THE WITCH DOCTOR STARED AT THE MONKEY PUZZLE
EACH INTRICATE PIECE CAUSING CONFUSION.
WHERE WAS THE STRONG SOUL HE KNEW BEFORE?
WHERE WAS THE PHYSIQUE HE RECOGNISED?
THIS WAS NOT THE SAME MONKEY PUZZLE,
THIS WAS A BREATHING CORPSE
A FRAGILE GHOST LOOKING FOR AN EXORCISM.
A PALE IMITATION OF A ONCE GREAT LIFE,
REDUCED TO A HUSK STUFFED WITH WIRES
BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP
A REGIMENTAL SIGH.
PINK BLUSHING SKIN NOW DUSTY
A DEATHLY WHITENESS
LIKE SNOW WITHOUT THE MAGIC
A SOURED MILK RANKLY STINKING.
IT’S AN EMPTY PLOT LOOKING FOR A TOMBSTONE.
THE LIGHT GOES OUT
THE ROOM IS EMPTY
YET THE SHELL IS STILL THERE.
EMPTY, COLD, LIFELESS – AND THAT IS JUST THOSE LEFT BEHIND.
TIRED MAN TURNS UP HIS COLLAR
LOOKS OUT ONTO THE LONELY ROAD
WATCHES THE NEON REFLECTION DANCE IN THE RAIN
AN H2O SYMPHONY FROM HEAVEN ONTO HELL.
RUSTY AND OLD
A BUS SPEEDS PAST
GERIATRIC RAISES HIS STICK AND YELLS EMPTY THREATS AT THE SOON GONE DRIVER
LOOKING RUSTIER AND OLDER THAN THE VEHICLE EVER COULD.
TIRED MAN TRIES TO LIGHT A CIGARETTE
HUNCHED INTO A DOORWAY
HAND OVER THE LUCKY STRIKE TO CHASE THE WIND AWAY.
HE TOSSES IT INTO THE AIR
SPITS WITH DISTAIN WHERE IT LANDS AT HIS FEET
SWEARS QUIETLY UNDER HIS BREATH
CHECKS HIS WATCH
IT’S TOO EARLY TO SLEEP BUT TOO LATE TO START AGAIN
A FINAL SIGH AND HE WALKS INTO THE PATH OF A SPEEDING CAR.
METAL AGAINST SKIN
A MAUDLIN MELDING OF MAN AND MACHINE.
A FINAL LOOK UP
A FINAL BREATHE
AND THE NEON TURNS TO SEPIA
AND THE CLOCKS FINALLY STOP.
I always used to hate Kasabian. At least I thought I did, I guess what I really hated was the image and the fans, both of which were too ‘man on the street’ for my liking. Oh and there’s also the fact that a lot of their work sounded like Xeroxed early Mansun b-sides, but without the intelligence.
Yet now, three albums in, it seems that the band are attempting to stretch out and grow, whilst occasionally falling back in to the ‘Poor man’s Oasis’ category that they also have had pretty much sewn up for the last few years. Opener ‘Underdog’ is a stormer, kicking in like a sledgehammer, it struts around like it owns the place and it seems the band are reaching higher than before. This soon crashes terribly with the Oasis-by-numbers of ‘Where Did All The Love Go?’ which contains lyrics that even Noel G would consider a little simplistic. The album soon picks back up though with the triple punch of ‘Swarfiga’, ‘Fast Fuse’ and ‘Take Aim’ all impressing. Then, it all goes a little bonkers (and not in a fucking Dizzee Rascal way).
‘Thick As Thieves’ sounds as if it belongs on an early Libertines session, all perfect booze-fuelled 60’s pop, brilliant. Suddenly it seems like you have no idea what’s coming next, but always pleasantly surprised. ‘West Rider Silver Bullet’ starts with an odd Ennio Morricone vibe, before turning into a big emotional epic, all big sounds and strange sound effects. Again, brilliant.
By now the memory of ‘Where…?’ has been forgotten and the album is all over the place but constantly hitting the target, whatever the target may be! So yeah, there’s probably still enough straight ahead stuff to keep the man on the street happy but now there’s a little more depth and adventure for those looking for something with a little more bite. Part of it sounds like the 60s, part of it sounds like the future. Worth checking out for sure. Just dont take fashion tips from them.
IT WAS A LOST CAUSE
AND OF COURSE WE LOST.
TRUSTING OUR LIFE TO THE CHANCE WE NEVER HAD
WATCHING THE FACE TO SEE WHAT OUR NEXT MOVE WOULD BE.
