THE LEGENDARY PINK DOTS
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BE/US LP/CS Play It Again Sam BIAS184
BE/US CD Play It Again Sam BIAS225
28 May 2012
NL Remastered MP3 self-released on Bandcamp
- Disturbance – [MP3]
- Pennies For Heaven – [MP3]
- Third Secret – [MP3]
- The Grain Kings – [MP3]
- The Ocean Cried ‘Blue Murder’ – [MP3]
- Belladonna – [MP3]
- A Space Between – [MP3]
- Evolution – [MP3]
- Cheraderama – [MP3]
- Lilith – [MP3]
- Fourth Secret – [MP3]
- Expresso Noir – [MP3]
- Home – [MP3]
- Crushed Velvet – [MP3]
bonus 3″ CD*
- I Dream Of Jeannie – [MP3]
- Little Oyster – [MP3]
- She Gave Me An Apple – [MP3]
- Stirred But Not Shaken – [MP3]
- Where No Man – [MP3]
- The Silver Man-Keys, devices, percussion
- Father Pastorius- Guitars, bass, percussion
- Niels van Hoornblower- horns, percussion
- The Prophet Qa’Sepel– vox, keys, devices
- Hans Meyer
Cover by Stephan Barbery
Produced by the Legendary Pink Dots.
* The first 3000 copies of European CD edition include the bonus 3″ CD, the tracks of which were later released on Chemical Playschool 8 & 9.
Like recent Jackpot! nominees Tuxedomoon, Edward Ka-Spel had the good sense to abandon ship-in this case, England-for the Benelux’s less congested hospitality, even though he’s consistently held a definitively English tenure on psychedelia-namely the folk-minstrel tradition, as typified and vindicated by Sir Syd Barrett. Ed and sidekick Phil Knight’s 12th in-exile release as the Dots, The Maria Dimension, is the epitome of “kaleidoscopic”; these subdued, glowing coals of electronics, electro-acoustic guitar/ sitar, brass, clarinet and voices (“sometimes from beyond,” the sleeve says) come in pulsating colours, stained Eastern and Western, some with nursery rhyme fragility-side two’s exquisite swooners “The Ocean Cried “Blue Murder”‘ and “Belladonna” for example-while others spurt ultra vividly, like slow-motion fireworks, as on “The Third Secret” and “The Grain Kings.” The nine-minute closer “Evolution” connects heavily with Spacemen 3’s luminous dream-drones (refer to “Ecstacy Symphony”)-an inseparable chicken-and-egg situation here-as well as the post-Syd Barrett, space-chasing Pink Floyd, although to deny Syd Barrett isn’t the Dots’ ever-present watchman is to deny the Dots breathe oxygen (nb: vocally, Ed shares the same careworm quaver as the Only Ones’ Peter Perrett, a Barrett disciple in his own right). But The Maria Dimension is such a personal mindscan; the likes of “A Space Between”‘s labyrinthal collage-50 pastel shades of baroque-or “Disturbance”‘s mantra-sonic undertow are legendary, flushed pink, unique. If the duo were “English”-oh, the irony!- they’d be crowned by front covers by now, guaranteed. – Martin Aston, CMJ
We ride on the avalanche we climb the melting red lungs of the ladder that leads high to a darkening moon. We’re the watchers of disaster, we’re the dancers on your tomb. We’re the invisible invaders of your privacy… your dreams. We’re the spectres on your screen. We murmur sweet transparent lunacy on hot oppressive nights – you shine a light and you will see just a shadow.
Pennies for Heaven
Chasing the carrion, we watched the silver bird explode. We tiptoed through the barrier of smoke and took a hand, but found it unconnected. We were dining on the wreckage – white napkins round our necks, we took our plastic spoons and ate. We ate until we couldn’t move, ’til sunset turned the desert red and startled souls ascended to Oblivion. A fat man with a guilty face held back and tried to hide his case as angels chanted, “You can’t take it with you…” So we’re told, Heaven’s paved with gold-but it HAS to come from somewhere?! Paradise. It has it’s price. We’re forced to crawl through needle’s eyes. Our price. Our choice. We rarely make the right one.
The Third Secret
New martyrs swinging in the wind. The dead eyes searching for messiahs in the stars. The bodies carrying the scars of no confession, no concession. No sympathy. The laughter from the front row buzzing loudly now in bars, over chicken in a basket, in the darkest corners of the Central Station. Passing round the spirit that drove Rommel to his desert hole, smashed diamonds, stripped the gold from hidden cities in Brazil. And killed the savage in the name of Mary… Burn the witch, whip the bitch who shows her ankles on the Sabbath. Bring the kids aged 1 to 63 – the family treat. Maybe there will be a vision of messiahs in the stars. Now all confess and make a wish. The priest is passing round the dish…our Lady’s selling tissues for the tears, for all the years of blessed rape in the name of our sweet lord.
The Grain Kings
We will sow the seeds together. We shall feed the fertile ground. We will wait then we shall gather fruits to feed our hungry mouths. We’ll feast, we’ll toast the one who sends the storm, who shapes the corn. We line the circles. In the Fall, we fall…… Come the dawn he’ll strech his hands and take the last born to the land beyond our tidy tidy lawns, and no, no lamb of ours will be deformed!
