Twisted blues-folk song about an identity crisis.

Lyrics:

I’m covering my sex up with neoprene,
Gonna knock out all my teeth for some whale baleen,
Yeah, my gums are bleeding heavy, but my head feels clean,
I’m gonna be the woman of the sea.

I’m stringing sheets of algae up between my limbs,
Gonna flap them to the wailing of the sea lions’ hymns,
Yeah, the gods are in the treetops, but the gospel swims,
I’m gonna be the woman of the sea.

I screwed a moray eel in a dank moraine,
Yeah, the squalor tasted succulent as sugarcane,
I sucked up all the filthiness, and with it came the pain,
The pain inside the woman of the sea.

Ahhhh…

I did battle with the kraken for my squid mouth soup,
Yeah, he pulled me by the coat tails on a loop-de-loop,
I shimmied, but that decapod was tough to dupe,
He could shimmy like the woman of the sea.

I cut a mermaid’s skull into a diadem,
All fortified with faucet-fulls of oyster phlegm,
I declare myself the sea princess, carpe diem,
There’s a princess in this woman of the sea.

My lungs are out of air; I’ve got to surface quick,
But the water’s black and I can’t tell which way to kick,
The final curve I paddle is parabolic,
And I go to sleep a woman of the sea…
Because the sea forever shares a bed with me.

Ahhhh…

Woman of the Sea (Live at the Blueberry Bar)

In Nikolai Gogol's novel 'Dead Souls' the lead character Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov hatches a cunning plan to buy the ownership rights to dead peasants at a knock-down price, enabling him to acquire land from the state. However, the ghoulish nature of his scheme is leaked to a horrified public and Chichikov is forced back onto the road, doomed to remain an outcast forever. 

Lyrics:

Drawn by a carriage, the driver a hunchback,
Our hero was set on his way.
His father would tell him to trust in the penny,
And make insincerity pay.
So he’d only make friends as a means to an end,
And he’d pay his respects to the rich,
But all his plans failed, before he found a way
He could satisfy his cosmic itch.

What is it Chichikov, what were you thinking of?
Dead Souls.
What is it Chichikov, what were you thinking of?
Dead Souls.

His best years behind him, he spotted a loophole,
That sealed his ultimate fate.
He’ll buy up your dead, and you’ll be tax exempt,
Then he’ll mortgage the lot to the state.
And oh, when they thought he was rolling in green,
They would hang on his high cultured breath,
It wasn’t ‘til after he charmed them they found out
His business depended on death!

What is it Chichikov, what were you thinking of?
Dead Souls.
What is it Chichikov, what were you thinking of?
Dead Souls.

What is it Chichikov, what were you thinking of?
Dance like a fidget on fiery coals,
What is it Chichikov, what were you thinking of?
Coming to town for the deeds to dead souls.

Soft, the word bled that our hero was implicated 
In a ghoulish wrong.
The ladies despised him, officials chastised him,
But he carried on with the song.
And oh, the road takes him, so they will forget him,
And vaguely remember his crime.
He thought he could settle, but they wouldn’t let him,
He freaked out too many this time!

Send him a messenger, send him a sign,
He is breaking.
Back to the first square, and now with no time,
Ah, he’s aching.

What is it Chichikov, what were you thinking of?
Dead Souls.
What is it Chichikov, what were you thinking of?
Dead Souls.

What is it Chichikov, what were you thinking of?
Dance like a fidget on fiery coals,
What is it Chichikov, what were you thinking of?
Coming to town for the deeds to dead souls.

What is it Chichikov, what were you thinking of?
Dance like a fidget on fiery coals,
What is it Chichikov, what were you thinking of?
Coming to town for the deeds to dead souls.

Dead Souls

New folk song about a real nightmare. Listen at your peril. 

Lyrics:

The hordes are in the cold place,
They glibber in my ear,
A black iron grille divides us still,
But they can smell my fear.

The hordes are in the cold place,
We keep them out with pine,
My loved ones huddle round the fire,
The hordes, they scratch and whine.

Oh, they hear my heartbeat,
They hear my vessels booming.

Oh, they need the fresh meat,
They know the feast is looming.

Beneath the hut, a staircase
Leads to miles of corridor,
And at the end are caged lion-things
That gnaw their bellies raw.

And I can fly in this place,
I perch atop their cell,
The lion-things are tortured
And they call the hordes to hell.

The hordes pour from the cold place,
Descend, my loves, descend,
My loves are chased by grizzle-bears
Down every twist and bend.

Oh, they hunt the quarry,
The raptorhood impels them.

