Bear wakes up, today the sun is red.
Lazy, sweet-toothed, capricious and free,
He walks down by the path,
He knows that salmons are
Sailing in the river, upwards.
With his paws, he comes out a rheum,
He hears his gut, and he hurries up.
And he needs no fishing rod,
Only time and a nod
To get the exquisit catch.
Hello, trees and flowers,
Excuse me for this delayed greet.
Now Bear needs a desert, he’s looking for a honeycomb.
He finds it in the third branch of a fir.
He’s happy, he is fit,
And he has to fight a bit
Against bees and their stings.
Later he heads for the place
Where bear ladies used to hibernate.
Perhaps it’s time to lay,
Perhaps they feel like him
Nature provides for us to take.
Miss, well, I was wondering,
If you have been too long alone.
There’s a son of bitch hunter there,
Dreaming with another big dead head,
Following bear’s tracks,
He never changes his tacks,
And as bear’s a little tired,
He’s in the line of fire.
But the man treads on a stick,
And now bear is warned,
And at the same time,
A big storm begins,
So the hunter runs to his home,
And bear is safe from his gun,
He’s comfortably back at his cave.
Thank you, my dear sky, thank you,
I’ll watch the rain and I’ll wait for the sun.
Would you be my partner if I go out drinking tonight?
I’d stay right beside you till the dawn kills the night.
We could jump every mountain, roll down the other side, where the green meets the blue and the colors never lie.
So darlin’, be my partner if they exile me tomorrow,
I’m bound for endless sorrow if you leave me feeling hollow.
What’s gonna tear apart this sweet and reckless dream?
Will you hold me in the dark when the world comes apart at the seam?
Would you be my partner if a fever burns me cold?
Would you nurse me through the night like I’d do, truth be told?
How long will this fire last, this strange and tender deal we signed with just a stare and a heartbeat we both feel?
V
Would you be my partner till the final clock strikes twelve?
It means wide-open days and nights that never sleep themselves.
You and me and time, cheap diners, tangled sheets, whiskey, smoke and rhymes,
afraid, alive, complete… I’m shaking, I’m smiling wide, scared you’ll say no, praying you’ll say “Baby, yeah… I’m in for the ride.”
I drank my very last glass for the umpteenth time.
Burned every penny at the casino while the owner stared at me like I was already dead.
I smoked alone a thousand cigarettes that tasted exactly like you:
Lucky Strike, yeah, real lucky.
I smashed my fingers with a hammer, but the pain wouldn’t even show up.
Bought a stapler and stitched my own hand shut just to see if I could still bleed something that was mine alone.
Please, one more bottle of whisky.
Meanwhile, I laughed and cried at the same time watching the war kick off on TV,
the plague crawling street by street, my best friend dying in the hallway five minutes before the big earthquake that everybody saw coming.
And me—who’d never touched a drink, never a cigarette, never gambled a single coin, never liked pain, always glued to the news like a good little boy… now everything felt exactly the same. I just wanted to stay alive so I could keep the luxury of crying for you.
Alright, you little shred-wannabes, welcome to “Play It or Bleed It.” I’m your host, Johnny, coming at you live from a basement full of broken dreams and half-stacked Marshalls. Tonight we’re entering the danger zone, kids: up here the guitar gets real thin, real shrill, very piercing, you know what I mean? This show is for all you bedroom warriors out there; we’re gonna turn you into monsters… or at least into guys who can impress someone at a party for thirty seconds. Rule number one: roll the treble to ten, bass to zero. Make it sound like an angry wasp on fire. Seventeenth fret and above: there are no more notes, only screams. If your mom yells “turn that shit down!”, you’re doing it right. If the cops knock, congratulations, you just graduated to lead guitarist. If the power goes out… even better, more distortion, baby. Grab that cheap Strat copy your uncle got you for Christmas, plug it straight into the blown practice amp that smells like burnt toast, and repeat after me: Pinky on the 22nd fret high E, now slide into a bend that makes the string beg for mercy. Hurts? Good. Pain is the only tuner that never lies. Scream along with it: “My guitar isn’t out of tune, it’s in drop-D depression!” Next week we’ll tackle AN INCREDIBLE solo using only four strings and pure hatred. Don’t touch that dial; we don’t do commercials, we do scars. Now crank it, bleed on it, and make the neighbors suffer. This is the zone where the guitar sounds very piercing… and your future sounds very loud. Wall of feedback, someone kicks a pedal, tape cuts.
A black man with blonde hair, on the city corners,
a country, folk, and blues player whose work is totally unknown.
A genius probably born somewhere between Texas and Ohio.
He plays songs that nobody can believe because his hair is too blonde.
Jason Drylix sleeps in an alley, and a cat scampered running from behind an abandoned car. Jason sleeps in the garbage.
Everybody in this town knows Jason is God when he feels like playing.
He knows that on the backstreet he will find everything.
He knows that when the rain gets in his shoes,
he’ll get in a place where a Billie Holiday impersonator is singing with her strange voice…
Nan nana na ana anna a dead man nanannananna
I remember her, but she’s dead.
