Posts Tagged ‘acoustic’

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Everyday Is Like Sunday – Colin Meloy

October 4, 2008

Trudging slowly over wet sand,
back to the bench where your clothes were stolen.
This is the coastal town,
that they forgot to close down.
Armageddon – come armageddon!
Come, armageddon! come!

Everyday is like Sunday.
Everyday is silent and gray.

Hide on the promenade.
Etch a postcard.
How I dearly wish I was not here
In the seaside town
that they forgot to bomb.
Come, come, come – nuclear bomb.

Everyday is like Sunday.
Everyday is silent and gray.

Trudging back over pebbles and sand.
And a strange dust lands on your hands,
and on your face,
on your face,
on your face,
on your face.

Everyday is like Sunday.
Win yourself a cheap tray.
Share some greased tea with me.
Everyday is silent and gray.

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Picture In A Frame – Eddie Vedder

July 30, 2008

Sun come up it was blue and gold
Sun come up it was blue and gold
Sun come up it was blue and gold
Ever since I put your picture
In a frame.

I come calling in my Sunday best
I come calling in my Sunday best
I come calling in my Sunday best
Every since I put your picture
In a frame

I’m gonna love you
Till the wheels come off
Oh yea

I love you baby and I always will
I love you baby and I always will
I love you baby and I always will
Ever since I put your picture
In a frame

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The Who & The Raconteurs w/ Pete Townshend – The Seeker

July 18, 2008

I’ve looked under chairs
I’ve looked under tables
I’ve tried to find the key
To fifty million fables

They call me The Seeker
I’ve been searching low and high
I won’t get to get what I’m after
Till the day I die

I asked Bobby Dylan
I asked The Beatles
I asked Timothy Leary
But he couldn’t help me either

People tend to hate me
‘Cause I never smile
As I ransack their homes
They want to shake my hand

Focusing on nowhere
Investigating miles
I’m a seeker
I’m a really desperate man

I won’t get to get what I’m after
Till the day I die

I learned how to raise my voice in anger
Yeah, but look at my face, ain’t this a smile?
I’m happy when life’s good
And when it’s bad I cry
I’ve got values but I don’t know how or why

I’m looking for me
You’re looking for you
We’re looking in at each other
And we don’t know what to do

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Mutineer

January 31, 2008

This is some guy covering a Warren Zevon song called “Mutineer.”

A mutineer is someone who takes part in a mutiny.  Mutiny is open rebellion against constituted authority, especially rebellion of sailors against superior officers.

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Hoist the mainsail – here I come
Ain’t no room on board for the insincere
You’re my witness
I’m your mutineer
I was born to rock the boat
Some may sink but we will float
Grab your coat – let’s get out of here
You’re my witness
I’m your mutineer
Long ago we laughed at shadows
Lightning flashed and thunder followed us
It could never find us here
You’re my witness
I’m your mutineer
Long ago we laughed at shadows
Lightning flashed and thunder followed us
It could never find us here
You’re my witness
I’m your mutineer
I was born to rock the boat
Some may sink but we will float
Grab your coat – let’s get out of here
You’re my witness
I’m your mutineer
You’re my witness
I’m your mutineer
I’m your mutineer.

Warren Zevon

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Bust a Hey Ya Got Back

January 19, 2008

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Waste of Paint – Bright Eyes

January 16, 2008

Waste Of Paint

Bright Eyes

I have a friend, he is mostly made of pain.
And he wakes up, drives to work,
and then straight back home again.
He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper.
I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover.
And I tried to tell him he had a sense
of color and composition so magnificent.
And he said
“Thank you, please but your flattery
is truly not becoming me.
Your eyes are poor. You’re blind.
You see,no beauty could have come from me.
I’m a waste of breath,of space,of time.”

I knew a woman, she was dignified and true.
And her love for her man was one of her many virtues.
Until one day, she found out that he had lied
and she decided the rest of her life from that point on would be a lie.
But she was grateful for everything that had happened.
And she was anxious for all that would come next.
But then she wept. What did you expect?
In that big, old house with the cars she kept.
“And such is life,” she often said.
With one day leading to the next,
you get a little closer to your death,
which was fine with her.
She never got upset
and with all the days she may have left,
she would never clean another mess
or fold his shirts or look her best.
She was free to waste away alone.

Last night, my brother he got drunk and drove.
And this cop he pulled him off to the side of the road.
And he said, “Officer! Officer! You got the wrong man.
No, no, I’m a student of medicine, a son of a banker, you don’t understand!”
The cop said, “No one got hurt, you should be thankful.
And your carelessness, it is something awful.
And no, I can’t just let you go.
And though your father’s name is known,
your decisions now are yours alone.
You are nothing but a stepping stone
on a path to debt, to loss, to shame.”

The last few months I have been living with this couple.
Yeah, you know, the kind who buy everything in doubles.
They fit together, like a puzzle.
And I love their love and I am thankful
that someone actually receives the prize that was promised
by all those fairy tales that drugged us.
And they still do me.
I’m sick, lonely, no laurel tree, just green envy.
Will my number come up eventually?
Like Love’s some kind of lottery,
where you scratch and see what’s underneath.
It’s “Sorry”, just one cherry, or “Play Again.”
Get lucky.

So I’ve been hanging out down by the train’s depot.
No, I don’t ride. I just sit and watch the people there.
And they remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
All your lives one track, can’t they see it’s pointless?
But just then, my knees give under me.
My head feels weak and suddenly
it’s clear to see it’s not them but me,
who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind these books I read,
while scribbling my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me,
with some ideal ideology
that no one can hope to achieve.
And I am never real;
it is just a sketch in me.
And everything I made is trite
and cheap and a waste of paint,
of tape, of time.

So now I park my car down by the cathedral,
where the floodlights point up at the steeples.
Choir practice was filling up with people.
I hear the sound escaping as an echo.
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle.
When the voices blend they sound like angels.
I hope there’s some room still in the middle.
But when I lift my voice up now to reach them.
The range is too high, way up in heaven.
So I hold my tongue, forget the song,
tie my shoe start walking off.
And try to just keep moving on,
with my broken heart and my absent God
and I have no faith but it’s all I want,
to be loved.

And believe,
in my soul.
In my soul.
In my soul.
In my soul.