Band Lyric Quotes

Shay sometimes talked in a mysterious way, like she was quoting the lyrics of some band no one else listened to.

There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind. Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends. Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends.

The hungry and the haunted explode in a rock'n'roll band.

You can't make a fan of everyone. Stay true to your story, characters, music, art or whatever it is you do and fuck everyone else who doesn't like it. Life isn't perfect.

You are what you love, not who loves you.

Well, if this band hates the establishment that much, then I doubt they’ll care about me making up my own words. They can’t oppress me with their “correct lyrics.” Fuck the system.

They call her love, love, love, love, love. She is love, and she is all I need.

Those are the greatest fuckin' song lyrics I've ever heard. Let's start a rock 'n' roll band and make a million dollars.

I said I'm selfish, I'm a liar and I'm broken Shit runs through my head every day that I would never tell anyone You're just like me The only difference is that I'm honest enough to scream my flaws in the lines of this song

A good rock band is like a great lover. Their rhythms simultaneously jolt and calm you. They know when and where to tease you to make it feel the best, how to draw from you the ultimate pleasure.

Be my secret. Be my joy. Be a miracle to me." From the song MIRACLE TO ME, from the album LIONS, by THE BLACK CROWES.

They live, we sleep, we starve, they eat. You must comply with their deceit, don't trust the wolves to guard the sheep. They'll colonize when you close your eyes into a superpower that will never die.

Rock and roll doesn't necessarily mean a band. It doesn't mean a singer, and it doesn't mean a lyric, really. It's that question of trying to be immortal.

You pull the trigger just for fun, forgetting I'm a loaded gun. So hate me for the things I've done, and not for what I've now become.

There are moments in every relationship that define when two people start to fall in love. A first glance A first smile A first kiss A first fall… (I remove the Darth Vader house shoes from my satchel and look down at them.) You were wearing these during one of those moments. One of the moments I first started to fall in love with you. The way you gave me butterflies that morning Had absolutely nothing to do with anyone else, and everything to do with you. I was falling in love with you that morning because of you. (I take the next item out of the satchel. When I pull it out and look up, she brings her hands to her mouth in shock.) This ugly little gnome With his smug little grin… He's the reason I had an excuse to invite you into my house. Into my life. You took a lot of aggression out on him over those next few months. I would watch from my window as you would kick him over every time you walked by him. Poor little guy. You were so tenacious. That feisty, aggressive, strong-willed side of you…. The side of you that refused to take crap from this concrete gnome? The side of you that refused to take crap from me? I fell in love with that side of you because of you. (I set the gnome down on the stage and grab the CD) This is your favorite CD ‘Layken’s shit.’ Although now I know you intended for shit to be possessive, rather than descriptive. The banjo started playing through the speakers of your car and I immediately recognized my favorite band. Then when I realized it was your favorite band, too? The fact that these same lyrics inspired both of us? I fell in love with that about you. That had absolutely nothing to do with anyone else. I fell in love with that about you because of you. (I take a slip of paper out of the satchel and hold it up. When I look at her, I see Eddie slide her a napkin. I can’t tell from up here, but that can only mean she’s crying.) This is a receipt I kept. Only because the item I purchased that night was on the verge of ridiculous. Chocolate milk on the rocks? Who orders that? You were different, and you didn’t care. You were being you. A piece of me fell in love with you at that moment, because of you. This? (I hold up another sheet of paper.) This I didn’t really like so much. It’s the poem you wrote about me. The one you titled 'mean?' I don’t think I ever told you… but you made a zero. And then I kept it to remind myself of all the things I never want to be to you. (I pull her shirt from my bag. When I hold it into the light, I sigh into the microphone.) This is that ugly shirt you wear. It doesn’t really have anything to do with why I fell in love with you. I just saw it at your house and thought I’d steal it.

You used to make me feel like I could walk on water Now most nights I'm just sinking down and down You're the reason why I can't listen to the same songs I used to

Here lies the girl whose only crutch Was loving one man just a little too much If you go before I do I'm gonna tell the gravedigger that he better dig two.

If the ties that bind ever do come loose If forever ever ends for you If that ring gets a little too tight You might as well read me my last rights.

Funny, cute and kissable I've found a girl that makes me lose control Every night's like the first night Never gettin' old

I let that swim around in my aching head for a few minutes - "the arsenal of megadeath...the arsenal of megadeath" - and then, for some reason I can't quite explain, I began to write. Using a borrowed pencil and a cupcake wrapper, I wrote the first lyrics of my post-Metallica life. This song was called "Megadeth" (I dropped the second "a"), and though it would never find its way onto an album, it did serve as the basis for the song "Set the World Afire." It hadn't occured to me then that Megadeth-as used by Senator Cranston, megadeath referred to the loss of one million lives as a result of nuclear holocaust-might be a perfectly awesome name for a thrash metal band.

Danger, Danger running cold               Knowing but fearing just the same                Death comes and yet you don’t let go               Standing while it’s steel bands hold               Don’t walk. Don’t walk where light can not shine               You know the warning has been told               It comes for what is mine and I know it will be so.               Let go, it’s all there is that’s left. Let go your sin has no wrath.               Danger was Hell’s last request.                Let go it’s all there is that’s left. Let go your sin has no wrath.               Forgiveness wasn’t given yet. Not yet. Not yet.               No regrets. ~ Dank Walker

Maybe you'll change Abandon all your wicked ways Make amends and start anew again Maybe you'll see All the wrongs you did to me And start all over, start all over again. Who am i kidding? Now, lets not get overzealous here Youre always been a huge piece of shit If i could kill you i would But it's frowned upon in all fifty states Having said that, burn in Hell.

