THE LEGENDARY PINK DOTS
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DE C60 Mirrordot Tapes no number
DE C60 Jarmusic no number
- Soma Bath
- Before The End
- It Rots Your Liver
- Black Highway
- Phallus Dei
- Waiting For The Call – You ‘n’ Me
- Guess The Politician
- Another Kind Of Violence
- Thursday Night Fever
- The Chemical Playschool
- Break Day
- Only Dreaming
Mirrordot edition limited to 10 copies, all with different covers.
First Jarmusic edition (1989) released with two different covers, one limited to 89 numbered copies.
Second Jarmusic edition (1990) has a different cover and is limited to around 100 copies.
Third Jarmusic edition (1995) has a different cover and is limited to 250 numbered copies.
Many of the songs on Only Dreaming are also on the 1997 release Ancient Daze.
Powdered Heaven, dressed in plastic, pulled the shades down on his eyes. Pinprick pupils soaring skywards. Offer him no alibis. But then, who needs them? He’s quite perfect. Perfect body, perfect teeth that flash sublime and blind the kids who spread their legs for their belief. Who cross themselves at the drop of a parable; who shriek they’re saved when they’ve touched his jeans; who swear his wisdom’s just infallible and beg for mercy — in his dreams. Another day. Another sermon. Broken bread, forgotten lines. A line for comfort keeps him human. The needle trembles, band on tight. Another little perforation ventilates him and paints him white. A wordless song, a prayer to no-one, helps him whistle through the night. They found him on his throne of porcelain. A rusty chain draped ’round his neck. Incapable and incoherent. His eyes switched off but a king no less! The jury all wore black chewed razors. Witnesses looked D.O.A. O.D’d, amoral, senses skewered. Dribbling lies and tooth decay. They declared his guilt. Defense said nothing, sobbing as the judge turned blue. Washed their hands, said “Lord forgive us, for we know not what we do…”
Before the End
Before the end, the town was calm. No cold panic, no alarm. The pubs rang out with “Auld Lang Syne” as a politician tossed a coin. It was normal. Before the end, the children played while old men watched them from the shade. Bemoaned the heat, the price of tea, discussed perverse psychology. Normal… A-OK. Before the end, in a darkened room, Tom waited for his best girl June. Fingers crossed, he quietly prayed. “Lie down,” he whispered; she obeyed. It was normal. Ring a ring of roses, a pocket full of posies. A tissue, a tissue, all fall down. ‘Cos we’re normal. Before the end, in a crowded store, Miss Demeanour broke the law. Shifty eyes, sleight of hand, slipped up a sleeve a sardine can. Naughty (tsk tsk) but normal. Before the end, in a cramped bedsit, George slid a razor cross his wrist. Bloody jeans, tearful eyes, unhooked the phone, fed the mice. Nasty. Before the end, in a cushioned pod, Mr. Dial-a-Prophet looked for god. Flaming throne to slice the sky for mankind’s last united cry. “We’re normal! Can’t happen to us! We’re normal!”
It Rots Your Liver (Instrumental)
There’s space in my car, speed you to heaven. Maybe scorch the Black Highway, pass the waters of the Styx. Mix my mescaline with hairspray; well past caring, but I’ll show you some excitement – better clutch a crucifix! Goodness gracious, great balls of fire glow in the city’s stainless streets. Policemen waves as a crowd admires, as a mess is covered with a sheet, dancing in the street. A truck overtakes; the truck overturning, twisting cartwheels on the concrete, dancing over a ledge. Shall i make it a duo? Tiny heart a-flutter, pitter-patter! As I slide out from the gutters and it’s sliding through a hedge. Goodness gracious, a whop-bop-a-loo-bop, a-whop-bam-boom, crash crash! Policemen waves as the crowd perspires, as a mess is covered with a sheet, dancing on the sheet. Madness in my family since the sixteenth century, and it seeps though my finger when I’m poised behind the wheel. Tonight I’m feeling nasty – some bastard’s gonna suffer, be crying for his mother, ‘cos my dial is locked on kill! Oh goodness gracious! A hot old time in the old town tonight, as a mess is covered with a sheet. The siren shouts murder, splinters the sunrays. A fireman weeps as he picks up a towel. Still they arrive in their cars and their gamblers, pitching tents, picking hampers, searching quietly for holes. Goodness gracious, good golly Miss Molly, we’re having a ball! Lens dipped and focused on the girl with an ice cream. Dressed her up in cellulite and sold her to the world. Make the morning petitions, the face of exhibitions, the opposition, an uncle who cut off her curls. Oh goodness gracious, good golly Miss Molly, you sure look bald! A policeman waves as a crowd admires, as a mess is covered with a sheet dancing in a sheet. Drive a car?