NEVER BACKING AWAY
TROUBLE A SINGLE THROW AWAY
VIOLENCE, TWO, TOO CLOSE TO MENTION.
WE WERE UNDER THE POWER OF FATE
TOO LATE TO BACK OUT
WHATEVER IT PUT ON OUR PLATE
WHATEVER THE STAKES
WHATEVER IT TAKES.
THROUGH IT ALL
WE NEVER FALL,
NOT ONCE DOES THE TWIST COME
NOT ONCE MUST OUR FISTS COME INTO PLAY
EVERY DAY ANOTHER CHANCE
THE DANCE OF THE RANDOM
BUT ONE STANDS TALL
AND ALL IS CALM
NO HARM IS DONE
BUT IT’S ALL WE’D GOT.
BRUTAL, HATE ALL, FOETAL,
SPEAKING A LANGUAGE NOT YET TRANSLATED, NOT YET CREATED,
A SHARD OF DARKNESS IN THE LIGHT,
A PANE OF GLASS AT PAINS WITH ITSELF.
FORESAKEN AND SHAKEN UP,
A FAKE HOPE FOR THE HOPELESS,
A SHALLOW TEAR IN THE FABRIC.
A NOD THAT BECOMES A PUNCH,
THE FOUL STENCH OF THE FALLEN,
LIE DOWN AND BE COUNTED,
BE COUNTED OUT,
BRUISED AND BROKEN – BEAUTY BELIES THE BELIEVE OF THE BRAVE,
INSIDE THE TRUTH OF THE MIND,
NOT FAR BEHIND FROM THE END OF DAYS,
FROM THE PIERCED SCREAMING OF SOMEONE CLOSE WITH ANOTHER.
SOAKING BLOOD THROUGH THE CURTAIN OF SKIN,
DRAPED OPEN AND EXPOSED,
ENCLOSED BENEATH THE FAÇADE,
HARD AND KNOWING AND BREATHLESS.
HOLD IT IN,
TAKE A SHOT,
LIFE FLOODS THE RESERVOIR OF DISSENT
AND JUMPS THROUGH HOOPS OF MELANCHOLY,
CHOKING THE LIFE FROM THE UNDEAD,
SAYING THANKYOU TO THE TORTURER,
TAKE A NUMBER AND STAND YOUR GROUND
AS YOU’RE BURIED BENEATH IT
AS YOU STAMMER SILENCED IN THE COCOON OF CACOPHONY,
THE MUTED MENACE OF MANY,
THROWN TO THE LIONS
TO THE LIARS,
TO THE FIRES RAGING INSIDE NOW DAMPENED BY THE DAY,
TAUNTED BY THE NIGHT,
THE EDGE PUSHED OUT TO THE MIDDLE
TO THE CENTRE OF THE HURTING MASSES,
SAY THANKYOU AGAIN FOR THE CHANCE THAT NEVER CAME
THE CLIMAX AT THE START,
THE ROTTEN TIRED APPEARANCE OF THE HEART.
STEPPING COLDLY FROM THE ABYSS,
LOOKING DOWN AT MY BLOODIED HANDS,
CALLOUS AND CUT,
SANGUINE FROM THE STRUGGLE.
I’D SCREAM BUT THERE’S NOONE TO SCREAM TO,
I’D CRY BUT THE TEARS WONT LEAVE MY FROZEN EYES.
LOOK IN VAIN AT MY VEINS,
LOST THROUGH THE HORROR,
LOOK UP AT THE RAIN
WISHING I COULD FEEL ALIVE
OR FEEL AFRAID.
REACH FOR THE RAZOR OR THE PEN?
GRAB THE DIE TO AVOID THE CHOICE,
THROW A SIX AND THE BIRO’S VICTORIOUS
A THREE MEANS THE GAME IS CUT SHORT
AND THE CUT IS PROLONGED.
DON’T CLOSE YOUR EYES AND TRY TO CHEAT THE IVORY
IT LANDS WITH A CRASH ON THE OAKEN SURFACE,
THE TRIO OF DOTS TAUNTING YOU AS IT COMES TO REST.
NO NEW TOMES WILL GET WRITTEN TONIGHT,
LEST THE COLLECTOR COMES AND SKINS ME ALIVE
SELLING MY LATEST SHORT IN ITS ORIGINAL PRESSING,
WHICH MAY LACK BEAUTY ON THE SHELF
– BUT BEAUTY FOLDS TO UGLINESS, INTO ITSELF.