The Dave Matthews Band’s “Crash into Me” played over the montage, not that the lyrics had anything to do with the images the song was played over but it was “haunting”, it was “moody”, it was “summing things up”, it gave the footage an “emotional resonance” that I guess we were incapable of capturing ourselves. At first my feelings were basically so what? But then I suggested other music: “Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails, but I was told that the rights were sky-high and that the song was “too ominous” for this sequence; Nada Surf’s “Popular” had “too many minor chords”, it didn’t fit the “mood of the piece,” it was – again – “too ominous.” When I told them I seriously did not think things could get any more fucking ominous than they already were, I was told, “Things get very much more ominous, Victor,” and then I was left alone.

The most profound voice of any musician I have ever heard. Joe (Strummer) took his message to the world, and the world listened. He managed to influence more than one generation with his innovative and determined manner, and I am not alone in repeatedly turning to his thoughts and lyrics when searching for inspiration. The Clash was the greatest rock band. They wrote the rule book for U2.

Oh, the truth I must tell Is I'm lonely as hell Still looking for myself

I took your name when I took those vows I meant 'em back then and I mean 'em right now.

As soon as teenage girls start to profess love for something, everyone else becomes totally dismissive of it. Teenage girls are open season for the cruelest bullying that our society can dream up. Everyone's vicious to them. They're vicious to each other. Hell, they're even vicious to themselves. It's terrible. So if teenage girls have something that they love, isn't that a good thing? Isn't it better for them to find some words they believe in, words like the 'fire-proof and fearless' lyrics that Jacqui wrote? Isn't it better for them to put those words on their arm in a tattoo than for them to cut gashes in that same skin? Shouldn't we be grateful when teenage girls love our work? Shouldn't that be a fucking honor? It's used as the cheapest, easiest test of crap, isn't it? If teenage girls love a movie, a book, a band, then it's immediately classified as mediocre shit. Well, I'm not going to stand for that. Someone needs to treat them like they're precious, and if nobody else is ready to step up, I guess it's up to us to put them on the path to recognizing that about themselves.

Blackburn thought that any band that believed it's lyrics were crucial was kidding itself. Kids out on Saturday night wanted to drink, dance and yell "WOOOO!" and have sex with somebody. They didn't want to hear a bad poet bare the angst in his tortured and immature soul. They could go to college for that shit.

It is possible for music to be labeled "Christian" and be terrible music. It could lack creativity and inspiration. The lyrics could be recycled cliches. That "Christian" band could actually be giving Jesus a bad name because they aren't a great band. It is possible for a movie to be a "Christian" movie and to be a terrible movie. It may actually desecrate the art form in its quality and storytelling and craft.

When something's fallen apart as many times as us I can't put it back together, it's not the same

Bah-Bah-black sheep, have you any soul? No sir, by the way, what the hell are morals?

I'm sorry for breaking down when I should've been stitching myself back up

So if the ties that bind ever do come loose Tie them in a knot like a hangman's noose Cause I'll go to heaven or I'll go to hell Before I'll see you with someone else.

It won't be whiskey, won't be meth It'll be your name on my last breath If divorce or death ever do us part The coroner will call it a broken heart

Loving a band with all your heart is something you understand when it happens to you. On the surface, others can see its a petty obsession, but they'll just never know the feeling of putting so much fail into a few people on the other side of the world. It's hard to explain it to them, the listening to a song after song on repeat, the waits for new albums, the excitement and surreal sensation when you finally see them live. They don't understand why the lyric books give you a sense of comfort, or why you paste photos of them on your bedroom walls. And they can't understand why one band could matter to you so much. And you think to yourself ‘Because they saved my life’. But you say nothing, because thy wouldn't understand.

You'll spend every Saturday night on the bathroom floor with no recollection of the night before You're a train wreck and everything that's in between Being alone doesn't seem so bad to me

I earned my place, With the tidal waves. I can't escape this feeling, That something ain't right. I called my name As I crashed the gates, Still I can't escape this feeling That something ain't right.

I am not a music snob. If anything, my musical taste is bad by any critical standards. My favorite song of all time is "Come On Eileen" by Dexys Midnight Runners. A close second is "MMMBop" by Hanson. So I am not out there claiming any musical superiority, but Creed really does suck. Bad music, pretentious lyrics, and a messianic front man. Also they are from Florida. No good rock music has ever come from Florida. Undoubtedly, there will be legions of offended readers who think to themselves, What are you talking about! Such-and-such band is from Flordia and they're freaking awesome! No, whatever band you are thinking of, if they are from Flordia, they suck. Not as much as Creed, but they still suck.

The band was no Led Zeppelin, but they had smart lyrics, a great drummer and that reckless shine that bands did have, back then, when no one had anything to lose and the fact that you didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of making it big didn’t matter, because throwing your whole heart into this band was the only thing that stopped you being just another futureless dole bunny moping in his bedsit. It gave them something: a drop of magic.

Yaicha is named after a song by some group from the last century called the Pousette-Dart Band. Something about a girl, a candle in the falling rain shining amidst the pain. I kind of surprise myself when I can picture Yaicha as that candle. My father named Yaicha after the "haunting melody." I wonder if he ever listened to the lyrics.

I just want that magical feeling I wrote about years ago when I used to write the lyrics for the band’s rock ballads. I want crazy fucking love. I want someone that'll never let me go. I want to wake up to my best friend every day.

