Lyrics On Random Access Memories

At a point last year it seemed that the only thing happening on the planet was a Daft Punk release, or rather, fanatics such as I acted like nothing else was going on. Looking back and listening again, the marketing campaign was as vast as the emotional range of the album’s songs.

A good few months on, with some distance away from the giant billboards strategically hung above hipster havens, broadsheet reviews that focused more on the PR than art and all those comparisons between the upbeat electronic works of two twenty year olds and the new release by two guys now in their late 30’s who we forgot might have chilled out, grown up and made families, the album stands its ground as an incredibly well produced, moving and significant piece of work.

Here are some great lines sung by the robots that at times offer more pathos than many of the best purely human voices in the charts.

‘It was almost impossible because the dream was so big.’

‘There’s a world within me that I can not explain.’

‘The summer memory that just never dies. We worked too long and hard to give it no time.’

‘I know you don’t get a chance to take a break this often… Lose yourself to dance.’

‘A tourist in a dream. A visitor, it seems. A half forgotten song. Where do I belong?’

‘We’ve come too far to give up who we are. So, lets raise the bar and our cups to the stars.’

‘Remember, love’s our only mission. This is the journey of the soul.’

‘The perfect song is framed with silence. It speaks of places never seen.’

‘I’ll just keep playing back these fragments of time. Everywhere I go, these moments will shine.’

‘If you lose your way tonight, that’s how you know the magic’s right.’

The ‘ings.

Playing fiance to get a friend in the door.
Waking up to the shock of a sneeze.
Messaging a friend to check she got home.
Looking down on a zebra crossing tiff.
Gossiping about strangers on text.
Chasing down the Style Wars DVD again.
Hoovering a duster’s pray.
Replacing a broken laptop charger.
Putting the washing machine on dry.
Counting pennies and heading to shops.
Waiting to head out for a burger.
Taking a photo of two American elders on tour.
Leaving missed calls on a bored walk back.
Picking up an A brand pizza for half price.
Setting up the laptop to play on the TV.
Wondering what so and so did in the end.
Imagining if Johnny had left off the sax.
Filling a glass with water and inviting sleep.

Table taps.

My friend who’s detoxing came to visit so I saw in the long bank holiday weekend dry which my wallet loves me for today, unlike the 101 friends I’ve been calling since noon to get out there with me for pints that they don’t want added on top of the headaches they’ve already clocked up, trickling in reminders of biros pushing numbers onto palms that are still dirty, not like the soft hands of Hannah, travelling out by bus to salvage my bored Saturday with her company, half fuelled by pity and half by the fact that she’s less wimpish than most, bringing Welshy along with her like my time’s free for anyone to pimp off to others without my sign off, which I would have granted anyway because let’s face it, he’s great and I didn’t have anything on the cards an hour ago, dragging my vacuum cleaner around the flat to a backdrop of BBC news reports going around and around like the duster on the coffee table brushing away crisp crumbs until the next bored house tidy and back to front dusting and mopping sequence, so eager I get to have things done, like this gibberish snake of thought’s final line as Hannah’s just arrived, folding her umbrella, walking towards me and saying ‘Hello!’

In unison.

The previous night’s shows get autopsied
as people arrive in ordinary fashion
opening windows and closing blinds.

Fully realised routine phrases
are exchanged with playful intent
at desks, copiers and coffee machines.

‘Can you believe it’s 10am already and only Wednesday?’

Stuff gets done and sectioned by
flashes of barmy grins and foolish voices
amounting to a mild communal insanity.

Exercising deliberate absurdity
lightness purposefully ticks things along
keeping the mind stitched just about right.

Those who can’t, write critiques online.

Marching with flaming pitchforks,
looking for what direction to go,
the easily swayed fickle flock
wherever the ex-burks say so.

Intellectualising to the death,
efforts by others that actually try,
glossy words and asterisks
obstruct talents in their strides.

The jaws of thoughtless clickers,
only wind up and talk once told
the long read, super scrolled
opinions verified to hold.

