Swamp

4 Murkin

City Reach

Fathers Day 3 way

Yelp - Deep in The Forest

Creep Dub

Screaming Crotch Rivers

God Damn Right

The Moonshine n Shrooms Session

Deep In The Forest Moonshine

Pandora - Flute

All The Watching Eyes

Way down in Saliva’lo
thats where our story come from and where our story go

Well it’s 3:33am
and we’re callin’ out all the two headed and twelve eye so called frien
and we’re callin’ out all the murky water critter 
and we’re callin’ out all the centipedes whose legs skitter

Cragged fingers of the hand cut hopefuls that all in the Clam and Tail know so well
it’s those gnarled digits that start ringing the old iron bell

That bells weathered and cased with sickly green moss
stuck on the head of a splintered stake, like the virgins son stuck on the cross
like an anointed swamp snake that bells gettin ready to take

Morning again its 4:44am
and that bells tilted and sinking, in to the sludge at the edge of the swamp
surrounded by the possum, skunk n’ coon fresh from a midnight chomp
punters drunk from a rent party romp

Elephant Juice with a tap on the side
the’ll drink it till they slip out of their hide

Chime that bell does chime
for all who are looking for a good time
it brings shadow forms from the muck
like a catfish that bit off at the wrist a noodling fist that got stuck

And the flies play the banjos
and the bongo man levitates above the waitresses putting on the strip shows

Morning again its 5:55am
call out the talebearers
call out the harum-scarum naysayers 
call out the Pork Oil Posse with their rodeo clown prayers 

Now wherever the Pork Oil go! 
they act in accordance with the serpent’s commandment, n’ slither, n’ flow
good moral law way down in Saliva’lo

Way down in Saliva’lo we free from guilt and sin
free from guilt and sinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

Morning again its 6:66am
and down at the old dust pot gazebo band stand we stalking
like a hungry cat, who’s name is Peenutter
cats got a glass full of whisky with a goldfish drowning in a drunken splutter
“Yeah see it?” the posse started to mutter

That gazebo still and empty
columns like fingers beckoning plenty

A death cheater with a one string geeter
and a wash tub bass, and drummin sticks of bones 
and swamp murder from a baritone saxophone 

In good time the Pork Oil Posse always ready to chime
to all the sleep eye faint heart craven
salt and dream rock pasting them lookers shut
Open em up!

Pry we ah do, we be the prying men
pry we ah do, we be the prying men
laying down a good tune
to lift up the lay downers
lift up all the good ways drowners

Wake them up to the light!
shine like the burning sun
shine! with Bubba, Pip, Skeng and the Pork Oil Posse

Live! at 6:66am 
in the old dust pot gazebo
thats were we are
and thats where we’ll play!

Live! at 6:66am
Its the Pork Oil Posse gonna ride again
we gonna ride again

You see it? 
You said it. 
You hold it? 
You know it. 

Way down in Saliva’lo

Morning Again

Morning Again Instrumental

Pip - Bones
Bubba - Geeter n’ E-bow
Skeng - Washtub n’ Wind n’ Throat
Ade-n’-Al - Swamp Murder
F£RG - Robot Cricket 

All present and future evidence, several incarnations of carnival lifestyles and circus-burlesque passions, a thousand forgotten names, lines and times. The girl who offered that first mango, salt and peppered. Kisses from summer rain in the heat of the night. The good and bad and the ugly together, mixed up. Steel bones like wood, blisters under blisters, white finger, black finger, blue finger, slide finger. Throwing in “the black keys for free”. Punch-ups, dust-downs, black-outs, the nuts and the bluffs. “Don’t look in to the light, carry on”. “Is that a human hand in that cigar box? He swore that it was real”. Fairground chic, thalidomide juggler. Gambling chips for payment. Fog horns on the rise, the late night murked-out smoke of blinding rain and city sodium. Lost in the haze of the East river flood. Foil as plug fuses, electrocution by mic stands, PA’s, guitars, and Echo box fires fuelled by hair spray, spilt and leaked liquids. Smoke machine fritz suffocation of band and dance floor. Military police transit van shakedown, numerous breakdowns. Reluctant tarot totting gypsies and the man with no future, The Midnight Players Club, all of the good old boys, all the holes in all the walls, rain through the roof, dirt underfoot. Attacking seagulls. Dub room unscheduled move-out, subsequent unscheduled move-ins, playing in wrong key, playing in wrong time, sounding better placed than intention. Miles of gaffer tape. Miles of silent way. Red light syndrome in the studio and in the district. Trying to forget it all, how to play, when to play, when not to play, how loud to play and start all over again. Life condensed to a moment, this moment. Every moment's present and future evidence.

PFE

Popular tracks