'em all down, you have to make a choice and say "That's the bus we chase", and hope like hell that it turns right into Jackson, takes a hairpin left just after Red Bean, and parallels the gravy train down to where the docks used to be.
This is history now.
From the RadioActive album "Half Life"
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From the RadioActive album "Half Life"
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From the RadioActive album "Half Life"
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From the RadioActive album "Half Life"
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