I am the lost bastard son of war and I bring you death and destruction!
Death & destruction, death & destruction!
The tiresome wag bought a round, then bought us each a smoke
But as he flashed his shallow cash I thought him just a joke
He'd cluffed the scuffed Victoria Cross peeking from my coat
When I'd quaffed the golden dew that warmly gilds one's throat
He tapped me rudely on the arm and gave a friendly wink
Nudging forward a fresh new glass brimming to the brink
"Tell us, chum, your tales of war - pray tell us if you can!"
I sighed and frowned then downed the bribe; my cold heart briefly span.
I am the lost bastard son of war and I bring you death and destruction!
Death & destruction, death & destruction!
I stared bleakly into the fire, I sighed most torrid deep
I sighed like an earthbound corpse, cursed by lack of sleep
I raised my grey, empty eyes and stared straight through the crowd
Gathering fast about us like a hungry nebulous shroud
"So," I said, feeling glum, "you want to hear of battles won?
Of bowmen, tanks, of hero ranks; of glorious setting suns?
Of glittering deeds by Allied seeds, oh so nobly done?
Well, you've picked very poor, for I am War's lost bastard son.
I am the lost bastard son of war and I bring you death and destruction!
Death & destruction, death & destruction!
I'll tell you of the badly-fed spilling out their empty guts
Of those who lost their minds staggering numbly through the ruts
Of boys mown down like fresh spring grass in the cold twilight mist
Torn apart, from head to heart, by a cruel machine gun kiss
You want to hear epic tales of hunting down the Hun?
Led by pompous hypocrites, "Tally-ho lads, good job done!"
You want perhaps to hear me say that killing people's fun?
Well, thanks for the drink, I'm much obliged, but it ain’t like that, chum.
I am the lost bastard son of war and I bring you death and destruction!
Death & destruction, death & destruction!
War is stumbling blindly through the foulest, vilest smog
Through clouds of seething mustard gas, poison death-drenched fog
It's hateful whispers weaving through the ghoulish yellow smoke
Whispers from the old dark gods about their murderous joke
I'll tell of those who behind the lines courageously herd you on
Shepherds to the slaughter, "Your country's so proud, son!"
I'll tell you too of other bastards who never made it home
Felled and buried in the mud, their dead names haunting stone
Yes, I am War's lost bastard son - ungrateful for all time!
Ungrateful for my bronze trinket that merely rewards crime!
Ungrateful for the wounds they stitched, stitched up less than neat
Ungrateful for the pension that sees me sleeping in the street
I am War's lost bastard son - I am angry for all time!
I am angry for the pointless loss, angry while I rhyme!
Angry at the shabby way politicians treat those they prod
Angry that they make us kill to prove our love for God
'Tell us tales of war!' you ask with sycophantic guile
Hoping to have your way, no doubt, for a cheaply plastered smile
Well, lend me your gun, my noble friend, and I promise that you'll see
My keenest insights, freshly splattered, across your bended knee!
I AM THE LOST BASTARD SON OF WAR
I AM THE LOST BASTARD SON
BUT I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE
NO, I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE
I AM THE LOST BASTARD SON OF WAR
I AM THE LOST BASTARD SON
BUT I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE
NO, I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE
Death & destruction, death & destruction!
The tiresome wag bought a round, then bought us each a smoke
But as he flashed his shallow cash I thought him just a joke
He'd cluffed the scuffed Victoria Cross peeking from my coat
When I'd quaffed the golden dew that warmly gilds one's throat
He tapped me rudely on the arm and gave a friendly wink
Nudging forward a fresh new glass brimming to the brink
"Tell us, chum, your tales of war - pray tell us if you can!"
I sighed and frowned then downed the bribe; my cold heart briefly span.
I am the lost bastard son of war and I bring you death and destruction!
Death & destruction, death & destruction!
I stared bleakly into the fire, I sighed most torrid deep
I sighed like an earthbound corpse, cursed by lack of sleep
I raised my grey, empty eyes and stared straight through the crowd
Gathering fast about us like a hungry nebulous shroud
"So," I said, feeling glum, "you want to hear of battles won?
Of bowmen, tanks, of hero ranks; of glorious setting suns?
Of glittering deeds by Allied seeds, oh so nobly done?
Well, you've picked very poor, for I am War's lost bastard son.
I am the lost bastard son of war and I bring you death and destruction!
Death & destruction, death & destruction!
