"Bombastic and big is beautiful and bouncy with rollicking riffs and a bass that burns. Some high hitting heighty notes, and a child laughing. Is that a guitar I hear? Rock my roll. Yowzah!"

See what have we done? 
We have the whole world crying.
See - look how we run
Into this falsifying

Have we learned nothing at all?

Believe what we disbelieve
Find new fools to lead us
Deny all we conceive
Lie in a way to impede us

Have we learned nothing at all?

See what you have done!
You brought the world down on you
You brought the world down on me.
See what you have done!
You lied to yourself and then you lied to me.

Have we learned nothing at all?

hehehehe

Have We Learned Nothing?

Are you ready for a brand new day? Are you ready for a song of hope; a song of impending triumph?

A Brand New Day

A tale of a poor little rich girl who had it all, but couldn't quite cope. 
Written long ago, and recorded 23 years later in 2015.
Jeff Bernstein added the orchestra and choir.
It's a fiction. It's not based on a real person, as far as I can recall. And if it was - it certainly isn't about someone called Rebecca. I like making up stories in songs. So much easier than writing about myself or even real people. Fictional characters are a lot more interesting than I am. Although I have it on fairly good authority that I might be fictional too. Maybe Rebecca IS real? (She's not though).
As with all of my tracks here... Thanks to Pete Maher for his mastering skills,which totally brought Rebecca to life?


* This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Rebecca My Dear

This is a long one. It takes 7 minutes of human time to listen to. It took 20 years of human time to make, from its original inception to getting it finished and up here. Sometimes I work quicker than that. There are a few shifts in it. If you do listen to it, it would make me very happy to know that you listened to it all. But then, I'll never know, and what I don't know can't hurt me. Unless there's a sniper in the garden, of whom I am hitherto unaware?

King Of Your Own Demise

Reconditioned to survive
I gave you reasons to become alive 
Picked you up, brushed away your tear
T-terrified that someone might hear

You were nowhere on your own
Satisfied you’d never make old bones
You didn’t see who I was and then 
I’m on my lonely own again

What was I thinking?
What was I thinking, my friend?
What was I thinking?
What was I thinking, my friend?
What was I thinking?
What was I thinking, my friend?

I released you – set you free 
From all the things you should never be
You took everything that I had to spend
I’m on my lonely own again

What was I thinking?
What was I thinking, my friend?
What was I thinking?
What was I thinking, my friend?
What was I thinking?
What was I thinking, my friend?


What Was I Thinking

Another glimpse into the dystopian nether world of my paranoid head. I don't know where it comes from really. I'm quite a cheerful person really, and not at all menacing! The world is a bit of a menace, though, let's be honest, and that's sort of what's highlighted here, I think. Elements from a very very old song wot I done here, slotting into something comfortably new, and "Welcome to the Lion's Den..."

So beware – you down there –
We’re watching you and all you do
Do take care- you down there –
We’re on to you –we follow you.

You’ll only go where we want you to go
You’ll only see what we want you to see
You’ll only know what we want you to know…

Welcome to the lion’s den
You’ll stay for a while and then
You’ll try to get out again
But you’re stuck in the lion’s den

We can see all you see
Unerringly – unendingly
You will be owned by me
Consistently controlled by me

You’ll only go where we want you to go
You’ll only be what we want you to be
You’ll only know what we want you to know…

Welcome to the lion’s den
You’ll stay for a while and then
You’ll try to get out again
But you’re stuck in the lion’s den

There’s no end to what we’ll say to you
How we’ll play with you
While we’ll stay with you
There’s no love in what we’ll do with you
How we’ll screw with you
Till we’re through with you!

You’ll only go where we want you to go
You’ll only see what we want you to see
You’ll only know what we want you to know…

Welcome to the lion’s den
You’ll stay for a while and then
You’ll try to get out again
But you’re stuck in the lion’s den

Lion's Den

If our so called leaders could tell the truth for two and a half minutes, this is what they'd say.

You Belong To Me

An everyday love triangle murder tale of 18th Century Scottish folk.
"Davie was a diamond - he was just the kind of diamond ladies loved." And therein starts the problem...
With Jay Cresswell on braw bass bits, Jeff Bernstein on orchestra creation and realisation, and all masterfully remastered by Pete Maher.

Davie was a diamond.
He was just the kind of diamond ladies loved, 
Universally – roguish rough, but a diamond.
Ruby was so proud of him –
Of all the girls in Glasgow, her he chose
Matrimonially – for his rose ruby diamond.

She knew the girls all looked at him with cap of navy silk
As long as they could look but could not touch.