Powder is melting. Between my nails.
Masolikert is not rock and roll. Voynich Wilson.
-Amazing.
Well, I am rich and my money is spent wherever I want. We’ll go to a restaurant, french cuisine, salmon with potatoes and butter, music and chives in our hair. La la la la ….. L al la la all allalalal…
Cruel, cruel. Sexy Man
If you find a billion-dollar bill on the floor.
If someone stole your cocktail mixer
if you ever have a corpse to dispose of.
Put the blame on Manolo
Put the blame on Manolo.
If you are a corrupt cop,
if you have an unidentified corpse.
Put the blame on Manolo, nobody loves him
Put the blame on Manolo, nobody loves him.
Put the blame on Manolo oh yes,
oh Put the blame on Manolo.
Nobody will say a thing.
I read the newspaper and I get angry as I read it:
“Personal friend of the president…resistance, government, minister, pleasant.”
Let me take off my moustache, let me take off these trousers, this phony pullover, I’d like to wear roses.
A T-shirt and my old bag, A skirt, like I used to wear before, I’ll forget I SCREWED you,
AS I’m going to rescue my dress.
I’ll wear flowers again, Yes, I’ll wear flowers again.
This theatre play is insane: I’ll wear flowers again.
I’ll walk again the streets, shaking my hips and butt, telling dirty jokes to boys with tight Bermuda shorts.
I’ll wear flowers again, Yes, I’ll wear flowers again. This theatre is insane, I’ll wear flowers again.
(Original 1994 noise)
23.(tuning in search)
(1994 recording)
Afternoons drunk in a dark room, with a laser trying to demonstrate ether doesn’t exist.
Absorption, number four, absorption is the word. Electron band. It is too late for Nicky. Absorption IV.
23.(tuning in search)
(1994 recording)
She turns off the light like every other night and in bed she feels the cold that silence hides, like a stone lying beside her, a mind drifting through cheap tin-plated thoughts and her legs feel weak. But for the past few days, 11 today, she thinks, desire has fallen asleep and the only caress left is the air itself. In her mental pictures, doubts and fears keep growing until 2 in the morning, finding her still wide awake, while his snoring grates on her nerves. She gets up, goes down to the kitchen, and a glass of orange juice clears her head a little. Then her eyes stop on the jacket. He must have picked it up from the dry cleaners. Damn her obsession with keeping everything in order. She starts putting it away in the closet when a strange slip of paper falls out, completely unfamiliar. On it, there’s a phone number, a woman’s name, and a little drawn heart. Maybe the final clue that will bring all the ghosts roaring back to life. She spends the entire night thinking it over and the sun doesn’t catch her asleep. He’s already in the bathroom taking a bath. It’s February, bitterly cold, far too cold to strip naked without a heater, an electric heater placed right next to the tub. She walks in. On any other day, that wouldn’t be unusual, but her hands push the heater into the bathtub. For the first time in weeks, sounds finally come out of his mouth. Though they’re hard to make out. The whole day is spent with the police, at the morgue, with his parents. She barely manages to get home that night, picks up the phone, and hears the message on the answering machine. This is Paqui Dry Cleaner’s calling. We’re so terribly sorry. This can happen sometimes when two jackets look almost identical and the tag numbers get mixed up. Tomorrow we will bring your husband’s jacket over. We deeply regret any inconvenience we may have caused.
What a funny day.
The three of us at the basement room, singing and recording songs.
Lyrics written on an watercolor paper.
What a funny day, the brief band, the one-day band.
He was born 20 years ago in Glasgow
in a bloody church built on the grass.
You never pay the money you borrow,
you are just a painful song.
Marianne is in the film,
a teacher cares for her.
Mike is waiting to be a great star.
Ask me for the pool, for the pinball, for the youth in your brain.
You only see images, like me now, as I pretend I have no words.
Language is away, it’s away.
Sense. Annual. Bureaucracy. Cerdanyola. House. Table. Banana. Anguila. Ebb. Joy. Grease. Europe II. Machine. Music. Hammer to the finger: hammer to the monkey.
I’m a Gaddafi boy. Money of money, elephant baby. Walk with white colors on your boots. He’s 20 years old and he has 4 sons. He’s devilish gum; stick; gum; away. When I was young.
Baby you’re shining over the sheets
while I’m stunned looking at you.
Your legs are amazing
your breasts are angelic. I get more and more anguished.
My animal wakes up, wakes up.
Your hand runs on your skin as I stand still
I try to stand still.
Take off your shoes so, slow.
Lift me to a level I don’t know.
Annul my reason, annul my mind,
take off your knicks slow.
Fantasy face, fantasy face
please, don’t touch me yet.
Fantasy face, fantasy face,
one more drink for me.
Now I’m done, my hand stops,
fantasy face, please take these two coins.
One for you, one for your chief,
can’t you see how deep I am?
I love you as I imagine the way you might smell.
Later, fucking my wife, I’ll see your ass.
So that’s why I always shut my eyes
To recover images I memorize.
Fantasy face, Fantasy face,
you know about love
Fantasy face, Fantasy face,
I know what you know.