I'll tell you of the badly-fed spilling out their empty guts
Of those who lost their minds staggering numbly through the ruts
Of boys mown down like fresh spring grass in the cold twilight mist
Torn apart, from head to heart, by a cruel machine gun kiss
You want to hear epic tales of hunting down the Hun?
Led by pompous hypocrites, "Tally-ho lads, good job done!"
You want perhaps to hear me say that killing people's fun?
Well, thanks for the drink, I'm much obliged, but it ain’t like that, chum.
I am the lost bastard son of war and I bring you death and destruction!
Death & destruction, death & destruction!
War is stumbling blindly through the foulest, vilest smog
Through clouds of seething mustard gas, poison death-drenched fog
It's hateful whispers weaving through the ghoulish yellow smoke
Whispers from the old dark gods about their murderous joke
I'll tell of those who behind the lines courageously herd you on
Shepherds to the slaughter, "Your country's so proud, son!"
I'll tell you too of other bastards who never made it home
Felled and buried in the mud, their dead names haunting stone
Yes, I am War's lost bastard son - ungrateful for all time!
Ungrateful for my bronze trinket that merely rewards crime!
Ungrateful for the wounds they stitched, stitched up less than neat
Ungrateful for the pension that sees me sleeping in the street
I am War's lost bastard son - I am angry for all time!
I am angry for the pointless loss, angry while I rhyme!
Angry at the shabby way politicians treat those they prod
Angry that they make us kill to prove our love for God
'Tell us tales of war!' you ask with sycophantic guile
Hoping to have your way, no doubt, for a cheaply plastered smile
Well, lend me your gun, my noble friend, and I promise that you'll see
My keenest insights, freshly splattered, across your bended knee!
I AM THE LOST BASTARD SON OF WAR
I AM THE LOST BASTARD SON
BUT I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE
NO, I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE
I AM THE LOST BASTARD SON OF WAR
I AM THE LOST BASTARD SON
BUT I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE
NO, I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE
envoyé par Dq82 - 5/12/2018 - 15:54
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The Fall and Rise of Edgar Bourchier And the Horrors of War
La premessa è sufficiente a sgomberare il campo da ogni dubbio circa la levatura artistica di un musicista che, nonostante le notevoli prove d’autore fornite anche con la sua carriera solistica, è riuscito a rimanere, suo malgrado, sempre un po’ fuori dal circuito mainstream, in un’aura di marginalità nobile e per certi versi salvifica, che gli ha consentito di fare scelte creative talvolta ardite. Ne è la riprova questo suo ultimo, temerario lavoro, scritto a quattro mani con lo scrittore Christopher Richard Barker, per il quale ha musicato e interpretato le testimonianze immaginarie di un personaggio romanzato, il poeta di trincea Edgar Bourchier, che racconta in un variegato registro narrativo le efferatezze e le brutalità sul campo di battaglia della Prima Guerra Mondiale.
The Fall and Rise of Edgar Bourchier And the Horrors of War esce in occasione del centenario dell’Armistizio, e contiene in sé uno storytelling dall’approccio onnicomprensivo, che raccoglie frammenti multiformi di memorie immaginate, in cui entrano in gioco la paura, la giovinezza, la rabbia, la nostalgia, il senso d’inutilità. Dal punto di vista compositivo, è interessante constatare l’ambiziosa carrellata dei generi attraversati: dal folk tradizionale, che richiama un tempo perduto evocando strumenti antichi come le fisarmoniche, oltre all’inevitabile corredo di piani e chitarre acustiche (Pounding for Peace, The Poetic Clown), al post punk in pieno stile Birthday Party (Poor Por Surgeon Tim, The Expressionist #2, Corpse 564), sino alla dark wave vera e propria, con i sussurri di I Am The Messenger o The Lost Bastard Son of War, il cui riff pare emulare dichiaratamente She’s Lost Control dei Joy Division. Interessante anche l’esperimento di The Expressionist #1, dove una marcia militare e i cori che la scandiscono, sembrano voler diventare un ritmo punk.
In questo riuscito progetto atemporale, in cui sia la storia narrata che gli stili musicali richiamano il passato con un chiaro e costante riferimento al presente e una sapiente lettura contemporanea, troviamo il condensato di quello che dovrebbe essere un disco autoriale: una buona storia e un credibile incedere narrativo. Il messaggio è chiaro in tutto il suo ineluttabile pathos, eppure l’atmosfera in cui quel messaggio aleggia non appare mai enfatica e greve. Rischiava di essere un lavoro pretenzioso, è riuscito a non esserlo.
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