Pulses pounding, lungs collapse in sheets of sewer breath. Firing sweat stains steam saliva, seeds of sudden death. Seeping through the ventilator, up the fire escape. In a line, spirits whisper, “Season’s right for rape.” (I will think of England, of trees in summertime. Of leafy lanes, of daisy chains, of Grandad’s rhubarb wine.) Run Christina, hide Christina, sneak inside this shoe. A pair of rancid rotten hands are wringing just for you. But android armies armed with H-bombs couldn’t save you now. Best to just lie back and wait, and contemplate your vow. (I will think of England, preparing for this trial. I’ll raise my veil, I’ll bite my nails, I’ll grimace when he smiles.) Shrivel up, shimmer, sliding, shooting, sinking to the ground. Seedy 3D Polaroids can twist it round and round. It twined, entwined in twilight tango turning in the fire. Pressing, pushing past the limit, expand and then expire. (I will think of England, of trees in summertime. Of leafy lanes, of daisy chains, of Grandad’s rhubarb wine.) Peter puked, tore a curtain, dipped his eyes and cried. Pilate pondered on his pipe, politely turned aside. And at the door stood John the Baptist, head beneath one arm. Spitting oaths, splitting fingers, sounding the alarm.
Waiting for the Call – You ‘n’ Me
Shuffling through the ciggy packs, the broken bottles, plastic bags. Sprinkling crumbs in corners for the vermin. There’s a feast in the old rat-hole tonight. Little lady fair and rats from miles around will come to fight for their rat’s full share. It’s a pity that the party will be ruined by a guest armed with a spray. Spraying murder. Playing plagues. It’s early, I should be in bed. They’re bombing Brixton in my head. But still I slink in silence to the station. A busker in the subway hums a tune apathetically, while showing me the windows in his shoes for some sympathy. The sun turned to a nova as he stroked his beard, swiveled dim blue eyes. Gave him nothing. He sold me knives. You and me alone together, you in suede, me in leather. Laughing on our island blowing bubbles at the world. Free from business complications, sleeping pills, bitching nations, hemorrhoids and constipation. What a thrill! Heaven indeed, sad I’m only dreaming. It’s time that I accepted things the way they really are. You, me, me, you supporting cast of thousands, squash into a chute, we’re sending maydays out for air. If you smashed the other cheek I wouldn’t feel it. Stand on me, stamp on me, stamp out my existence. I’ve got this dread disease, you’d better throw me out of town. Don’t you recognize the eyes of a loser? String me up, cut me down, bury me in concrete. Don’t waste a slab of marble on an alien like me. It might make it that much harder to forget me. You, me, alone together, us in leather, lovely leather. The whole world, dressed in leather, depressed in leather, shiny leather. What a dream. It suits me, does that suit you? Old man tried to make a dash. He’s blind, he just ran out of cash. Inspector smirked and smashed him in the ribcage. Told him “Wait, you’re not going anywhere. You’re in custody. I’m bored, got a headache, couldn’t care about your poverty. How old you are, how poor you are – don’t matter, everybody’s gotta pay. Pay the money. Pay the man.” Deities in uniform spout up from unseen barriers. Fingers tapping “Chopsticks” on their holsters. It’s your time or your money, perhaps your shirt, little lady fair. Slip a hand inside your coat, you’re a cert for intensive care. For your local laughing policeman’s only happy when you’re writhing in a heap. Learned our lessons. We keep in line.