The Ocean Cried “Blue Murder”
Penguin spins the caviar… Trois rouge. We drown it quick before it hatches. We wash it down with absynthe, spit it out with roses. Captain turns the hoses on the crawling crowd. We’re on a cloud, we’re on our knees, we’re singing all the songs our fathers taught us. Still the band plays on (relieved!). They locked up all their daughters, deep down, horizontal in the hold. We’re much too old and much too drunk to hold a conversation. Too far gone to see the mountain waving through the crack that was the floor.
Belladona. Sea blue marshmallow eyes. Belladonna sees you – it’s just a disguise. She sees nothing but grey. Belladonna. Ice cool, shaken not stirred. Belladonna. Whisper only the word and she would wash the day away… And as I faded through the years, she found an answer to the tears. It wasn’t wise, but no, no humble mortal ever matched these eyes. Belladonna – pretty name for a slave. Belladonna. Starburst – shouts from the grave “I’ll remember our dawn.”
A Space Between
Billy was a car crash – all he ever knew was pain. Lived a milli-milli- milli-second; never born again. Though no one saw him coming, plenty witnessed his remains – laid a wreath yet they never knew him… Me? I’m just the rain, laid poor Billy to eternal rest, eternal rust. I soaked the dust that covers him, I wait for all the others. They all have names… Red Harry was a bright young spark that flew and burned old London Town in ’66. He flew to bits. He tore it down (bubonic bliss!). And me? I’m just the kiss our maker blew to put him out. To eternal rest. Eternal rust. To dust, to ash. I cover up and wait for all the others. We all have names… Georgie was cut on Hitler’s knee. He ran for weeks, turned shades of green… They kidnapped me and made him clean… On Winter nights, I still hear him scream. I cover up. I wait for all the others. Jane? Her mother was a hurricane who swept the plains and sneezed away a continent with me (the sea). The team that made a myth by hiding it. Became a hit on Broadway but it wasn’t quite the same – they all FORGOT our names. We ALL have names.
If God was egg, if six were nine… If time was never measured, only killed in pleasure gardens of our making. If we’d never taken anything, but only given… If we could forgive, forget and rearrange the patterns. If you’d never thrown a stone or split the atom – ate the apple… if… If I’d stayed alone in shackles feeling nothing, seeing nothing in my head… If we’d shared instead of just collecting. If we’d never lived… If… If we’d ever… If we never never, never land but fly without a destination, cry without a cause, and lose ourselves for just a second at the beauty of it all… Then maybe in the next life we’d be dolphins.
Colliding in the stroboscope… Yes, now you see me, now you don’t. Tonight I’m dressed in black, I mourn the death of colour. Hopeless, crying in my wine through happy hour; trace the lines that crawl across my face and round my eyes. Watch the ballerinas fly on powder clouds through six dimensions, seeing just the patterns on the wall. Cold eyes searching for a space that’s warm enough to take them through the night. There’s only black & white. Express. We never touch, we only press. Can taste the desperation in your breath, I swear that I’ll protect you if you’d only look into my eyes. Chose your masks and raise your armour. Eyes down for Cheraderama!
Sixteen shades of sorrow on a starless night with no escape to dawn. She hugged the sand; she cursed the storm for 16 days and no tomorrows. Mourning friends who fled and loves that died stillborn… A lifetime miming, hiding from the touch that claims… unchained her from the lie that was her past. A hollow tear lay drying on the mask, behind the veil, behind the mask, behind the vizor… And somewhere spiteful spirits laughed at her – the last survivor. Because she’d always been alone, she’d always be alone.
Crushed in the corridor, swimming in smoke. Broken leg, aching head – tried polite conversation in braille. Broken French. Though my friend chews his garlic, he’s dead from his head to his sandles. I tear at the handle and we came to a shuddering stop and we topple like dominoes, swallowed the hot tide of bread crumbs and cheap wine… The cavalry dived into action with batons… knives… they gave me a fine, ripped the shirt off my back, threw my case on the tracks – saw it smashed to a fragmented mess by the midnight express from Atlantis. OO-OO. A manifestation of pure liquid light. Never stops at the stations, it flies overnight as we crawl in a circle. The sinks overflow. All the windows are enclosed and the ape on my shoulder’s overdosed. He rattles a can for some change then he rolls around, over in pain and wraps his legs around my ankles. I try to complain… All I want is a coffee and GET OFF THIS TRAIN! OO-OO.
Through your eyes I saw the red sun burst and slowly melt into the Dead Sea… Through your eyes I watched your hand expand, and crush a dozen trees, like they were dead leaves. Through your ears I heard the mountain laugh, the banshee cry, the statue of Mohammed roll a dice to plastic Buddah, screaming “Christ! Another six – I guess it’s time to pack my things and head back slowly to Nirvana. Through your senses I kissed dying time. So it goes we stand alone by standing stones and turn them into circles.