Hound Parade

One of several mini-beast songs from Arvon songwriting week…

Money spider, you move fast - how can I be slow?
Like a sequin or a seed, delicately sewn.
In your crazy way, on my empty page,
Money spider, tell me what you know.

Money spider, eight legs wide, glide across my phone,
tickle with each inching stride, scenery unknown,
Like a tiny eye, for things that pass me by
Money Spider, tell me what you know.

Tracing the relief, peering underneath,
Money spider, tell me what you know.

Money spider photo ref: https://www.flickr.com/photos/squashbottomcat/2028321661/

Money Spider

Music & lyrics by Andrew Rumsey. Performed by The Effras.

West Norwood Cemetery,
in tearful symmetry,
mourners assembled in woe.  
A conjuring trick or a London particular?
Only the residents know.
Over a hundred and fifty years earlier
one of them, weighed down with grief,
sank through the soil to the oily deep path
of the river that runs underneath.

Come to the sea,
down in the Effra with me.
Oh I know, as reasons go,
we’ve got the best one.

It’s so Victorian,
such a good story and 
somehow, implausibly, true.
For in the bends and the banks of the Thames
they recovered your coffin and you.
Found that before you had come from West Norwood
and borne by The Effra, uplifted,
rode unimpeded by boulder or reed, 
underground for some three miles you drifted. 

Come to the sea,
down in the Effra with me.
Oh I know, as reasons go,
we’ve got the best one.

Glide in the stream,
far from the halogen gleam,
there she’ll flow, lie down low, 
her bed to rest on.

We know so little of your non-committal, 
assume they exhumed you with care.
But follow the stream down to SE19
and we find no memorial there. 
Dozens of rivers lost under the capital,
buried by our demographic. 
Tributary - we pay tribute to thee
who will one day arise through the traffic.


Down In The Effra

New solo demo - needs The Effras for full beat group sound...

Gracie

February Day, pulling up about ten-to.
Winter in reverse, hollow in the Crowhurst Yew
Tangling boughs, how this leviathan grew:
Twelve can dwell in the belly of the Crowhurst Yew.

Neighbours fought for the king in the English Civil War
Cannonball found in the trunk, near the angled door.
Swallowed up whole, slammed in a silent wound
Small world, pearled in the Crowhurst Yew. 

February Day, packing up about ten-to.
Winter in reverse: aconites are bursting through
Feuding in the blood, and nothing anybody can do;
Let the blow fail, cradled in the Crowhurst Yew.

Feuding’s in the blood, and nothing anybody can do;
So hold your peace in the hollow of the Crowhurst Yew,
Hold your peace in the hollow of the Crowhurst Yew.


Hollowing The Crowhurst Yew

John Adam Grenade was an unhinged eighteenth century evangelist, who popularised the hymn The Good Old Way, of which the very best version is sung by The Watersons, on their album Pence and Spicy Ale.

John Adam Grenade, like a blackbird in your bedroom,
Burst onto the scene in Desher, Tennessee
Fantastically named, in an eighteenth century accent
He’d sing The Good Old Way,
John Adam Grenade.

John Adam Grenade was availing souls for glory:
The trigger of hell, the peril of the cross.
Improbably famed as a shape-note singing wild man
Who loved The Good Old Way,
John Adam Grenade.

From horseback’d creeks he’d teach Sweet Rivers of Redeeming Love,
Folk hymns would ring in the primitive, catechism in the rough.

John Adam Grenade never made his thirty-third year
Burned out like a fuse, his body lately calmed;
The Watersons play, in a warm memento mori
So sing the Good Old Way
John Adam Grenade.


John Adam Grenade

From Ray Davies songwriting workshop years ago - idea for a soundtrack to The Long Good Friday.

Arvonsong

You can climb aboard at Tower Hill, ‘cos for four months of the year
We’ll be wintering in Aspen and we leave the Alfas here
Like a British Caledonian advert, they burst into song
But it’s never gonna set your soul alight:
Never gonna see through Laindon eyes.

With Napoleon on the airwaves, it’s a pas de deux too much,
Like a trestle of refreshments that you never care to touch,
Only solid joys and lasting treasures Laindon’s children know
But you’ll never gonna get to paradise, 
Never gonna see through Laindon eyes,
Laindon eyes (x3)

Break

After Any Other Business, you were better left alone
With her vegetarian ardour and a trainee chaperone.
Like Ezekiel in Essex, he cried ‘will these dry bones live?’
But you’re never gonna get to prophesy, 
Not until you see through Laindon eyes
Laindon eyes (x3)

Andrew Rumsey

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