Paroles et musique : Luc Tironneau
Artwork : Maëlle Nozahic

Something vibrates, comes 
and delivers me 
from the boring emptiness 
that holds me so tightly.
I feel the seed growing in my belly,
a naked parasite still frail.
And it will grow, then hatch.
It will eat me up, digest me.

That nothing remains of my past body:
the born tornado will have carried me away.
The work asks, 
kneading the flesh, stirring in the guts, 
only the apocalypse.
I feel it come out, swarm, 
say that it will follow me 
until my death.

Work

Lyrics and music: Luc Tironneau
Artwork: Maël Nozahic
This song is dedicated to beloved Jarboe.

Touching on the old and strange crime,
you’re standing behind a billboard
made of glass, see-through writing board
where your fingers start to beat time.
You’re singing now and still banging,
wagging in a fit of no one
can tell, then you make me poking
around, a state that is non-run.
You sing the figures and numbers
as you draw them with the fingers,
with a squeaky voice, too acute
likened to your eyes which are mute.

Your vastly blue eyes like two stains
in the shambles of mad rings and lines
are growing bigger and staring
at me through the glass while you sing.

Then you’re going to tick over,
sport your sulky pout, the lower
lip thinly turned up while your pale
face will bend forward, your breast will
go up hard and your custom-made
bosom rooting out of the shade,
slighter than in my remembrance,
will direct towards me in trance.

Mad Jarboe

Paroles et musique : Luc Tironneau

Heavy, tired, 
I’m walking in my room
where nothing’s moving on but me,
and my will has disappeared.
I like these objects, this furniture
with which I’m combining. 
I’d like to be
a simple bas-relief on my wardrobe’s door.

Motionless, polished, 
quiet and irresponsible.
because of exhaustion, I fail to my obligations.
Courage can’t do anything, 
strength is missing.
Body and intelligence are snubbing themselves now,
and they’re weak, each of them thinking
to be the most important,
each of them finding itself beautiful and strong.

Spirit is senseless,
morale fades away,
because of helplessness
I surrender in the decay.
And the body is still and strange
as my view has no range.

Then… then a low puppet is moving through
the meanders of a fat atmosphere, through
the innermost recesses of my soul.
There’s no more here than uncolored and slim walls,
and the puppet is feeling ill and panting,
while it’s limping heavily.
Sound is hurtful to me because it’s violent.
And serenity can’t be found in silence,
and certainly not in the thoughts.
So maybe in death? This is untrue – this is unreal!

Chorus

This is untrue – this is unreal! (ad lib.)

It's untrue

Paroles et musique : Luc Tironneau
Artwork : Sophie Lecuyer

The woman is an ocean of false smiles, 
fake sweetness, as empty of blood 
as the fallen hero in the field,
his bitter tears, his severe soul,
his haughty pride.

The woman pecks and perores, 
chuckles her complete absence of height, 
thinks only of money and appearance, 
and for our misfortune, 
chatters and causes 
without any pause, 
her stupidity in symbiosis.

The women would be the equal 
of men and solar gods, 
when under their finishes, metronome smiles, 
they are only witches 
caressing their broom crotch undone, 
finding Woland perfect!

The woman is indeed the ocean 
that’s crossed by hollows, 
agitated with foam, in the rustling,
dark and luminous wind,
which throws the flames 
of the thunderbolt and the anvil, 
shattering blades that my tears 
extinguish at the end.

Woman

Paroles : Luc Tironneau
Musique : traditionnel
Artwork : Maël Nozahic

J’en prends acte, 
Il n’y aura plus de pacte,
Plus de serment 
Ni engagement.
Vae soli, vae tristi, vae felici.
Tué par on ne sait qui, 
L’émotion a encore coulé 
Sur mon corps mou et ridé,
En cœur évidé.

Quand je te parlais 
Avec le même ton badin
Que lors de notre commun destin,
Je m’employais mais je ployais,
Succombais au chagrin,
Au mauvais grain,
D’être remplacé
Ainsi, si vite, sans passer
Par le moment du deuil,
Sans franchir le seuil...

De la mort ou l’oubli,
Sans travailler à l’établi
Pour la reconstruction
D’une vie sans componction,
Sans toi à hurler,
Sans toi à mon côté.
Être remplacé c’est aussi
Être mort, occis
Trop vite et trop tôt,
Broyé dans un étau
Que l’on n’a pas même su.
Alors trompé et déçu,
Il n’est d’autre voie
Qu’une purée de pois
Où l’aveugle nouveau
Franchira monts et vaux
Sans souci de l’avenir,
Seul et sans rien tenir.

Vae felici

Paroles et musique : Luc Tironneau
Artwork : Eve Le Trévédic

À tapoter partout,
Toutes les planches sonnent creux.
Seuls les grignotages
Des xylophages
Fendent mon cou
Et le silence affreux.