Crazy Carrie pulled the blinds and fed the lions and read the lines that skipped across the page and sent her dizzy, dozy. Does she care? Does he? The answer’s ‘NO!’ It’s always ‘NO’. There’s no escape, no secret doors. There’s nowhere she can hide. No way. You’re finished, fated, defeated. She stumbled through the cafe doors, down on all fours to loud applause – ordered a meat mandrax + a belladonna squash to quash the pain. There’s a difference at Madonna’s that will carry you away. It carried her away, it made her day, they pumped her dry; they wiped her eyes. She just survived and she can prove it with her bracelet. At least the money wasn’t wasted. Not wasted. But she’s defeated. Still defeated. Nowhere to hide. Still defeated.
Got no way out, there’s no use hiding.
Guess the Politician
When the fireworks start where will they be? They’ll be warm in their bunkers watching TV. Stemming tears for the smoke that was once you and me. Such a shame, such a waste. Solves a few problems, like unemployment. Like immigration, This screwed-up nation. Think I’ll go back to cleaning floors. And a-looky over there by the perfume stand, there’s a made up girl with a messed-up hand. Thought she’d look distressed, she looks just grand. Kind of chic, what a cheek. It’s a (sicken?) as they got her. It’s so appalling to touch, a mauling, a crazy morning. Only (pleasing?) was so prepared. Did those feet in future time walk upon this land of mine? Land mine will get him! See the queer with a leer. Got his chin on a lead, knew him back in the past, knew him intimately. Got a house up in Hull, a mole on his knee. Really liked me for a while till I shot his spaniel. This indecision here in Late Britain, I hate Britain! Kind of wish I’d been born a fish! Just annoy him now and he’ll shriek “Sieg heil!” See him quaking on the floor, see him quiver and how. Took a blue, made a plan, joined the Klu Klux Klan, bought a bag full of boot boys waiting for his orders. It’s quite intriguing to hear them squeaking while flames leap in. He’s a tiger when he’s aroused. Rule Brittania, Brittania rules the waves. Britain never, never will be slaves. Alles zusammen now. Never, never.
Another Kind of Violence
Feeling low, the party’s on the radio, should be at work, but Sodom till tomorrow. Think I’ll bip round to the bird’s house ‘cos I’ve heard that her mum’s away. I’ll raid the neighbour’s garden, present her with a nice bouquet. She’ll be so pleased, we’ll go upstairs, and up and down on the eiderdown. ‘Til six, ’til the night time. The right time. Night time’s the best time. I’m expected in the shed, got BA tattooed on his head. They call him Flash, his real name’s Fred, he’s listening. But the girls, they desire him as he rips at their barricades; and boys, they admire him as he skips with his razor blade. Carves the bible on your rival. Takes your money, leaves you crumbled on the floor. It’s his hobby. He’s having fun, his hobby – having fun. (Fun fun fun, till Daddy takes the T-Bird away.) A place where no one goes, a sparkling crimson channel flows. A victim lies with all his clothes disheveled. Tries to rest on an elbow, grits his teeth as he feels the pain. A reflection in a puddle winces “cheese!” from its inner drain. Then shadows gather round him, feel his pulse, give him blanket for the night. He’ll be alright, through the night. Sleep with the shadows.
Thursday Night Fever
If looks could kill, if touch caused a seizure – you’d be dead as a rock, no room in the freezer. Tease you with my fingers, squeeze you, ’til you rattle like an engine that’s collapsing, gasping out for oil. You nervous? Well you should be. ‘Cos you know how jealous I get. As for your new friend, he’ll end his days down an alley. Shall he call the law? I doubt it. Curtains closing faster, faster. Turns young lovers to statistics. Nervous? Well, he should be. He can see how jealous I am. Just a jealous boy. Want you safe at home, alone. Ignore the phone, except when you’re convinced it’s me, inquiring about your welfare. I care about your painting and your poems – love’s like that: caring, sharing, on our own forever. And you’ll be there when I’m back from work, the jerks who bark their orders, smoulder, leer and patronize. It’s insincere. But you’ll be there, to comfort me. Comfort me and make my tea, and make me king again. The pain will go away and we’ll make plans about our cottage, miles away. No interruptions, us together, never seeing anyone. And if you want to dance, we’ll fit the lounge up with a disco, play the stereo, and boogie on our own, alone – the way it’s meant to be. (Boogie down.) You’re coming home with me tonight. I need you more than he does. You’re my girl, you’re my girl – I own you!