The police of artificial tastes
sit faceless behind their screens
deciding how many stars will shine
light on creative scenes.

All the while the closet typists
bold behind a keyboard’s taps
possess no attempts of their own,
and so mask over that fact

with long words pumped with fluffy
language that undermines to derail.
The binary smoke and mirrors
pose a question; who’s really failed?

New York bars.

Take this one to 34th street and change for the L.
Living out your holiday dreams in New York’s pretty swell.
It’s hot as hell, but everything’s heavenly,
witnessing Kool Herc’s legacy’s longevity.
Roof tops and sky lines, craft beers, parks and walks.
Thick gorgeous accents when New Yorker’s talk.
Sleepy Metro trips home, missed stations and dark streets.
Quick shuffles of the feet and panicked hunts for Taxi fleets.
Street rappers’ CDs for ten dollars or a bartered two.
A broken water hydrant that’s cliche but true.
The eyes of a visitor as wide as Central Park’s long.
Hostel chatter repeating each guest’s ‘Where are you from?’
Bagels power confusing journeys of wonder from B to C.
More baffling are tourists leaving for DC.
Picked up in London and placed in a cinematic city.
A constant gratitude for everything that’s been seen.

Lists on a train to Anna’s wedding.

Favourite music artists:

  • Stevie Wonder
  • Paul McCartney
  • Oasis
  • Bob Dylan
  • Michael Jackson
  • The Libertines
  • Kasabian
  • The Beatles
  • Radiohead
  • The Chemical Brothers
  • David Bowie

Favourite rap artists:

  • Nas
  • Zack De La Rocha
  • Lauryn Hill
  • Pharoahe Monche
  • Jehst
  • Chester P
  • Outkast
  • Eminem
  • Roots Manuva
  • Busta Rhymes

Favourite films:

  • The Silence Of The Lambs
  • Donnie Brasco
  • E.T.
  • The Matrix
  • The Godfather
  • Cable Guy
  • Kids
  • Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind
  • Edward Scissorhands
  • Human Traffic
  • Walk The Line
  • Modern Times

Favourite TV shows:

  • I’m Alan Partridge
  • The Simpsons
  • Breaking Bad
  • Boardwalk Empire

Favourite writers:

  • Jim Carroll
  • Chuck Palahniuk
  • William Blake
  • Simon Armitage
  • DBC Pierrre
  • Jane Austen
  • Phillip K Dick
  • Charles Bukowski
  • Harmony Korine
  • Aravind Adiga

Favourite beers:

  • Brooklyn Lager
  • Kernal Pale Ale
  • Vedett Blonde
  • Sierra Nevada
  • Meantime Wheat

Eleven lines to Singapore.

Last night’s dishes sit at the
bottom of a sink’s bubbly pond.
Bedroom doors seal in stillness.
Car engines motor the street alive
and a window pulls in the day.
Blocks of electric flood out colour.
The kettle’s steam fogs over toast.
Handles turn and life bags slide
from pockets of warm calm.
Stretches perform first acts.
Post advertises outside parts.

Predictions for The Marshall Mathers LP 2

A ballad about how it’s hard seeing Hayley all grown up and starting to date and how he’ll chainsaw the cock off any guy that messes with her because she’ll always be his special little princess and he won’t let anyone ever, ever hurt her and will protect her even beyond his grave.

A sequel to the track ‘Stan’ co-written by the biggest poetic licence issued in rap history, where the crazed fan didn’t die in the car crash after all, and just pretended he did so that he’d get a song written about him. The song only gets played on Magic and Heart FM these days and Stan wants a bigger mainstream reference, so surprise! Adele will replace Dido unless it’s a UK only bonus track featuring the comeback of Lilly Allen.

‘Bitch Please III’ in which Eminem begs in a shouty manner for Mariah Carey to drink a few bottles of red wine and cheat on Nick Cannon just the once to make Kim jealous on the off chance she’s updated her Spotify subscription and listens to the album’s stream, and to spawn coverage in various women’s magazine titles, a new demographic A&R want to target.

