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1. |
Eulogy/Regrets
06:36
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Eulogy-Regrets
Regrets — I got ’em
I could have been a millionaire
but I ain’t one
Regrets —
more than a few things I did —
and worse —
things I didn’t do
yeah I got regrets
I should have been the president
but nobody listened
I should have been making the rules
not just breaking them —
(not to mention the ass kissing)
Yeah I got regrets —
the thwarted pursuit of happiness
I confess I got regrets
I confess I got regrets — bad ones
going to work every day
I shouldn’tna
I coulda been a contender —
I coulda
I fought and fought
and only thing I won:
more regrets
(being sorry is something I’m getting good at)
For all my bad debts,
the times I made you upset, my absurd bets,
too many cigarettes, frayed safety nets
things I wish I could forget . . .
I got regrets
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2. |
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Little Boys with Big Guitars
when we first hit this dump
there was no sun, moon or stars
only the sound
of little boys with big guitars
it’s been the same
ever since that day
(let’s beat it, Man, this place is packedwith goddam stars)
listen to them
they won’t even listen to each other let alone the rhythm section
they got these new amps
that turn up to 20
I don’t believe it
I wish they would shut up
shut up
shut up
I’m talking about boys those boys with their big guitars
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3. |
More Than An Apology
03:56
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More Than an Apology
When I buy you that champagne lunch
more than an apology
roses by the dozen
more than an apology
when I take you away from all this
more than an apology
I hate myself for hating you
more than an apology
wallow in self pity
more than an apology
my phone bill’s through the ceiling
more than an apology
I starve myself, get a haircut
more than an apology
when we do it the way you like
more than an apology
every second seems like an hour
more than an apology
I need to be forgiven
more than an apology
don’t want to be forgotten
more than an apology
don’t want to be forgotten
don’t want to be forgotten
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4. |
970-DOGS
05:31
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5. |
Realm Of The Censors
05:21
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Realm of the Censors
The censors are buried head first in the stinking mud
they pose on hands and knees
a ripe field of bare buttocks
obscene parody of prayer
nothing touches them,
still they flinch
tremble with anticipated terror of harsh anal penetration never realized
They can never know real pain
or real pleasure
only fear —
conjured agony, forbidden ecstasy —
each image more cruel and carnal than anything witnessed above
Within their muddy helmets they rot
smelling rot they scream
but their mouths fill with decay and defecation
no sound is heard there below
above them a flatulent symphony
they’ve learned to speak with their assholes
hearing nothing, they babble on
spitting and drooling brown matter
in their haste to voice their complaints
The Seven Deadly Virtues:
righteous indignation zealous organization absolute morality
dignity of the fetus application with extreme prejudice pompous justice
and infallible opinion
Preacher heal thyself
your wealth is derived from closed minds,
open wallets, tight behind the times signs of apocalypse
you missed the ship
you ain’t hip to what’s going on
you’re wrong and you won’t admit it
get with it
Teacher give up we’re lost and want to be
don’t need no geography to tell me where I’m at
economics has more to do with that
this world’s flat and that’s that
Lawman surrender
we’ve rendered you useless
your guidelines are obsolete and always were you’re like fur:
just a dead animal displayed for the status quo
Hey Joe where you going with that gun in your hand?
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6. |
Solo #8
01:28
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7. |
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The Death of the Workdogs
Friends, this is old Rock Hasbin with the True Story of The Death of The Workdogs. The Workdogs were the very first rhythm section for hire and #1 Rambo Type Head Band — not to mention Yves Bisquet who was their (my) great manager.
One night I was at my pad listening to The Hound — I mean, Leila — on the radio station WFMU and I heard a brand new sound which was Roberta and the new Infotainment Blues Thing. Well, on the backstrength of that I got to know Rob and then Scott who were the Workdogs, and it wasn’t long after they were coming ’round to my place for meals. Which they come into the habit of doing. And they would ask me to play my guitar for them and maybe someday be their sideman.
See, the way it worked it was a different sideman for every show, never repeating the same thing twice. Many a time I was to ask them when my time would come. They said, “Rock,” they said “soon.” They always said “soon.” So I continued to practice my guitar and to feed them and to prop them up when they couldn’t stand — doing whatever I could.
One day, with the help of 3 J’s and The Workdogs were doing fine — that’s Jerry, Jimmy and Jim Beam — they was jamming on a Sonny Boy Williamson thing and I was just about to sit in when the telephone rang. I picks up the receiver and it’s Easy Money — the front man for my regular gig — which was The Big Nothing — and we had a show that night, a Tuesday at 4am.
I jumps into my car, a Plymouth Valiant, and I rushes to the club — The Masterpiece Theater. And the doorman — which was Carlo — informed me of the death of The Workdogs. He said, “Rock,” he said, “they have died no more than 10 minutes ago.” Which was 3:33 am on a Tuesday — pardon me — Wednesday morning.
Awful sad, I mounted the stage and told the audience of the Great Tragedy. Nobody said a thing. The band, Easy, Tony and Tony took up the beat (which was Tony Sharp and Tony Action) and that night we wrote the new song — The Death Of The Workdogs about Roberta, Haunted House of Love, Punk Rock Truck Driving Son Of A Gun and all the rest of ’em. And all the big names they played with (which was for peanuts) before they was big names. And the way Rob would play the Good Cop and Scott the Bad Cop and they would go out and cop — I mean go out and mess up all their business which was known to everybody in the New York better than which it was known to themselves.
