Look at you
Raking through the interests
Filter food
Of you know who
And who knows best.

Climbing up Gaussian mountains
Same view from every side
Winding down the cuckoo houses
In wooden shoes and no clue where to hide.

How could we forget about the sun?
By the time the daily kingdom comes
We've already moved on.

See things in reverse
Gives me a good old chance to
Unrehearse
Backing up the soul wagon
Digging up the turf:
These things always happen
Let's make a good thing worse
And blame it on the programmer

What you looking at me for?
It's as easy as one, two, three, four
What you looking at me for?
It's as easy as one, two, three.

What you looking at me for?
It's as easy as one, two, three, four, three.
What you looking at me for?
It's as easy as one, two, three, four
Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.


Easy As 1-2-3

I'm fine

Destruction Lane

The Old Testament Prophets (a very psychedelic crew in some ways) interact with the present day (as they always have) in ways not conducive to a comfortable viewing of either. The following is, if you will, a sonic photomontage of some of my own encounters. E grazie mille a MB por la linea ultima!

Looked up this mornin', saw coming in from afar
Wheels within wheels, like Ezekiel saw by the river Chebar
By this was the prophet made sure he was getting a voicemail direct from on high
I said we needed a cure for whatever they'd put in the water supply.
The AI is dreaming, its nightmares are streaming Netflix and Hulu,
The cancers are scheming, the magpies all screaming at you

Looked up this mornin', to see what i could descry.
Pterosaur wings so huge they blotted out half of the sky
Flying dragons, fell beast with a crown, set up the Apocalypse vibe.
Mountain flaming with fire thrown into the sea was the end of that tribe.
I can't conceive any good coming from things you order me to,
I don't receive what I should from the red or the blue

A third of the stars are quite gone from the heavens, there's blood on the moon
The timelines are hazy, the guessers are crazy, but all sayin' soon
The earth lies polluted, what's been planted uprooted, is it time for the scroll to unroll,
Judgement be executed?

The man clothed in linen stood over the waters and raised high his hand.
Said a time, times, half a time; I heard but did not understand.
You said you'd wait for me, still love and adore me, you who preceded this end,
But if I don't find you there, I may just die again

visions

I Didn't Think (Sketch)

Porch On a Quiet Street

Another fun outing with new wave guitarist and producer Les Chappell. We really enjoyed setting my Welsh valleys disco rap to a heavy metallic soundscape.

The dance movement for this symphony is an up-the-valleys disco, offering a more realistic prospect of girls and romance than the usual bus stop, canal bank or pilgrim mountain path. In my day, such discos would be established by some youth action agency (the council and/or the chapel) as a way of getting fighting boys off the streets and sometimes last into a second week before being closed down for spectacular heavy industrial gang violence.

Hey butt, take a walk on the Forge Side… 

Rocking over the melody 
Rolling under the beat 
The girl is losing her fashioned head 
The boyo’s finding his feet. 
They’re moving into a smoky world 
Winding free of the street 
Rocking over the melody 
Rolling under the beat. 

He’s miming don’t you love me? 

The Rams are slurping their Wind & Piss 
Ogling pieces of meat 
Stamping time to the furnace thud 
Needing someone to beat. 
The swaying hips of the dancing boy 
Mark him out for their feet. 
Knocking over the melody 
Rolling under the beat. 

He’s miming don’t you love me? 

Rocking over the melody 
Rolling under the beat 
The girl is losing her fashioned head 
The boyo’s finding his feet. 
They’re moving into a smoky world 
Winding free of the street, 
Rocking over the melody 
Rolling under the beat. 

He’s miming don’t you love me? 

The Rams are slurping their Wind and Piss 
Ogling pieces of meat, 
Stamping time to the furnace thud 
Needing someone to beat. 
The swaying hips of the dancing boy 
Mark him out for their feet. 
Knocking over the melody 
Rolling under the beat. 

He’s miming don’t you love me? 

Shoot me. 

In his, her body’s a violin 
Moaning sharply and sweet 
His a cello below the heat 
Of hammered sinew and skin. 
They soar and plunge along the bow 
Of what their cannon pulses know. 
Rocking over the melody 
Rolling under the beat. 

He’s miming don’t you love me? 


They decoy brushes against his cheek. 
The boy’s reflexes are neat. 
Hooks the decoy across the floor, 
Mines a fist through his teeth. 
The Rams are halted but not for long 
Twelve to one you can’t beat 
Knocking over the melody 
Rolling into the street. 

(And maybe we could go for a walk together. 
Up The Mountain.)

'Hiraeth' - Symphony No 1 in Coal Minor dance movement

Here is a real stinker of a song 
I was trying to create a new song and was reading a bunch of very old lyrics from my 20s that were laying around in a drawer.   Some of these manifestos of youth, though earnest and ambitious, have not aged well over the years  ....like that piece of moldy cheddar at the back of the fridge... Leftovers, no longer suitable for public consumption..though one did leap from its hiding place and forced(inspired) me to write a song about it before it sent me down the river never to be seen again.....

simple melody , pretty rough pounding on the electric and keys with a drum track from my phone
Homer Simpson helps to illustrate the food metaphor for this  somewhat out of tune tune 
best i can do with what I got


Leftover Song

This song it smells like moldy cheese                      
With words of youth gone stale and left behind      
A little blue, a little rancid                                              
From the back of the fridge to the bright lights        

Curdled by the curse of indecision                            
Now, I take a sip and promptly spit and spill            Over-seasoned with the sweat of self-reflection   
Makes it kind of  hard to swallow, I’m hungry still                          
Perhaps my best before date                                       
Has been exceeded                                                       
What once was firm has now gone soft and sour    
This tune unchosen                                                        
Slowly decomposing                               
Reanimated by a higher power                                   
Leftover song of mine                                                
Resurrected now for you                                                                      
This song it has the feel of the familiar
Simple shapes and sounds sung in the major G
I tried to lose it, give it the slip, in the parking lot of my mind
But it jumped in my car, took me hostage and assumed my identity

Tied me up, took me down to the river
And sent me on my way
On a boat that sailed in circles 
With a piano that could not play
It’s a coup d’ etat, a Mardis Gras
Said the one that got away
A monster of my own creation

These nouns and verbs gone wild
A verse unseeded
Left in the sun to slowly bloom and flower
Starved of attention
No comprehension
Of what was locked inside my Ivory Tower
Leftover song of mine
Busting loose to sing to you





Leftover Song

…AND I’M STILL ALIVE

Birthday weekend and everyone has crashed... 1:30am!!! so this is what I did...

One more time

No Matter

A marriage (and we are actually married, 45 years so far) of melody and rhythm. We do folk, indie, Americana, Norfolk noir, beat poems &  ghazals. Traditional tunes with contemporary beats. Music videos  https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCb8wV0-DNiFs1R5G2VSytBQ
Maz lead & harmony vocals, acoustic guitar. Gaz vocals, voice, bass, drums & percussion, harmonium, recorders, lyre harp, field recordings.

'Hiraeth' - Symphony No 1 in Coal Minor dance movement

Peacock's Tale Musical Storytelling