The only real problem came with a track called ‘The Last Song’. Bernie’s lyrics were about a man dying of AIDS being reconciled with his estranged father, who had excommunicated him when he found out he was gay. They were beautiful, but I just couldn’t cope with singing them. It was just after Freddie’s death. Somewhere in Virginia, I knew Vance Buck was dying, too. Every time I tried to get the vocal down, I started crying. Eventually I managed it and ‘The Last Song’ was subsequently used as the finale of And the Band Played On, a docudrama about the discovery of, and the fight against, HIV.

The only thing that made the music different was that we were taking lyrics to places they had never been before. The thing that makes art interesting is when an artist has incredible pain or incredible rage. The New York bands were much more into their pain, while the English bands were much more into their rage. The Sex Pistols' songs were written out of anger, wheras Johnny was writing songs because he was brokenhearted over Sable...

If you're reading this book, there is probably an artist or band whose music you have an intense personal relationship with. I would also guess that this artist or band came into your life during a time when you were highly vulnerable. if this is the case, this artist or band might be the closest thing you had to a confidant. in fact, he, she, or it was better than a confidant, because his/her/its music articulated your own thoughts and feeling better than you ever could. This music elevated the raw materials of your life to the heights of art and poetry. It made you feel as if your personal experience was grander and more meaningful than it might otherwise have been. And naturally you attributed whatever that music was doing to your heart and brain to the people who made the music, and you came to believe that the qualities of the music were also true of the music's creators. "If this music understands me, then the people behind the music must also understand me," goes this line of thought.

You really fucked me up this time for good, even though you didn't mean to

I don't wanna be the center of anything, just a part of something bigger.

Underneath the sky of red Is a storyteller sleeping alone He has no face and he has no name And his whereabouts are sort of unknown

We set up our gear for the tune-up and Tony [Iommi] launched into the opening riff of ‘Black Sabbath’ – doh, doh, doooohnnnn – but before I’d got through the first line of lyrics the manager had run on to the stage, red in the face, and was shouting, ‘STOP, STOP, STOP! Are you f**king serious? This isn’t Top-Forty pop covers! Who are you people?’ ‘Earth,’ said Tony, shrugging. ‘You booked us, remember?’ ‘I didn’t book this. I thought you were going to play “Mellow Yellow” and “California Dream-in’”.’ ‘Who – us?’ laughed Tony. ‘That’s what your manager told me!’ ‘Jim Simpson told you that?’ ‘Who the hell’s Jim Simpson?’ ‘Ah,’ said Tony, finally working out what had happened. He turned to us and said, ‘Lads, I think we might not be the only band called Earth.’ He was right: there was another Earth on the C-list gig circuit. But they didn’t play satanic music. They played pop and Motown covers.

though. Our Azadian friends are always rather nonplussed by our lack of a flag or a symbol, and the Culture rep here—you’ll meet him tonight if he remembers to turn up—thought it was a pity there was no Culture anthem for bands to play when our people come here, so he whistled them the first song that came into his head, and they’ve been playing that at receptions and ceremonies for the last eight years.” “I thought I recognized one of the tunes they played,” Gurgeh admitted. The drone pushed his arms up and made some more adjustments. “Yes, but the first song that came into the guy’s head was ‘Lick Me Out’; have you heard the lyrics?” “Ah.” Gurgeh grinned. “That song. Yes, that could be awkward.” “Damn right. If they find out they’ll probably declare war. Usual Contact snafu.

Yeah, You rocked my world forever I know you still remember How we felt before Yeah, We should be together 'Cause nothing could be better Than the way we were Baby, let's go back to the way we were Let's turn back the clock This time we'll take it slow You can stay the night, This time I won't let go And when the morning comes, We can start all over, over again Why did we say goodbye? Let's go back tonight

All over the world the teenage millions searched for routes out of their dank, personal labyrinths. Signing up for that perfect extracurricular, rehearsing fake smiles before toothpaste-flecked mirrors, rummaging through their personalities to come up with laid-back greetings and clever put-downs to be saved for that special occasion. Lying sprawled on their beds, ankles crossed, while they overanalyzed the lyric sheet of the band that currently owned their soul, until the words became a philosophy.

The song ends and tears spring to my eyes. I quickly scroll to another—“The Scientist” by Coldplay—one of Kate’s favorite bands. I know the track, but I’ve never really listened to the lyrics before. I close my eyes and let the words wash over and through me.

Bob really listened to our songs and recognized that we were less about storytelling than about singing about our own feelings and perceptions: "I'm the king of the nighttime world." "I want to rock and roll all night." That was a quantum difference. "I am the God of Thunder." These were the kinds of statements we specialized in, and they differentiated us from other bands. When we spoke to Bob about this, he realized that the simplicity and self-absorption in the lyrics was purposeful, that we were a band with a distinct point of view rather than just a set of guys who didn't have a clue. We wanted to write anthems, songs that felt like the theme songs for a generation, songs that had a "you and me against the world" perspective.

Dylan's voice was awful, an aged quaver that sounded nothing like the deep-throated or silky R&B that Dad took as gospel. But the lyrics wore him down, until he played Dylan in that addicted manner of college kids who cordon off portions of their lives to decipher the prophecies of their favorite band. Dad heard poetry, but more than that an angle that confirmed what a latent part of him already suspected. This was was bullshit.