‘The Way I Was’ detailing the time in rehab when Eminem drank too much rose water at group listening and Lindsey Lohan went on and on and on about how her habits increased after she broke up with that sister of Mark Ronson, until he couldn’t hold it anymore and pissed himself in front of everyone and how he needed to lose himself in that moment in order to build himself back up because the opportunity only comes once in a lifetime yo.

10 ways Zack De La Rocha spends his days.

  • Vegan cookery courses and foraging weekends away with Saul Williams
  • Mowing the lawn and growing vegetables in one of his mansion’s gardens
  • Deleting voice messages from Tom Morello
  • Laughing therapy to the Audio Slave back catalogue
  • Dusting the fireplace’s antique Zapatista ornaments
  • Writing a line of lyrics, scribbling it out and then reading Immortal Technique’s blog
  • Reading Buddhist teachings on excessiveness and learning to ride a hand made unicycle
  • Transferring Rage Against The Machine reunion pay packets to Questlove, DJ Shadow and El-P
  • Felt tipping over brand logos in his cupboard and reading biscuit baking recipes
  • Ignoring beats posted by Questlove, DJ Shadow and El-P. He doesn’t trust e-mail

The sleeping man.

They move the sleeping man on
like there’s some place he belongs
as a rich Russian’s news stand’s
merchant sings his paper’s songs.
You skip over their litter
in a dash through inky news sheets.
Audio, visual versions play out,
in front of your wide screen seat.
If in luck he’ll hostel it tonight
and see you after tomorrow’s pints.
If you break enough notes,
some coins will pity his plight.
To be a moved on sleeping man
is a twisted tale we’ll never unwind.
We like to think we’re aware
as much as we’re utterly blind.

Carriage 5604.

The streets are alive with up-lit red brick walls
on one of those evening when you take a mental note
that daylight’s lasting longer than the short days of late,
bookended by stretched nighttime.
The platform’s calmer for once,
the crowds are cuddling some place else
and you shaved five minutes off your clocking off time
so don’t care that the station’s boards reveal
a five minute wait.
The businessman’s black eye gives you as much to think about
as the school kid doing some kind of subconscious ritual
with every finger on each hand.
He presses one at a time into the center of his palms
like the world will stop if he just lets them hang.
By now you’re but a segment away from letting your feet sip
the air of your soft platform march towards a couple of blocks
you alternate the days on which you walk home.
Variety follows that outstretch with the opening of
fridge and freezer draws.
Chillies get mixed into leafy stumps of broccoli
and there’s no telling what colours the stripes on your straw in
the glass of iced orange juice will be this evening,
or the articles you’ll read
and documentaries you’ll flick through for any matter.
Sleep’s as much a mystery as everything around us
when wearing some sets of glasses.
Never mind tomorrow.
It shrinks with every premature play you feed it
before the starting gun’s even been loaded with history’s paint.

Green face paint man.

Placing his bag of tricks on
the side door steps of
St. Martin-in-the-fields
a day of poses prepares.

Out comes a plastic gun
swamp coloured
and passers by file the sight
before crossing to his theatre.

Between taped plains of chalk
dreamy in pastoral hues
and concrete symmetry
he stands on a shoe box of cans.

Seagulls patter at the mouth
of an empty crisps packet.

Toddlers wobble to his cap
dropping small coins inside.

One leg is suspended in air
as an arm points forward to battle.

The gun hangs playfully over
a bus engine’s waves of bass.

Party Process.

Tetris blocks of flashbacks
jitter down to a hangover’s pillow,
clunking smiles and cringes
onto a weekend of some recovery
and more refreshing body damage.

Dashes of Monday’s margins
splash louder towards last orders
but the pages are kept unironed
for as long as we can scrunch.

Snippets of communal memories
trickle, bounce and settle.

The fuels of new plans are gulped.