Not to mention Badu Badu their World Beat thing or The All Stars of Love or A Band Called Horse or all the nights they hosted down at the old House of Games. Now they’re playing in that big rhythm section On High. No more $2 choir jobs (which was The Church Of The Little Green Man). Flying above all this mess. And now, up above it all: the false lies about their death (of which the sordid details are so well known) and beyond the suffering which is Business As Usual . . .
One band, one beat, one never ending gig.
I climbs from the stage too sad to go on and the manager tells me — which was Bill Wallace — he says, “Rock, they’re gone and no amount of riffing is going to bring them back. Call it a night.”
He hands me our pay, which was 10 dollars, and sends me out into the cold, cold world.
With nowhere to go I drive back and forth in front of the ‘Dogs’ house — which was on 12th Street — thinking about my lost chances to sit in. About how “soon” never comes, and being that close, and now it’s too late which was by 10 minutes.
You know, a man’s chances come and then they go and when they’re gone, what’s he got? The Big Nothing, which was my band, and maybe a chance to forget just how close I come to the one shining moment of glory jamming with The Workdogs. And maybe I would have died. Maybe I’d be up there with them now: Rob counting off the beat; Scotty taking off on something completely different and me in the middle holding on for dear life. Which was their style.
Easy comes up to where I’m parked and shakes my shoulders — I didn’t even smile. “Rock,” he said,” it’s time to go and put the old men to bed.”
But I can’t get ’em out of my head. And each day is a little bit darker since they left. Each day is just a little more gone.
The Workdogs. Great rhythm section. My good, good friends. That’s all.
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8. |
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The House that Drugs Built
This is the house that drugs built
This is the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is Jack who’s flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack
they sell at the house that drugs built
This is the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat
on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is the maniac in the half-track who whacked the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is the quack who proscribed the Prozac that set off the maniac in the half-track who whacked the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is the angry pack from Singac that attacked the quack who pro- scribed the Prozac that set off the maniac in the half-track who whacked the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is the rack of bric a brac that slacked back the angry pack from Singac in their attack on the quack who proscribed the Prozac that set off the maniac in the half-track who whacked the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is Mack, the advertising flack who stacked the rack of bric a brac that slacked back the angry pack from Singac in their attack on the quack who proscribed the Prozac that set off the maniac in the half-track who whacked the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is Karnac, the mystic hack who used the zodiac to track why Mack, the advertising flack would stack the rack of bric a brac that slacked back the angry pack from Singac in their attack on the quack who proscribed the Prozac that set off the maniac in the half-track who whacked the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built.
oh fuck
I can’t believe that motherfucker ran away with all my money that was my last 10 dollars
fuck this shit!
we were like strangers in the night, strangers wandering thru the night
what were the chances
we’d be sharing love before the night was through? doobee doobee do
I want to tell you about Soul and the loss of it: well friends gather around
you better get used to it
you can clown till the shit goes down then its Soul and the loss of it
you can laugh, you can play
‘til tomorrow’s NOT another day
Soul and the loss of it
Soul and the loss of it
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9. |
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Kill ’em, Eat ’em, Fuck ’em
first ya kill ’em
then you eat ’em
then you fuck ’em
then you rob ’em
and you fuck ’em
fuck ’em up bad
fuck ’em up real bad
then you stick the knife in
and you twist it
put your dick in
and you eat ’em
then you cut ’em up a little bit
and you shoot ’em
first you kill ’em
then you fuck ’em
working away
dogging
working away
take my love away
then you stick their dicks down their throats
then you stick your dick down their throat —
choke ’em
put your tongue in
cause you eat ’em
fuck ’em, kill ’em
and you love ’em
and you tell lies about ’em
yeah you tell lies
how they’re useless,
can’t be trusted
suck on their brains
but first you fuck ’em
then you eat ’em
then you write ’em a contract
but you will not pay
no you will not pay
cause you kill ’em
watch ’em bleed
the blood’s warm,
the blood’s red
blood’s hot
and you’re hot
screaming but the neighbors are not around
screaming all over
and the neighbors are not around
yell all you want
scream all you want
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10. |
* (Star Circle)
05:16
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11. |
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Satan Is Real
(Louvin Brothers)
“Preacher, tell them that Satan is real, too
You can hear him in songs that give praise to idols And sinful things of this world
You can see him in the destruction of homes torn apart I know that Satan is real
For once I had a happy home
I was loved and respected by my family
I was looked upon as a leader in my community And then Satan came into my life
I grew selfish and un-neighborly
My friends turned against me
And finally, my home was broken apart
My children took their paths into a world of sin Yes preacher, it’s sweet to know that God is real And know that in Him all things are possible
And we know that Heaven is a real place Where joy shall never end
But sinner friend, if you’re here today
Satan is real too
And hell is a real place
A place of everlasting punishment
Satan is real, working in spirit
You can see him and hear him in this world every day Satan is real, working with power
He can tempt you and lead you astray”
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The Comedie Of Robert Kennedy Somerville, New Jersey
The Comedie Of Robert Kennedy is part autobiography, part epic poem, part spoken word piece, part musical collage assembled from the contributions of 217 friends, strangers and bandmates - it's a three and a half hour musical journey to the afterlife following the roadmap of Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy. ... more
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