Let me set it straight, I've done some shit, And maybe I ain't too proud of it The monster in your bed You were begging me "please don't stop!" Said that I'm a douchebag, won't call back The worst hangover you ever had Felt so good at first, you knew that it could never last Wanna wash the dirt off my hands, wanna get this all off my chest But I'm no good at saying sorry... woah oh! I didn't mean to fuck you over, I just want to have some fun

A place for the newly weds and nearly deads I'm counting the stones I hope you know I love you. Got a lot of friends 6 feet under us. Counting down the days till we join the party. Thoughts of your nightmare projected through mine... Breathing in these lies is no surprise These evil things are all we know Lets take these lives where we want to go. The future is our prize, when the stars align. Ghouls and ghosts will haunt my soul but they will never take me. Before I go, I want to show that we can make a difference. We've got some dumb perceptions. But I've got the death connection... All the hate that you have... Just throw it away Life is meant for more, But we're too distracted.. Too caught up in the anger and judgment.. Caught up in the web of lies I've heard these things keep our blood boiling, Keeps us alive, and moving forward... If that's the case I was born a dead man. And I'm forever a ghost. Hatred is something that we're brought up to see. Now everybody's looking at me I hope they know... They won't get their satisfaction.

Jim Adkins: ...There was a girl who wrote us, explaining how she felt like an outsider at her school because the punk rock kids wouldn't accept her, even though she liked us and a lot of the really obscure bands we toured with. And I just thought 'It's not worth your time to trip on this. Punk rock is and should be inclusive. That's the one thing I know. No matter what your definition of punk is, everyone would say that it's inclusive, it welcomes outsiders. Freak flags welcome. Wave 'em around. These chicks don't get it at all, don't waste your time trying to get their approval.' That's where the main idea for the lyrics to 'The Middle' came from.

In the wake of my broken dreams In the dirt and the dust and the days that felt like weeks. I found the person that I’m meant to be ‘Cause when I felt like giving up When death was closing in I shut my eyes And black out the darkness with light from inside I’ve given more Than what I’ve got I’ve given all Of what I’m not I’ve watched this war consume all that we could become Facing my fears in the dark But if I die Before it’s done Please take these words My final thoughts The only way to shine your light is in the dark. Never let life kill your spark This is the fallout Yeah it’s the end of the world We’ll spread the noise to everyone and let them all know you heard A system meltdown It’s time we expose The 'cause of chaos is our own I’ve given more Than what I’ve got I’ve given all Of what I’m not I’ve watched this war consume all that we could become Facing my fears in the dark But if I die Before it’s done Please take these words My final thoughts The only way to shine your light is in the dark. Never let life kill your spark Never let life kill your spark Never let life kill your spark Facing my fears in the dark I’ve given more Than what I’ve got I’ve given all Of what I’m not I’ve watched this war consume all that we could become If I die Before it’s done Please take these words My final thoughts The only way to shine your light is in the dark. Never let life kill your spark..

Like all Freed musicals and all Astaire musicals, The Band Wagon believes that high and low, art and entertainment, elite and popular aspirations meet in the American musical. The Impressionist originals in Tony’s hotel room, which eventually finance his snappier vision of the show, draw not only a connection to An American in Paris but to painters, like Degas, who found art in entertainers. The ultimate hymn to this belief is the new Dietz and Schwartz song for the film, “That’s Entertainment,” which is to filmusicals what Berlin’s “There’s No Business Like Show Business” is to the stage.11 Whether a hot plot teeming with sex, a gay divorcée after her ex, or Oedipus Rex, whether a romantic swain after a queen or “some Shakespearean scene (where a ghost and a prince meet and everything ends in mincemeat),” it’s all one world of American entertainment. “Hip Hooray, the American way.” Dietz’s lyrics echo Mickey’s theorem in Strike Up the Band. What’s American? Exactly this kind of movie musical from Mount Hollywood Art School.

Maybe you are a nihilistic death-metal punk. You are deeply skeptical and pessimistic. You find meaning nowhere. You hate everything, just on principle. But then your favorite nihilistic death-metal punk band lead guitarist and his bandmates start to blast out their patterned harmonies—each in alignment with the other—and you are caught! “Ah, I do not believe in anything—but, God, that music!” And the lyrics are destructive and nihilistic and cynical and bitter and hopeless but it does not matter, because the music beckons and calls to your spirit, and fills it with the intimation of meaning, and moves you, so that you align yourself with the patterns, and you nod your head and tap your feet to the beat, participating despite yourself. It is those patterns of sound, layered one on top of another, harmoniously, moving in the same direction, predictably and unpredictably, in perfect balance: order and chaos, in their eternal dance. And you dance with it, no matter how scornful you are. You align yourself with that patterned, directional harmony. And in that you find the meaning that sustains.

Amazing Grace” Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, That saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found; Was blind, but now I see. ’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, And grace my fears relieved; How precious did that grace appear, The hour I first believed. Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come; ’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, And grace will lead me home. The Lord has promised good to me, His Word my hope secures; He will my Shield and Portion be, As long as life endures. Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail, And mortal life shall cease, I shall possess, within the veil, A life of joy and peace. The earth shall soon dissolve like snow, The sun forbear to shine; But God, who called me here below, Will be forever mine. When we’ve been there ten thousand years, Bright shining as the sun, We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise, Than when we’d first begun. Lyrics by John Newton, 1779 “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” (Chorus) Swing low, sweet chariot, Coming for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot, Coming for to carry me home. I looked over Jordan, and what did I see? (Coming for to carry me home) A band of angels coming after me. (Coming for to carry me home) (Chorus) If you get there before I do, (Coming for to carry me home) Tell all of my friends, that I'm coming there too. (Coming for to carry me home) (Chorus) Traditional lyrics Wallis Willis, circa 1865 “Battle Hymn of the Republic” Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on. (Chorus) Glory, Glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps, They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence in the dim and flaring lamps: His day is marching on. (Chorus) I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal"; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on. (Chorus) He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. (Chorus) In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me. As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. Lyrics by Julia Ward Howe, 1861