Run, or you’ll be sorry,
Hot blood, hot blood propels them.

Hot from the bone, the hordes they moan
And their lips are moist…

Oh, your people flounder,
The tiger takes the hindmost.

Oh, the hordes surround her,
The one you love the most is… Gone…

The hordes came from the cold place,
Their forked tongues flick the air,
In waves they pour with clicking claws
And yellow eyes that stare.

Now to my stuffy rookery,
I swoop and close my eyes,
But the glibbering grows louder
As I hear the legions rise…

Hordes in the Cold Place

An original folk song based on the novel Independent People by Halldór Laxness. It depicts the beautiful and painful relationship between Ásta Sóllilja and her father Bjartur of Summerhouses.
Lyrics:

When the blizzard ceased to blow,
He found his croft submerged in snow,
And his mangy dog was yowling in the dark.
He scrabbled round for matches, lit the lamp, 
And in the feeble light it gave, 
He discerned his Rosa,
Still, congealed with blood.
The corpse lay on the floor, and in the bed,
Bjartur saw a baby’s face,
Scrunched up eyes and mottled skin,
Like a new-born old man.
It lay beneath the belly of the dog,
The infant whimpered and subsisted on
That ember-glow of warmth.

Poor little thing…

Sing, with the note that you have won,
Asta…Sollilja.
You shall be called the lily of the sun,
Asta…Sollilja.

Sprout up a willowy maiden, with raven
Hair, a cast in one eye,
Nuzzle the magical place on your daddy’s neck,
When you want to cry

Tears for the future, no tutor no, no
Christian salvation for you,
Learn the Jomsviking Rhymes first,
When the right time comes,
You shall see town in the 

Spring, with the lily blossom of the sun,
Asta…Sollilja.
Sing, for the lily white life begun,
Asta…Sollilja.

Bathe in the dew, the moon lights your
Nakedness, on the night before
You see the ladies of town and the 
Ocean, and you gaze in awe.

Lying next to daddy at the inn,
You turn, you wriggle up close to him, you
Don’t know know why.
Turns out that your daddy isn’t sleeping, 
You feel his hand creeping, you feel his hand
On your thigh!

No! I am an independent man…
No! I am beholden to no human…
No! I am an independent man…
No! I am beholden to no human…
Flower.

Bjartur left the frightened flower of his life,
He went to load the cart, he left her 
Cowering in the dark.
Bjartur marched his flower homewards in the rain,
She ripped her dress and vomited,
Then vomited again.

Strange little thing…

Wilt, for the foggy winter has begun,
Asta…Sollilja.
How could you understand what you have done?
Asta…Sollilja. 

Daddy departs, but sends up a poet
Of love on the heath.
Quivering lass, your cast eye is ancient,
It sees underneath

Words whispered covertly, in a spectral dirge,
This wordsmith, shall grant your wish,
He can’t resist the urge…

He took her!
He took her!
He took her!
He plucked the…flower.

How could you comprehend what he has done?
Asta…Sollilja. 
Cast from the croft to perdition,
Asta…Sollilja.

Tell her from me that when I die, she may
Happily lay me out,
Tell him from me that when I die, he may
Bury my carrion…

No more pity, I consent to no dumb charity not accorded ordinary mortals,
I am more than half a human…
Fie on your heathen
Doggerel…

No! I am an independent woman…
No! I am beholden to no human…
No! I am an independent woman…
No! I am beholden to no human…
Crofter.

Aaah…
Aaah…
Bjartur lifted up the flower of his life…
Aaah…

Lily of the sun.


Ásta Sóllilja

A face-melting new version of Dragonfly Man, recorded in preparation for our upcoming world tour of Kankaanpää.

Lyrics:

The lakeside pond besheathed by weeds
And footprints scraped the churn’d mud
That laced the banks, and laced the dream
Was by the salivated cud
That which would tumble, molar-ride,
Curtailed and curtained by thin lips,
Lips arid, never moisture’s host,
Yet from these jaws some pondslime drips

And from these jaws no croak’d tones
Dared break the crickets buzzing near,
For silent backlegs squatted low,
And damp, they played a tuneless peer.

Reached out in river-mist and buzz
Did silent squatter, gleamed his eyes,
And boggled they with beauty’s awe,
Upon the dancing dragonflies,
Flew tongue, it flew, the marble tip
Slid mucus through the humid haze
And drew the darting demon back
Yet on it he could only gaze,
Twas swallowed not, and quick unslicked,
But died a turmoil, river-Zeus
Did not for luncheon snare the hide,
For this preserved another use,
Snapped wings with nimble fingers were,
The webb’d grasp worked through the day,
And pulled, and weaved, intricacied,
Til ‘fore the craftsman God-art lay.