She cried and cried on the day the feeling died
She cried and cried for her diamond
She cried and cried for the innocence denied
She cried and cried for Davie Dymund.

Davie took a mistress, 
Or maybe two or three or four or more
Recreationally. He was bored with Ruby Dymund.
One girl in particular,
A ‘lady’ of the night named Doris Rae
Purely physically, so they say – dirty diamond.

She’d fallen for his roguish rough, in cap of navy silk
She knew she maybe loved him far too much

She cried and cried on the day the feeling died
She cried and cried for her diamond
She cried and cried for the innocence denied
She cried and cried for Davie Dymund.

The sheriff came to call one night.
The body had been found of Doris Rae.
Callous butchery – where she lay, cold as diamond.
A cap of navy silk it seems
Upon her bloodied breast pointing the way
Quite conclusively, clear as day, to Davie Dymund

Ruby cried his innocence – half-heartedly in truth
The crime was hers – though didn’t tell them such!

She lied and cried on the day the feeling died
She lied and cried for her diamond
She lied and cried for his innocence denied
She lied and cried for Davie Dymund

She lied and cried on the day the diamond died
She cried and cried for her diamond
She cried and lied as they hanged him without pride
She cried and cried for Davie Dymund
She cried denied of Davie Dymund         
She cried and cried for Davie Dymund…


* This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Diamond

November 2016. In the wake of what is arguably the most farcically terrifying major election the world has ever seen, as the resultant victor begins his apocalyptic reign of oligarchical lunacy, I think this song takes on a specific relevance. 
It's not necessarily what the song was written about, but it somehow seems to fit this situation. Listen quickly, before someone presses the button...
Otherwise ... it has a nice beat.

Power To The Stupid

Everyday tale of family dysfunctionality, and the delusions that go with that. It's a sad story, told in an flippantly cheerful manner. A juxtaposition, some might say, from behind their thesaurus. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental. It's just a story - based on...


She frowns at the postman
Cos he doesn’t bring the letter
The letter from her daughter 
For whom she knits a sweater
The daughter has disowned her
That’s why she never phones her
Ever since her mother told her to sling her bloody hook

She chews on her fingers
With singular frustration
Frustration at her loneliness
Her daughter’s emigration
The daughter has outgrown her
Which led her to disown her
Ever since her mother told her to sling her bloody hook

Isn’t it a shame – no matter who’s to blame
We should take more care what we say
Isn’t it a shame – cos no-one wins this game
We end up in the family way

She stares out the window
As she dreams of something better
Better than the present
That is why she knits the sweater
The sweater’s one of many
Though she hasn’t given any
Since the day the mother told her to sling her bloody hook

Isn’t it a shame…

Nothing ever grows in a vacuum, you know
Something always causes each effect
Everyone expects the right that everyone respects them
But expectations aren’t what you’d expect

She swears at the postman
Cos he doesn’t bring the letter
The letter from her daughter
For whom she knits the sweater
But as she cuts the cotton
The mother has forgotten 
She told her only daughter to sling her bloody hook

Isn’t it a shame…

* This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Family Way

A story of a businessman who can't see the life for the strife. Always was it so, as it was 200 years ago, so it is today. He never even learned to say Euphemia's name.
Actually, Jeremiah Bain was the name of my great great great grandfather, but this song isn't about him in the slightest. I just borrowed his name because it sounds amazing.
This song from is 2015, or thereabouts. But the story is older.

Jeremiah Bain – strolling down the path through a life of gain
Doesn’t mean that Jeremiah feels no pain at all
Euphemia Seed contemplating all the hungry mouths to feed -
Eleven fat children, and they’re all so greedy.

They met by introduction on the Candlewick Walk
Eleven years later and they hardly talk
They’ve said all the things that they can think to say
Eleven fat children and a twelfth on the way

Jeremiah Bain – best foot forward through the pouring rain
Mercantile excitement gives a glow he can’t explain
Meanwhile in the home, as Euphemia hits the gin the children moan
Eleven fat children yet she still feels so alone

They met by introduction on the Candlewick Walk
Eleven years later and they hardly talk
They’ve said all the things that they can think to say
Eleven fat children and a twelfth on the way

Jeremiah looks at them but doesn’t see                  
The hunger in their eyes                                          
He provides and feeds them all efficiently               
But love for them denies                                          

Jeremiah Bain marches on to satisfaction self ordained
Oblivious to others with their needs much more arcane
Euphemia Seed – emptying the pantry for her thankless breed
There’s nothing in the cupboard that will ever fill her need

They met by introduction on the Candlewick Walk
Eleven years later and they hardly talk
They’ve said all the things that they can think to say
Eleven fat children and a twelfth on the way

* This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Jeremiah Bain

January 2018. 69 years here; 3 years gone. Always was and always will be HERO - just for one eternity! When he died, I made this tribute, and I've revisited and tweaked it. It's not as good as he did it, of course - not within the same universe. But it's the best I can do. Despite the many incarnations of this many faced god, there is only one David Bowie.