It's true that Lucinda had once spent hours of her own time putting together a research memo on the Canadian rock band Barenaked Ladies, specifically investigating whether then lead singer Steven Page was purposefully singing in a fake American accent for their 1998 hit single "One Week." She'd notice that the song loudly announces itself with the lyric "IT'S BEEN," but the word "been" is pronounced *bin*, which is the American pronunciation, as opposed to the more Canadian way of saying it, *bean*. Even more notably, the oft-repeated lyric "sorry" is also pronounced the American way, *sawry*, instead of a round Canadian *soary*. After scouring the internet for video and audio interviews with Steven Page, she discovered that he did in fact pronounce "been" the Canadian way in casual conversation, which meant he (intentionally or not) was putting on a fake America accent when he recorded the song. Lucinda couldn't find any literature or analysis on this subject, so she was forced to conjure her own theories, which included: a. Steven Page was actively suppressing his Canadian accent because someone told him his music would be more successful worldwide if he sounded more American, b. he was subconsciously suppressing his accent because he'd already internalized this idea, or c. the song itself is sung from the point of view of a character who lives in the United States and is in fact a subtle satire of American culture.

The wedding of David and Michal was a glorious affair. Though Saul was normally stingy with his money, he was not so with his daughters. Michal had started the day with a bath followed by a bodily anointing of oil. She wore a linen and silk dress with embroidered cloth of Phoenician purple. Her hair was brushed to a soft perfection and placed beneath her Tyrian style crown of gold. She was bedecked with gold and silver jewelry from Egypt. Bracelets, necklaces, ear coverings and a ring on her nose. She walked through the Gibeah streets in fine calf leather sandals, surrounded by a cadre of dozens of virgin bridesmaid companions dressed in white linen. A band of minstrels led her with rejoicing on tambourine, flute, and lyre. She felt like a queen. She would be a queen one day. She knew that she was marrying the mightiest warrior in all of Israel. The gibborim who had killed the giant Rephaim Philistine, who her own father, the anointed warrior king, could not conquer. All she could think of the entire journey to the palace were the lyrics she first heard her from the lips of her bridegroom upon their first acquaintance. She had never forgot them. They were burned into her heart. He had sung a song of virginal submission to a manly king as a sample of his musical talent to her father. But she knew he had sung those words for her. She knew by the look in his eyes, his unquenchable stare of desire for her. It was like a prophecy. Now those words were coming true, she was going to be living them out any moment. Hear, O daughter, and consider, and incline your ear: forget your people and your father’s house, and the king will desire your beauty. Since he is your lord, bow to him. The people of Israel lined the streets and cheered their beautiful princess as she approached the entranceway to the palace. She could feel her heart pounding out of her chest. Would he sing to her on their wedding night? Would he seduce her with his musical talent before he ravished her? All glorious is the princess in her chamber, with robes interwoven with gold. In many-colored robes she is led to the king, with her virgin companions following behind her. With joy and gladness they are led along as they enter the palace of the king.

I glanced over and saw Wyatt glaring at me. Journey’s “Lovin’ Touchin’, Squeezin’” was playing on the radio. “What?” I asked. “You secretly hate me, don’t you.” He gestured toward the radio. “You can’t stand the thought of me taking a much needed nap and leaving you to drive without conversation. You’re torturing me with this sappy stuff.” “It’s Journey. I love this song.” Wyatt mumbled something under his breath, picked up the CD case, and started looking through it. He paused with a choked noise, his eyes growing huge. “You’re joking, Sam. Justin Bieber? What are you, a twelve-year old girl?” There’s gonna be one less lonely girl, I sang in my head. That was a great song. How could he not like that song? Still, I squirmed a bit in embarrassment. “A twelve-year old girl gave me that CD,” I lied. “For my birthday.” Wyatt snorted. “It’s a good thing you’re a terrible liar. Otherwise, I’d be horrified at the thought that a demon has been hanging out with a bunch of giggling pre-teens.” He continued to thumb through the CDs. “Air Supply Greatest Hits? No, no, I’m wrong here. It’s an Air Supply cover band in Spanish.” He waved the offending CD in my face. “Sam, what on earth are you thinking? How did you even get this thing?” “Some tenant left it behind,” I told him. “We evicted him, and there were all these CDs. Most were in Spanish, but I’ve got a Barry Manilow in there, too. That one’s in English.” Wyatt looked at me a moment, and with the fastest movement I’ve ever seen, rolled down the window and tossed the case of CDs out onto the highway. It barely hit the road before a semi plowed over it. I was pissed. “You asshole. I liked those CDs. I don’t come over to your house and trash your video games, or drive over your controllers. If you think that will make me listen to that Dubstep crap for the next two hours, then you better fucking think again.” “I’m sorry Sam, but it’s past time for a musical intervention here. You can’t keep listening to this stuff. It wasn’t even remotely good when it was popular, and it certainly hasn’t gained anything over time. You need to pull yourself together and try to expand your musical interests a bit. You’re on a downward spiral, and if you keep this up, you’ll find yourself friendless, living in a box in a back alley, stinking of your own excrement, and covered in track marks.” I looked at him in surprise. I had no idea Air Supply led to lack of bowel control and hard core drug usage. I wondered if it was something subliminal, a kind of compulsion programmed into the lyrics. Was Russell Hitchcock a sorcerer? He didn’t look that menacing to me, but sorcerers were pretty sneaky. Even so, I was sure Justin Bieber was okay. As soon as we hit a rest stop, I was ordering a replacement from my iPhone.

was quite surprised to discover that it was a possible prophecy of 9/11, eight years in advance. Here are the key lyrics: “Ram your face against my fist. Burn, feel, comprehend where we stand. Metal to metal, soul to soul, meshing to fusion. Scraping our sanity. Again you attempt manipulation. Failing to maintain utter control, crushed in defeat, you try to reach me with pathetic threats that would beckon my fate. The reason I fear you is I cling to the past.” This may not sound that convincing at first, but the name of our band was only one letter off from Shanksville, a small town in Pennsylvania where a hijacked airliner crashed on 9/11. The world was going to go into a “Shanksville delirium,” and the planes would ram into the towers, causing metal to touch metal, soul to touch soul, meshing to fusion and burning

Wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then.