I pretended I was in love,
but I was just horny, hot
behind the peep-show glass.
And it was easier to say “I love you”
than saying “I want to fuck”.
Fantasy face, you understand, you understand.
Imagine a wood, a river through it, a bird singing up on a tree, like a fable you’ve heard time ago, when you believed.
Sweet-toothed rabbits on the hill escaping from the ice, a strawberry shrub there, a bunch of roses on a girl’s hand.
A gentleman is at her side, he looks at the ground and she is red, he has just told her he loves her her heart has felt a jerk.
Their hands are together, they are in love they walk among flowers.
Their fingers play, sweat soaks them and they begin to shake.
There’s a dark place among trees, he tells her they could go there for a while, she thinks it’s a good idea.
There is sweat on their hands, their fingers still play. A hot inner wind in their throats, they kiss each other.
Imagine a wood, a river through it, a bird scared up a tree, it’s a voyeur, he lives there, looking at couples beneath.
Now, the bird sees an ass moving up and down, a woman face with an open mouth, moaning and screaming.
Few minutes later, the man gets up. Now he is calmed. He pulls his trousers up and he thinks maybe they shouldn’t get married.
Yesterday I felt one of the worst things I’ve ever felt.
Today I still feel it: I doubt myself.
I doubt myself. I doubt myself. I doubt myself. I doubt myself. I doubt myself.
[On air, late night, slight echo]“And we’re back… still no calls tonight, folks. That’s fine. That’s absolutely fine. I’ve got time. Plenty of time. Let’s spin another one for the empty lines…♪ Frank Sinatra – The Way You Look Tonight ♪
…nobody? Okay.♪ Ella Fitzgerald – Someone to Watch Over Me ♪
Hello? …No? Cool.♪ Nat King Cole – Stardust ♪
The phones are working. I checked. Twice.♪ Billie Holiday – Blue Moon ♪
I can see you out there, not calling.♪ Tony Bennett – Fly Me to the Moon ♪
Still nothing. Romantic.♪ Louis Armstrong – What a Wonderful World ♪
It is wonderful, isn’t it? Just you… and me… and the songs.♪ Judy Garland – Over the Rainbow ♪
Somewhere, right now, someone’s thinking about calling… but they won’t.♪ Chet Baker – My Funny Valentine ♪
You’re breaking my heart, city.♪ Sarah Vaughan – Misty ♪
Look into my eyes… pick up the phone… no?♪ Dean Martin – Ain’t That a Kick in the Head ♪
Yeah. It really is.…We’ll be right back after this one. Or not. Who cares anymore.”
Since you went away,
your stuff appears everywhere.
And I can’t escape, there’s no way
to bring the sun to my face.
Driving my car, people stop and stare:
Look, this guy seems to be dead.
And I can’t look at my shadow,
it’s just like a scarecrow without your hand in mine.
And I wish the sky would crack open
and something would take me to the place
where I can live without you,
because since you went away…
Since you went away,
I drink every bottle I find.
Tequila Sunrise is close to being my blood.
Any whisky brand leaves traces in my veins,
But no kind of alcohol could take away my pain.
And I wish the sky would crack open
and something would take me to the place
where I can live without you,
because since you went away…
She pretends she likes to fuck for free
She pretends it’s love when he pays the bill
She says “I never ask for cash, you see”
But her legs stay closed until the card is swiped, still
She has the right to wear La Perla lace
Bought with someone else’s overtime
She’s a whore, but she swears she’s not that type
“Prostitutes take money, I just take time… and bags, and trips, and wine”
It would be so wrong to be a whore, she says
Her friends agree, her mother too
She has her “boundaries” and little rules,
Only spreads them when the gift is first-class
And her boyfriend thinks he’s the lucky one
Pays the rent, the spa, the weekend in Paris
Never sees the price tag on her tongue
She’s a whore, an expensive, classy whore.
Keeps the receipts inside her Dior
She’s a five-star rated whore
“but I’m not like them”, she swore
She doesn’t kno she’s a whore
She’s a whore
She’s the queen of “you have to show me first”
A whore who never thinks she’s getting fucked
Only, only getting loved, She’s a whore
But God forbid you call her that out loud.
She knows exactly how the game is played
A tear, a pout, a “you don’t love me enough”
Then watches silly men
running to the ATM
Melting their cards in a rush
just to get lost in her bush.
She’s a whore… and she’ll die before she knows
That love and Louis Vuitton aren’t close.
(Instrumental)
Driving by a neighborhood, as dogs are barking beside my car, by a place where the speed limit is 20, and my odometer marks I’m running too fast. Too fast. Too much.
Even more, there’s a rain that begins now. I’m worried, so far from home. My odometer marks I’m running too much. Only my odometer knows it.
Seven crows mark my bad luck. They are here, marking my bad luck.
These seven crows are over my head And they show my bad luck.
And I yell at them: “Go away! I don’t want to see you. I’m afraid, I’m afraid, I’m afraid, having you ever over my head”.
Seven crows mark my bad luck.
And I look up to the sky, and I shoot I shoot my gun, but they never go.