Je tourne et vire
Sans bois de survie,
Je le brûle
Dans ma cellule,
Et le triste navire
De son cap dévie.

Et je tique et je toque,
Comptant le temps
Plus contempteur 
Que rédempteur,
Qui évidemment se moque
De mon salut haletant.

Je fais pirouette,
Renonce à l’amour,
Dans mon jus,
Prurit sans salut,
Et je ne souhaite
Plus un seul jour.
Plus un jour.

Crrr Crrr

Paroles et musique : traditionnel
Arrangements : Luc Tironneau

Vocals: Rachel Pallid, Lux Vehemens, Luka Memes & Gene Hydro

Un jour, dans la fusillade,
Galopant à l’inconnu, 
Nous allions en cavalcade.
Tu étais mon camarade, 
Celui que j’aimais le plus. 

Un cavalier par bravade, 
Des siens le plus résolu, 
Me porta son estocade. 
Ce fut toi, mon camarade, 
Ce fut toi qui la reçus. 

J’ai vengé l’estafilade 
Que ce coup t’avait valu 
Mais très tard, dans la nuit froide, 
J’ai pleuré mon camarade 
Près de ton corps étendu. 

Je suis ma route maussade 
Et je chevauche sans but 
Au hasard d’une embuscade,
J’ai perdu mon camarade 
Je ne rirai jamais plus. 

Kann ich die Hand nicht geben,
Bleib du in ew’gen Leben,
mein guter Kamerad!

La Cavalcade

Paroles et musique : Luc Tironneau
Artwork : "Le fantôme de Cassiopée" par Thomas Kolly

The blood dries up in my green veins.
A slow match burns to my doom.
The blood chokes from lack of life, 
so pale, I giggle and applaud.
I will die. No prophecy ...
And I tear the stupid veil away.

The truth... cold, more than cruel, is there, 
recorded, harsh and eternal.
Time erases me. 
I disappear, gray, 
without fire or trace, 
a fucking curlew song.

I no longer feel anything 
except the pain of my body 
and the silence of my heart.
I no longer sense anything 
of my great work to come 
when the horizon is fading.
So my blood is nothing ...

other than predictable, 
already written, almost fungible.
And my idea is nothing, 
which disappears into the oblivion 
in whose riverbed I lie.
Then I am nothing, 
so stiff in the heat.

An ugly and odourless corpse.

Oversight

Paroles et musique : Luc Tironneau
Artwork : Maël Nozahic

En cette nuit de milieu d’après-midi,
La pluie glisse sur mes écailles,
Dans le seul bruit
Du souffle chaud de ma cellule.
L’eau glacée ne me fait rien,
Ne fouille plus mes entrailles,
Ne soulève plus en mon sein
Ces éclairs d’un passé crapule.

Crapule...

En cette nuit de milieu d’après-midi,
L’absolue indifférence est née,
Dans mes rapports à l’ennui,
Au monde et à mon propre sort.
Le néant ne me fait plus rien,
Et j’accepte mon corps fané
Qui engraisse si bien
Lors du combat perdu contre la mort.

La mort… en zébrures.

Zébrure

Paroles et musique : Luc Tironneau
Artwork : Antarès by Thomas Kolly

Suddenly turning around, 
I see in my trace 
a luminous landscape, 
full of colors, blurred, 
bustling with life, 
such as I could have experienced it.

The link is tenuous. 
I feel that the confusing, 
oscillating, sizzling 
image could disappear 
at any moment 
in an unstable black and white test card.

This is the catafalque 
of my sweetest flops,
the emblem of my failures, 
of the smooth and sensual life 
that I could have led, 
but I am now farsighted, 
made of nothingness.

There is nothing to live for. 
There is nothing to be desired. 
So we must let ourselves go, 
without anger or regret, 
bitterness or vain eternity,
towards the dried up stream, 
the extinguished fire.

Catafalque

the lucky little red house explores another musical form, more violent, heavy and repetitive. You wanted it darker: you will witness here an almost sporting ordeal, sometimes exhausting, and of the most intimate gift, of the most proper, in the end of a metonymic gift of self.
the lucky little red house: Lux Vehemens, Mey 0h, Rachel Pallid, Gene Hydro & Luka Memes
LPs:
One Year (digital): https://theluckylittleredhouse.bandcamp.com/album/one-year
the vanishing of Gama / fatalité (digipack 2 CD and digital): https://theluckylittleredhouse.bandcamp.com/album/the-vanishing-of-gama-fatalit
red bastard: https://theluckylittleredhouse.bandcamp.com/album/red-bastard

Social medias
https://www.facebook.com/the-lucky-little-red-house-102815428614517
Video by PélicanTech : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=amS6M02YJlg

Zébrure

the lucky little red house

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