You can keep your paper promises and all your worldly treasures. But you cannot buy peace of mind or escape from the headstone garden. Lyrics from "Headstone Garden" by the Troubled Land Band at the Independence Day celebration 12 years after the impact that destroyed civilization.

Why, I wondered, were all these people here? Why would they layer on extra socks and stand for hours in the cold? I could imagine people bundling up and waiting to hear a band whose every lyric they could sing or enduring a snowy Super Bowl for a team they’d followed since childhood. But politics? This was unlike anything I’d experienced before. It began dawning on me that we were the band. We were the team about to take the field. What I felt more than anything was a sudden sense of responsibility. We owed something to each one of these people. We were asking for an investment of their faith, and now we had to deliver on what they’d brought us, carrying that enthusiasm through twenty months and fifty states and right into the White House. I hadn’t believed it was possible, but maybe now I did. This was the call-and-response of democracy, I realized, a contract forged person by person. You show up for us, and we’ll show up for you. I had fifteen thousand more reasons to want Barack to win.

The young man plugs his earphones back in and perches on the edge of a bench, bopping along to his music. his hairstyle and face remind Ki-yong of Bart Simpson, and his loose red T-shirt is emblazoned with Che Guevara's face. He is probably listening to Rage Against the Machine, or some similar band. The most capitalist country in the world produced these far-left lyrics, and on the CD—filled with the imagery of a Vietnamese monk sitting cross-legged while engulfed in fire, young Seoulites throwing Molotov cocktails—the singers swear, scream, and yell that we have to smash the system. It's fitting music for the kid in the Che Guevara shirt. If Stalin and Lenin were alive to hear this music, what would they think? Would they feel the urge to send the band to the Siberian archipelago?

You live in a world of illusion Where everything's peaches and cream We all face a scarlet conclusion But we spend our time in a dream

New Zealand was next, and it was a very different experience. Within minutes of arriving at the hotel, someone tried to start a fight with Ced because, according to the man, he was ‘black’. We went out to a club, band and crew, and were chased out by a gang of skinheads. I also saw my first serious anti-Gary Numan demonstrations. People outside the venues with ‘Gary Numan Go Home’ written on a banner, and other things even less polite. They were handing out leaflets supposedly decoding what they read as anti-religious lyrics.

A lack of knowledge can create more openings to break new ground. The Ramones thought they were making mainstream bubblegum pop. To most others, the lyrical content alone—about lobotomies, sniffing glue, and pinheads—was enough to challenge this assumption. While the band saw themselves as the next Bay City Rollers, they unwittingly invented punk rock and started a countercultural revolution. While the music of the Bay City Rollers had great success in its time, the Ramones’ singular take on rock and roll became more popular and influential. Of all the explanations of the Ramones, the most apt may be: innovation through ignorance.

I won't forget when I couldn't go to bed with the lights off When I heard that voice call me in for the night I remember when love was just a word and not a fight All I had to worry about were broken bones and being left alone

Fee-fi-fo-fum, you better run and hide I smell the blood of a petty little coward

Jack, be nimble, Jack, be quick Jill's a little whore and her alibis are dirty tricks

All of the experiences he’d had with the band so far, watching other bands at work, reading, getting into Iggy and Throbbing Gristle, it was all coming together for him. It was shaping him into the writer that he became, which was arguably one of the best lyricists ever. His songs from that point were like having a conversation with a genius, sort of profound and impenetrable at the same time. I think that for a while he found it easy as well. The songs seemed to flow out of him and he didn’t put a foot wrong after that point, didn’t write a single bad lyric after An Ideal for Living, right up until his death

Maybe I'm overcast. And maybe all my lucks washed down the drain.

Every word after that had been unintelligible, dissolved in amplification. Blackburn rather enjoyed that. He thought that any band that believed its lyrics were crucial was kidding itself. Kids out on Saturday night wanted to drink, dance, yell "Wooooooo!" and have sex with somebody. They didn't want to hear a bad poet bare the angst in his tortured and immature soul. They could go to college for that shit.

using the content you teach to take all kids, not just inner-city kids, outside their own narrow band of experience is critical. This means challenging them with ideas outside their experience. Pandering to kids by substituting lyrics for lyric poetry or referring to a corpus of movies for examples of literary devices instead of a corpus of novels is easy in the short run but insufficient in the long run.

In this brutal world of incessantly exploding sound effects, pubescent song lyrics and banal advertisements appealing to the lowest common denominator, the trick is to take refuge with the very small band of survivors who savor words like chocolates.

My favorite band's lyrics spoke to me more powerfully than any parent or teacher ever could. They helped me figure out who I was, what I was feeling, and possibly, where I was headed.