Heroes

You give new reason
You bring new reason to me
Like a new season
Breathing your life into me, and you
Take this heart - This ancient heart and let it beat anew
Make it start
You are life and I will live a life through you

All that is in you
All that is in you makes me
Everything you do brings me nearer to you, and you
Take this heart - this ancient heart and let it beat anew
Make it start
You are life and I will live a life through you

Rejuvenation

A lovely love song of a sort? Or maybe twisted into a twist from which there are no straight lines? How would I know? Do you know? Actually, I do know.

Never Let Me Go

Every once in a blue moon, an opportunity to do a collaboration with a very clever person comes along. Such an opportunity was this song, that I made with my excellent and manically talented pal, Mr Dave Lewty. Thanks to the wonders on the internet, or whatever it's called, the song was written and recorded over a distance of approximately 5130 miles, in Los Angeles and Fife! Dave started it off, breathing life into nothingness, and it leapt back and forth across the northern hemisphere for a bit then it was what it is. And then masterfully mastered and polished by the legendary Pete Maher in London, at a ridiculously reasonable rate. It must be knackered with all that travelling, you'd think! It was fantastic to work on this song this way, and we're both really proud of it. But then, we are biased - like the proud parents of a newborn bicycle. 
"Where Does She Go?" All around the world, my friends.
PS ... artwork by Dave.
Instruments and other noises by Dave and Ken. (I can't really remember who did what, to be honest).

Where Does She Go? --- by MORRISON LEWTY

2019.

Some kind of passions flow
Some hidden place below
Some place I've always been
Where I cannot be seen
You tell me, "just be afraid'"
You tell me things

Lying within your flames
Each time it's still the same
An icy blade that sings
The bringer of all stings
You tell me, "just barricade."
You tell me things

Oh, don't let them turn you cold
Don't ever lose your hold
Don't let them turn you cold

Can I believe my eyes?
They have no alibis.
But would they lie to me
Or tell me what I see?
You tell me "just let it fade."
You tell me things.

Oh, don't let them turn you cold
Don't ever lose your hold
Don't let them turn you cold
No, don't let them turn you cold
Don't ever lose your hold
Don't let them turn you cold.

Thanks to Jonathan Sheldon for the haunting violin tones, beautifully captured by the ever gracious Dave Lewty. And, as always, to Pete Maher for mastering this.

Don't Let Them Turn You Cold

Sometimes it's tough getting through till tomorrow, when you don't know when you're going to see the people you love again. It's tough for us all. But there is always that bright lighthouse of hope at the other end that lights up the sky with something worth moving towards, with he constant reminder that there will be something there that is going to be just brilliant. So many wonderful reunions await us. Get ready. I mean it.
So I wrote a song about it... (although other interpretations are equally valid).

After the apocalypse, when this is all clear
We can meet in the open - I'll buy you a beer -
It'll be so fine when that day arrives.
We'll walk in the streets and we'll play in the park.
We'll laugh and we'll dance from morning till dark.
It'll be so fine just feeling alive.
Get ready, I mean it...

It'll be so nice to see you again...

After the apocalypse, when we can hold hands,
And go to the football, and go and see bands,
It'll be so fine to welcome you home.
We can hold conversations - and not with the mirror - 
We can see other people - not think they're a killer - 
It'll be so fine not being alone.
Get ready, I mean it...

It'll be so nice to see you again

So Nice To See You Again

I remember when songs on bits of tape did sneak about, and twist and shout. But now where are they? I can't see them. Still they sneak, like sneaks in the glass. I feel them in my oracles, however, and sometimes they show themselves, but only to me. But as time immemorial (in memorising forgotten years) has led me to be the dodgy liar, I fool them, from here on in, to reveal all to all of you too - however many of you there may be, who stumble along.
In 1982 maybe it started, (or 1997 or 2010 or 1936) with me being born in a band, or maybe ten years later (or ten years later than that). It's hard to tell. Years, like songs and liars, sneak about, and lurk smugly, singing silence to the eye. You never really know where you stand with any of the above, and I still don't know.
But, whatever the odds, play my lovelies. Play them and put them in your mouths to taste the sound of what they might say. Don't be shy; don't be paranoid. I won't tell anyone else. It will be our secretive.

Ken Morrison

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