Was nothing more, was nothing less,
Than nature’s cloak, the visage-cape,
In lightning blue, but hemmed it was,
With gossamer wings, base to nape.

So Dragon-Fly Man’s goggle-gaze
Did sparkle, did expunge with fire,
And for his life-work creaked he up
Til sick with eye-glut he spread higher,
Cleared his ceiling: broke the mist,
And taking up his scaly cloak
A stiff outstretched arm, clammy fist
In widowed time the laws it broke.

For not one was the sickly pond,
Without and mud framed for mud’s sake,
But Mud-Student in rapture flew
And only did his heart he take.

Dragonfly Man

A new song about how religious delusion can lead to megalomania and power grabbing, set during the reopening of the silk road route in 629AD, during the Tang Dynasty.

Watch the video of us playing The Silk Road King in Kankaanpää here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sgiRgyGQh3U

Lyrics:

An attentive ear, dear traveller,
For the tale a pauper sings,
Of a man who roamed the Xinjiang sands,
A man called the silk road king.

An attentive ear, dear traveller,
For the tale a pauper sings,
Look upon the barren Xinjiang sands,
Through the eyes of the silk road king.

Your sweet dictator in the sky, calls you
He offers you his purple hand,
Steal unto him the subtle ribbon of the Djinn,
You are a fresh thief in a foreign land.

Your sweet dictator visits in a dream,
He teaches you his final verse,
Take it as licence to accost the caravans,
For they are rolling out a godless curse.

Roll down the Tarim to the cavern of the Djinn,
The Djinn that blisters with a smokeless flame,
Retrieve the ribbon from his caustic mandibles,
Now you possess the adversary’s name.
 
You’ve never known such strength before,
Never felt so juiced, never so assured,
Ride on the chariot of absolute omniscience,
The silk road shall fall to the sword.

Now raise from the ashes a citadel of gleaming stone,
And minarets aimed at the moon,
The emperor fears you, and you hear the old one:
“Soon, I shall come to you soon.”

Your sweet dictator slithers in your bones,
Your people supplicate and cower,
Their land was stolen, and now you steal their minds,
You took the Word and made it power.

The Silk Road King

A new recording of an original SLON folk song on the final voyage of Captain Cook, and his untimely death in Kealakekua Bay, 1778. Watch the video here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGZlN9EpF3s&feature=youtu.be

The Greenwich light is dappled, it reminds me
Of sun-swung seas,
Swinging softly in my muscle memories…
I swagger with my sailor’s gait
From dinner to soiree,
“Our Cook’s the man who mapped the world”,
The London dailies say.
The Earl of Sandwich dines me, he says
“Cook must you resign?
We have ships bound for the North-West Passage,
Ask, and they’ll be thine.”

I can’t stand it, so I stand and fix the party with my eyes…
“My Lords:
If so commanded I will undertake to lead this enterprise.”

Bring me my guns, bring me my sextant…
Bring me the iceberg frosted waves…
Bring me my wilderness of water…
It’s a wilderness of graves.

Tis I…
Tis I…

Elizabeth my love, I leave you staring from the docks,
The Resolution makes for Tonga, where I thread her through the rocks.
Aye, there this Yorkshire farm boy is the supreme autocrat,
Harass me at me South Sea throne; I’ll lash ye with me cat.
They steal from me, the natives stir, the Old One from his sleep.

I’ll slice the biceps on their arms…
Til’ their bone marrows weep…

Stand away, up North I pelt,
A broth of Nootka Injun ice-melt
Broiling…broiling…

Break upon the Chukchi Sea,
Escape her frigid fingers coyly
Coiling…coiling…

We-ell the ship was spoiling so I pushed her hard to Hawaii,
There the natives sang my name out – Orono – and I was a deity…

Tis I…
Tis I…

I feasted with King Terreoboo by the whitewashed moon,
He sent us off with accolades, but we returned too soon.
When they stole a wooden cutter, I declared a state of war,
I went to fetch their King for hostage
On that sacred shore…

Of a pearly morning, captain’s coming,
And through the trees I feel the drumming,
From the throng, a lone Hawaiian
Leers grim and shows me iron,
Small shot bounces off his shield,
Mortal man, I am revealed!
A final act, a final scene,
A death for every slow marine,
Retreat with dignity, retreat, ah!
Clubbed to my knees, I falter,
Oh my mind, my skull-swung head,
The dizzy waves are churning red,
The dagger drawn, a neck of knife,
Diverts my air, it drinks my life!