The musical and the production embraced cheap bohemianism, and a clever, similarly minded marketing campaign sold cheap tickets to anyone who wanted to camp out on the street outside the run-down Nederlander Theater, which is right up the street from the gritty Port Authority Bus Terminal and was frequently populated by homeless people at the time. An astonishing number of young audience members enthusiastically took up the challenge, often sleeping on the street all night, and often for a remarkable number of repeat visits. According to Elizabeth Wollman, the marketing campaigns for rock musicals often have to be particularly innovative because of the difficulties of selling this kind of musical, and Rent was no exception.8 But the invitation to join the onstage community of Rent—the invitation for the audience to imagine themselves as the offstage counterparts to the characters—was an easy leap. That invitation is built into the story, the lyrics, and the performance style of the songs in the show, which were sung either directly to the audience, at standing microphones set downstage left and right, or into the obvious radio microphones the actors wore on their heads, with the accompaniment of an onstage rock band.

The band Erase Errata recorded an eighty-second song about it: ‘The White Horse is bucking. It smashes you with its hoof. It wants you to go for a night of gay dancing. So picture yourself at the White Horse. And picture yourself among the beautiful. And picture yourself alive.’ The lyrics may be ironic, but they assert something many queer people know well: an unshakable fondness for the only gay bar in town. It’s not about holding out for a good night, but rather a letting go—accepting the gay bar’s unconvincing promise of escape.

No, I do! I love Nickelback! They have such a good vibe, their lyrics are so profound, and their tunes are a perfect mix of pop and grunge. They’re my favorite band.

because he began using the term “heavy metal” with equal vigor, perhaps derived from a lyric in Steppenwolf’s “Born to Be Wild,” or from Beat writer William Burroughs’s character The Heavy Metal Kid from his early ’60s Nova Trilogy. A blogger named A. S. Van Dorston chronicled all the times Saunders used the term in his reviews in the early ’70s.11 In a 1970 Humble Pie review for Rolling Stone, he brandished the term as an insult, but by 1971 in Creem he was using it positively for Sir Lord Baltimore. The following year he used it in multiple reviews in Rolling Stone and Phonograph Record magazine for bands like Deep Purple and Uriah Heep (and even Fanny), dubbing Sabbath the “Dark Princes of Heavy Metal.” That year other writers like Dave Marsh in Creem started picking it up as well. By 1973 NME followed suit, as did Melody Maker in 1974.

Rebel, I knew you leaving would hurt. That much was obvious. What I didn’t know was how lonely I’d feel without you. From spending almost every second with you over the summer to not seeing you at all is like ripping off the most painful Band-Aid to ever exist. I want to come home and tell you how practice went. I miss walking through the doors and hearing you belting out lyrics to a boy band song I’ve never heard of. I just miss the little things with you. Yours, Preston

However, despite this stability, we assembled a list of the difficulties and pressures of modern life that we particularly recognised. Deadlines, travel, the stress of flying, the lure of money, a fear of dying, and the problems of mental instability spilling over into madness . . . Armed with this list Roger went off to continue working on the lyrics. Compared to the rather piecemeal approach of our previous albums, which had often been conceived in an air of desperation rather than inspiration, this felt like a considerably more constructive way of working. Continuing band discussions about the aims and aspirations of the record helped to fuel the process.

Literally every one of MacKaye’s lyrics was addressed to some unidentified second person.

Like the music itself, the lyrics were very concise and unambiguous,

You didn’t have to have choruses, you didn’t have to have lead guitar solos, you didn’t have to have anything,” said Watt. The lyrics were basically rants by both Watt and Boon that they dubbed “spiels.” “We just say what we say,

Along with Alice Bag (née Alicia Armendariz), front woman of the Bags, and the members of the all-Chicano, Chula Vista–bred quartet the Zeros, Humberto “Tito” Larriva was one of the first prominent Latino performers on the L.A. punk scene. Born in Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, Larriva had arrived in L.A. in 1975. The singer–guitarist–actor (later featured as a heavy in several of director Robert Rodriguez’s films) had founded the wound-up punk trio the Plugz, sometimes billed as Los Plugz, with Chicano drummer Charlie Quintana and Anglo bassist Barry McBride in 1978. That year, a three-track single by the band became the second release (following a 45 by the Germs) from Slash Records, the fledgling imprint of the like-named L.A. punk magazine. It prefaced the Plugz’s self-released 1979 album Electrify Me, which included a high-velocity, lyrically retooled version of Ritchie Valens’s “La Bamba.” It

punk rock doesn’t have to mean hardcore or one style of music or just singing the same lyrics,” he said. “It can mean freedom and going crazy and being personal with your art.

The wind announces itself through my open bedroom window. Sheet music is blown face down onto my floor, but the birds outside sing it from memory. Accompanying them are four steady-sounding knocks on my door, very evenly spaced, about mezzo-piano, my mom must be practicing drums too. "Let's leave now, so we get a good view for the parade," my mom adds lyrics through the closed door.

However, there were risks in doing this. If there was a lot of drum “leakage”—if the sound of the drummer could be heard on the vocal mic—then every time you made the singer louder to hear a lyric better, the drums would inevitably get louder too. But isolation, which was the solution to this problem, often meant that we later found it hard to play together live. A band would go from being a tight unit to a chaotic mess.

