That creature there, They call him a modern man, An apex in this cold digital age, Prim and proper in razor obsidian ensemble, Well groomed like an incubus, And oxfords upon his draconic pads,
He breathes out asbestos and tungsten, Toxic despite his magnetic allure, He helped cultivate this concrete jungle, Hunting furs in Wall Street, He speaks in radio static, Talking of profit margins and stocks, Where his weighted feet fall, Tarmac and franchises grow,
He’s an alpha male, Whatever that means, A man of means, He and his friends bet on vagrants, Can’t be winners without losers, And doesn’t that just sound modern?
Within those halls of Oxford, You’ll find the boys club, No girls or plebs permitted, A bit of an Eton mess, A dessert reserved for the select few, Wealth always finding a seat at the table,
Like feudalism never died, They toast and have their cake, And wear their pretentious bibs, Taught all the tricks of the gentry, Feasting as the yobs chew dust, As the elderly expire in the cold,
These lads are bound for greatness, Not by virtue of competence, But by being allowed a slice of that pudding, Like something out of a pantomime, It’s enough to make the common man sigh, A reason to think lowly of the highly.
There are foes abound, Demons in yellow and blue, It is them in the wrong, So we absolutely must muscle in on our peers, Brother leader wouldn’t lie to us, He is defending us from democracy,
I’m a sycophant they decree, Beholden to a tyrant in a rusty crown, But I’m a patriotic Russian, I have blood on my hands they say, That we’re populating orphanages, But I quite like the colour red,
One man chose this war, And he tells us it is for us, So we are the rightful aggressor, State media wouldn’t lie to us, So we’ll be cheering and raving, Even as the mushroom clouds sprout,
I’m an ordinary British bloke, Just trying to scrape by in my four-bed, Back in my day, I bought a hovel at eighteen, Suffered little debt for my degree, Why should the young have an easier time? They clearly don’t work hard enough, We never used to have mental illness, Why not just cheer up? Go and get some fresh air,
We’re being invaded by the displaced, I see them on their dinghy warships, They’re coming for the jobs we’ve retired from, It’s true because the rag says so, They said it on the front page, It’s my opinion, You can’t criticise me, That would make you a leftie, Full of woke, Hating our country.
Life is all documentation, Each movement a form to fill, A D1 or a CN22 or otherwise, Every action requiring permission, Of some faceless bureaucratic ghoul, Simplicity was too inefficient, Our bindings were a touch too loose, So we were bestowed this obstacle course,
I can see my objective clearly, But an olympic run away, Strewn with red razor wire, Burning hoops and dotted lines, For each footfall a box to tick, But not that one, Wrong form after all, Time to stumble.
I hope that you have all been keeping safe and enjoying each day to the fullest. Another week has passed and its been quite an interesting week has it not? The US elected a new president (despite clamours of fraud), the UK has descended into a second lesser lockdown for some reason and my bike had its MOT and full service. It’s been a full one here at the asylum. My posting times have been all over the place I know, but I’m keeping my usual rate up I think. Apologies regardless.
Now on this day, it’s time for the next spurt of the Harlequins writing music! I’ve elected to create one of my single band editions once again. Showcasing a single band that I particularly enjoy and draw inspiration from. Can you guess who it is this time?
Recognise them? It’s alright if you don’t. This is Ghost. One of my favourite ever bands, despite them being a more recent discovery for my part (2-3 yeara ago). They are a metal band from Sweden that formed in 2006. They are known for their eccentric performance style and theatricality. As you can see in that photo, they focus quite a lot on their costumes. They resemble a twisted version of a catholic church group. This is deliberate. Most of their music sounds like a satanic ritual performed through the lense of Black Sabbath or Blue Oyster Cult. They satirise religion quite intentionally, highlighting the absurdity of some of its elements. I’d say some could even find this satire offensive or infantile.
I’m hardly experienced enough in musicality or instrumentation to be able to judge how the music stands up to the greats. But I find it amazing! The vocals are superb as ever. Its easy to head bang to, surprisingly easy to sing along to and also initiate the traditional air guitar move! Yet the lyrics are quite deep or nuanced when looked into. So, enough babbling from this madman, would you like to listen to some? I’ll share my six favourites as I usually do. Let’s get on to it!
So, join me as we delve into the satanic musical minds of Ghost!
Ghost – Ritual
Ghost – Witch Image
Ghost – He Is
Ghost – Year Zero
Ghost – Rats
Ghost – Cirice
So there we have it for our display of the band Ghost!
I hope that you give this band a try. They’re quite unique in my eyes and the singingis really quite grand. I’ll include the link to their website here so you can look into them further. Please do my friends!
So our council of folly,
The hollow authority of our isle,
Open their mouths wide again for our daily rice,
Drenched in the sweat of labourers and nurses,
Taken as if it is their sacred right,
Our gratitude for their incompetence,
This old island is sick,
A blue scourge holds dominion,
Riddled with deaf worm-like things in suits,
With brown envelopes enveloped into their forms,
Finances put to foolish and wanton projects,
Folks held to ransom by foul ferrymen,
We weep at the tax office and county hall,
But those councilmen run out the back door cackling,
If the white cliffs begin to crumble,
And the foundations of our island splinter,
Will they still accept our sweat as thanks?
I’ve had enough,
Bile rises in my gullet,
Sick of the false prayers,
Golden cathedrals looming over the serfs,
A mistaken license to look down on others,
All began by him,
Weary of a so-called god,
Held aloft by old gothic spires,
Who is either evil behind a facade,
Offhandedly unwilling,
Or incapable of saving his so-called children,
So wrathful my hands grip his ivory throat,
Lightning licks at my arms,
But I persevere,
No more sermons,
Angelic flames scald my hands,
But they hold fast,
No more decrees,
My hands do not let go,
Until the divine lights leave his eyes,
And his religious larynx is crushed,
The angels and cherubs shriek in lamentation,
And fade into nothingness,
People can hear humanity once again,
Sing thy songs of joy,
Even as poverty rears its ugly head,
Sing thy canticles of generosity,
Even as the stricken grieve for their dead,
Sing thy hymns of justice,
Even as monsters bathe in red.
Turn a blind eye,
And sing thy songs of praise,
Ignore the cries,
And sing thy songs of praise,
Turn your nose up,
And sing thy songs of praise,
Distrust thy neighbor,
And sing thy songs of lies.
Join your choir,
Bigots and zealots,
Hypocrites and liars,
Faithful and pure sheep,
Sing thy songs of praise,
And follow your good shepherd,
Even if he too may be lost.
WorldofHarley 