And I fall face down on the sun-swung seas, they
Stultify, my pumping life, they pull it from my chest…

I pass to where the gyrfalcons…
And the Gods go to rest…

We ate your heart, but no hard feelings, Lono…
Lono, we set your mana free…
When you coming, back to visit, Lono?
Lono, fulfill the prophecy…

Last Voyage of Cook

An intense new recording of Ásta Sóllilja, from a live performance at Pilgrim's Pit in Stoke-on-Trent on 9th December 2016.

Ásta Sóllilja (Live at Pilgrim's Pit)

Well I bust my ear drum, I've got one ear,
There's only one side I can hear,
The doctor says it won't come back for days,
But I hear you baby, let me count the ways.

I hear your footsteps in my soul,
They hit me there like rock and roll,
I hear you like the monkey hears the tree,
Well girl, you bring the monkey out of me.

I hear you like I hear the sun,
Them light vibrations sound like fun,
I hear you like the meadow hears the spring,
Now did you know, you don't need ears to sing?

I hear your thoughts, you can't tell lies,
You speak to me with your big eyes,
I know what you will say before you speak,
Well, let me be your manly one-eared freak.

I hear your body in the night,
Wrapped up in my arms so tight,
Your tummy says you love me, it's for real,
Well don't you know, you don't need ears to feel?
I didn't know, but you don't need ears to feel.

I bust my ear drum, but I don't care,
'Cause luckily I have a spare,
I bust one ear, but baby I have two,
Yeah I've got two ears, but only one of you.
I have got two ears, but only one of you.

Ear Drum Blues

A new folk song about an old Staffordshire legend.

Thanks to Carl Wilson for making me write it.

Vocals - Michael Ridley
Acoustic Guitar - Robert Wilson
Bass Guitar - Adam Ready
Drums - Dov Rosen (www.facebook.com/balubeats)

Recorded by Alex and Vitaly Zvulun @ A. G. Studio in Tel Aviv:

www.facebook.com/AG.recording.production

Artwork by Xenya Melnikov:

www.instagram.com/zen_dress_cut
www.facebook.com/zendresscut/


Lyrics:

Come you up to Blake Mere
Blacker than a banker’s conscience
Come you up to Blake Mere
Dark depths, deeper than a mother’s concern.
Come you amorous
Lads to the black pool
Come you lovers of
Biddulph and Froghall,
Come at midnight, she awaits you theer,
The mermaid of the mere.

Briny white horses break hard on the reef
And the spray hits the lips of a siren, in mid-motif
Find me, lover, be the man
For a naked nymph in the Straits of Magellan!

…Hark…
Cleft into two, the mist parts for her majesty’s bark …
Mercian sailor says “come, my seductive skylark…
Come with me, you appear to be unseasonably nesh.

The Blake Mere is limpid, warm, and fathomless.”

Flushed in a muscular tryst,
A tantric red-blooded pink mist,
They lay in the reeds…
But the plenum feeds,
On mortal man’s demise,
She cannot age, he fades. he dies,
He dies.
Lovelorn and trapped, she lingers theer,
In theer…
The wallowing widow of the mere.

Joshua Linnet was wild as a hailstorm,
He spied a fair lady and lusted for her pale form,
“Marry me, will you”,
She said “away with you”.
So he took her arm, and whispered to her “listen dear,
They say a witch floats, let’s see how you fare in the Mere.”

…Quick…
Swallowed by darkness, the fair lady sunk like a brick…
Then up rose the mermaid, ovulating and apoplectic…

“Curse you Joshua Linnet, you men are all the same,
You‘re all bloody scam artists, I know your game.
This lake is quaggy and cold,
He said it was bottomless,
‘Tis six feet deep at best,
And he left me here, frustrated and depressed…
Depressed…
Man…
Meet your death…”

With sickle-sharp talons,
She butchered that felon,
Then dove, and not a ripple
Did betray her presence,
Theer, she waits…

By Michael Ridley

The Blake Mere Mermaid

While on tour, SLON went into the huge echo chamber in Safed, the cistern built under Crusader rule, and we let rip.

Harmonies in the Crusader Cistern of Safed

SLON is a musical and literary storytelling project involving three physicists who masquerade as musicians. We combine musical ideas from metal, folk and blues with narrative ideas from history, literature and nightmares. We also explore video, visual art and the short story form. Our vocalist is the Prince of all Chinchillas.

SLON

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