For my mother, the experience was emotional. When my music was evolving, I hadn’t allowed her to hear it. For years up on Cloverdale, I had always locked myself in my room, not letting anybody hear what I was doing. Then, after I moved out, I never invited her to hear me working in the studios. So, when Let Love Rule was released, she was completely shocked. She could hear how everything that I had experienced on my journey came alive in that album: Tchaikovsky; the Jackson 5; James Brown; the Harlem School of the Arts; Stevie Wonder; Gladys Knight and the Pips; Earth, Wind & Fire; Miles Davis; Jimi Hendrix; Led Zeppelin; KISS; the California Boys’ Choir; Prince; David Bowie; Miss Beasley’s orchestra; the Beverly Hills High jazz band; the magical spark between me and Lisa; the spirit of our daughter. More than anyone, Mom knew that I had poured every aspect of my life into this effort. That was enough to make her proud. But what blindsided her—and me as well—was the sight of thousands of fans singing lyrics that I had written—and most of those fans didn’t even speak English.

I’m sort of nervous you’ll find out Even though I want you to I’m sort of nervous you’ll be angry Even though I know that’s not you We’ve been through this all before And you never made me feel unsure But still A hush had fallen over the crowd as soon as she began to sing and Julie marveled at how different this atmosphere was from the raucous one the boys had described to her from their visit to the club. She wondered if Caleb would be satisfied with her slow and emotional song choice but if he was dissatisfied with her he didn’t show it on his face. He merely glanced around at the rapt expressions of the lifers and smirked. Julie allowed her eyes to slide over to her friends who were both watching her with knowing looks. She knew that the sadness in her lyrics was reflected in their eyes, that they felt sorry for her and that they ached for Luke too. She forced her gaze away from them, needing to focus on getting through the song and finding it almost impossible in the face of their pity. I’m sort of hopeful you’ll find out Even though that’s not fair I’m sort of hopeful you'll guess Even though I’m so scared I don’t know what the right choice is And part of me wants you to insist But still Despite all of the circumstances that made singing this particular song in this particular venue absolutely loaded down with baggage she found herself slipping into the zone she always occupied when performing. She could feel the heady rush of doing what she was meant to do in front of people hanging on her every word. She wished Luke was there to sing with her but she had also never been so glad that he wasn’t. She gripped the mic stand and raised her voice to new heights as she began the chorus. How do I tell you this isn’t where I belong? How do I tell you this was a tragedy all along? That we never had a chance At a happy ending at all Just a few brief stolen moments Between your heart and mine How do I tell you? How do I tell you? Goodbye She could hear emotion breaking through into her voice but she didn’t care. The ghost band once again seemed to sense what she had heard in her head and the music built and built before suddenly dropping to next to nothing. A few chords on the piano were all that accompanied the final verse as she gave it her all. I’m sort of happy we happened Even though I know the memories Will hurt I’m sort of happy we met here Even if it took a curse I know that I’ve made mistakes And some of them are hard to shake But still Julie allowed herself to truly see the audience for the first time. They were still watching her with awed expressions but something about the lighting in the club seemed different. There was a soft golden glow settling over the whole room. Julie blinked and the glow was gone. She barely had time to wonder if she had imagined it before the band came back in full force for the final chorus. How do I tell you this isn’t where I belong? How do I tell you this was a tragedy all along? That we never had a chance At a happy ending at all Just a few brief stolen moments Between your heart and mine How do I tell you? How do I tell you? Goodbye The band fell away again and Julie’s voice echoed through the ballroom alone on the final lines. How do I tell you? Goodbye

for fantasy permeated the popular folk music of the time—the imagery in lyrics by musicians like Mark Bolan, Donovan, and Cat Stevens, and in old British ballads performed by new folk-rock bands like Fairport Convention, Pentangle, and Steel-eye Span. I suspect that I am not the only reader of fantastic fiction who came to it through this musical back door; and here is another example of the endurance of the old stories, adapting themselves to the radio air-waves and the bass line beat of rock and roll.

Much like being in a fantastic new band, surely, having a favourite new band is one of life’s most intoxicating thrills, a prismatic explosion of hitherto dormant energy channelled from the atmosphere directly into your soul; an atomic collision promising unknowable new possibilities of sonic beguilement, lyrical connection, dancing upside down on a dance floor with your greatest friends and talking synapse-shredded cobblers ’til three days hence at dawn. All of these things, at least, were the touchstones of Oasis fandom. It’s not so very different from falling in love (even if it is in the worst possible, all-obsessional, one-directional way). One

Do provocative stories tell us what it means to be human? Do spine-tingling stories assist us to comprehend what it takes to make our way in an amorphous world littered with anarchy and despair? Is a collection of stories a cognitive effort to draw out conceptual insight and hand down derived wisdom? Is storytelling a therapeutic modality? Does the structural mechanics of folktales, short stories, and novels serve as a storehouse of useful information, or does their precision gadgetry provide for an interactive interface to wring more awareness out of human experience? How does the amorous meandering of a conscientious voice wending its way through beloved stories help us perform our own romantic shape making? Can reading and writing along with telling our personal stories with lyrical realism actually burn new neural routes through the brain? Can merely sharing bands of thought waves connect the reader to the writer, and connect the speaker to the listener?

Our Azadian friends are always rather nonplussed by our lack of a flag or a symbol, and the Culture rep here—you’ll meet him tonight if he remembers to turn up—thought it was a pity there was no Culture anthem for bands to play when our people come here, so he whistled them the first song that came into his head, and they’ve been playing that at receptions and ceremonies for the last eight years.” “I thought I recognized one of the tunes they played,” Gurgeh admitted. The drone pushed his arms up and made some more adjustments. “Yes, but the first song that came into the guy’s head was ‘Lick Me Out’; have you heard the lyrics?” “Ah.” Gurgeh grinned. “That song. Yes, that could be awkward.” “Damn right. If they find out they’ll probably declare war. Usual Contact snafu.