On the antique wooden desk that I carved my plans on, stirring his coffee with a cigarette, swearing at the phone. Do you still have hopes of (opening a duchy?) An army of servants to make your tea? Parties, banquets. Or are you just pretending? Sarah shuffles through the tiring ball. Wednesday she plays (darbo?) (Landed the stocking at a day in the wall?) Wants to be alone. Do you still have dreams of that billionaire who’ll carry you away to his fur-lined lair? A penthouse with diamonds. Or are you just pretending? Marlon mutters that his names are lost. Sets the teaboy trembling. Barks a remark about Bonita’s past, sniggered at the slaves. On the hot trail of these superstars, there’s a bowl of lovers in the mud. They leap as he drops them. Marlon’s just pretending. Me, I’m going to get out of this place, I’ll smash these chains to pieces. I’ll flee the den of dark disgrace, I’ll lead a great crusade. See the tower guns crack, see the mines cave in; they’ll burn effigies of me, I won’t feel a thing. I’ll snigger as I sizzle. Or am I still pretending? It’s so nice to get away for a day or two. Let’s pretend, let’s pretend that we’re fishes in the sea. Making love beneath the covering.
The Chemical Playschool (Instrumental)
In the wind, in the sea, whispering hate, heresy; quietly accusing me. Voices. Those voices, all I hear are voices. In the marsh, in the sky, firing curses in my eyes, cutting me with razor lies. Voices. The sun steps down to dance on the armour, now rusted and brittle like September leaves. Through the odour of decaying man-piles, I know someone’s listening, waiting for me. Christine, you haunt me – you cling like a limpet. The ghost of your pulse hammers nails in my head. We all sold our souls for a handful of ashes. We gambled together, the blame should be shared. In the wind, in the sea, whispering hate, heresy; quietly accusing me. Voices. Voices.
He always looked behind him, scared somebody would jump him. Put him on the ground so he’d come around to the sound of people laughing. ‘Cos the whole world loved to mock him. Sun and moon both pointed at him. Kids would crick their necks to get a better view. Well, it really did his mind in, and we wanted to protect him. So we placed his face in a smash-proof case and placed it in the fridge. They giggled in the corners, whispered lies across the borders. They derided him and chided him ’til he carried out their orders. So he dashed into the limelight, played at Hamlet for a fortnight. Waved his arms and screamed demands for some respect. But they just could not excuse him, it was really too amusing. So he packed his sack and scrambled back to safety in the fridge. And I swear I saw his spirit skim the sky with nothing near it. Piled armour-plated roller skates, white feather train to steer it. Scared somebody would look up, gesticulate and throw up. Send him flitting, flitting scarred behind a cloud. But for him, there’s no escaping, no hole big enough to hide in. Best just to stay nicely out the way in safety in the fridge. In the village bells were tolling, in the town the dogs were howling. It was Armageddon, tanks crashed head-on, planet Earth was drowning. Then the Devil sent a shower, Europe died in half an hour. And a demon wind just finished off the rest. But our friend, he took a teabreak, idly munching on a fish-cake. Quite oblivious and ignorant but cozy in the fridge. It’s so cold there, in the fridge. It’s so icy, frosty.
The slogans turned to secrets. The symbols turned to stains. The face of an enemy was imprinted on our brains. Made us spectres at the shutters, faces covered, taking aim, faking blame. Breakday. (The brakes failed, breakday. We all broke down together.) Drains were painted scarlet. Scars were opened wide. Kids saluted in the basements, whistled hymns and homicide. And though we wanted to change things, the fact remains, we never tried. Breakday. (The brakes failed, breakday. We all broke down together.) But YOU had a chance. You had the brains, you had the money – could have bought a plane and skipped this hole for somewhere sunny. You recognized the symptoms, smelt the hatred in the air. But you stayed. You better pray. Aren’t you just a little scared? ‘Cos it’s Breakday, the brakes have failed. Breaking down together, en masse. A nurse hid and shivered as an army axed her door. Linking arms, drinking orders, urinating on the floor. Spilt the milk, split a hymen – take ’em wicked, make ’em sore… Let ’em know it’s Breakday.
Only Dreaming (Instrumental)
Transcribed by Nancy Thuleen