Bands Song Lyrics Quotes

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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 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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

join the rest of the party.” They walked to the backyard where couples danced cheek-to-cheek, and small groups huddled in conversation. The largest crowds gathered around the dance floor as the singer announced that it was time change things up, and began to belt out the lyrics to a Rihanna song, backed up by the band.

By then I’d played with a couple of college bands, doing clumsy covers ofrock staples. There were other bands that would produce note-perfect imitationsof songs by Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd and drive audiences wild. If a bandcould play something exactly as it was on tape, the consensus was that they mustbe good. But after a period of proving themselves this way, most bands became alittle more ambitious, and a day would come when they’d go up on stage duringa college festival and introduce a song with the dreaded words, ‘This is anoriginal composition.’ Almost always, these originals were listless pastiches ofthe covers the band played, the lyrics apparently not about anything at all. Thesewere skilled musicians, but their chosen form seemed to preclude any realengagement with their own lives or the lives of their audience. This was mostevident in the Death Metal bands, where you might have a good Hindu boygrowling menacingly about his affinity for Satan. This was a cargo-cult, amimicking of someone else’s rebellion.

So I was sitting behind the console looking at all these bands and thinking, “Most of the lyrics these guys are singing are pretty dreadful. I know I can do better than that.” But I didn’t want to be the guy singing, so I came up with this idea: maybe what I’ll do is find a band and write the material, and they’ll produce the material and I’ll promote the band out there doing my songs.

Sami Abouzid Singer | Songwriter | Music Producer | Author | Publisher Profile: A versatile and accomplished artist with over two decades of experience in the music industry. Sami Abouzid is a singer, songwriter, music producer, and music arranger who has established himself as a creative force in both the music and literary worlds. Renowned for his original compositions and innovative soundscapes, Sami is also a published author with a passion for storytelling. Professional Experience: Founder & CEO White Horse Records (2003–Present) • Established an independent record label to promote original music and artistic innovation. • Managed all aspects of production, marketing, and distribution for multiple projects. Band Leader Romantic Star (2003–Present) • Formed and led the band, releasing music that resonated with audiences worldwide. • Released debut album Romantic Dreams, featuring the hit song “Vanessa,” which gained airplay on multiple U.S. radio stations. Soundtrack Composer (2013–Present) • Transitioned into the world of soundtracks, starting with Isabella in 2013. • Composed, arranged, and produced 657 original soundtracks, known for their emotional depth and cinematic quality. Music Artist (2001–Present) • Released 54 albums and 50 singles available in stores worldwide. • Composed, arranged, mixed, mastered, performed, and produced all his music independently. Books Authored: • Love, Life, and Music – A reflection on creativity and personal experiences. • Scarlett Johansson Forever – A tribute to art, passion, and inspiration. • Arabic Poetry – A collection of poetic works exploring love and emotion. Skills & Expertise: • Music Composition, Arrangement, Mixing, and Mastering • Songwriting and Lyric Creation • Soundtrack Development for Film and Media • Publishing and Record Label Management • Literary Writing and Poetry Notable Achievements: • Pioneered a new era of music with over 700 compositions, soundtracks, albums, and singles. • Gained international recognition with music featured on major radio stations in the U.S. • Successfully bridged the gap between music and literature, creating a lasting artistic legacy.

Equally, I’m still ready to pull out my joker: I’d rather be in an instrumental band than take over the microphone. Unfortunately that idea is, again, quickly shot down. Tony and Mike have long had aspirations to be songwriters—that is, songs with lyrics, lyrics that need to be sung. More than that: they want to write hit songs, singles that will reach the pop charts. They’ve always wanted that; always wanted to write like The Kinks and The Beatles. You can’t do that if your band doesn’t have a singer, or lyrics, or choruses.

Hollywood Seven" "She came in one night from Omaha, worn out She never could sleep on trains, took the bus to Hollywood Lookin' for a room in the pourin' rain With hair so blonde and eyes so brown She thought she'd take this town and turn it upside down And me, I was livin' in a hotel just off Sunset She moved in across the hall And she said she'd be a movie star And waited every mornin' for a call So I asked her in just to have a little drink, but she hardly had the time A call might come tomorrow, she got to learn her lines On Hollywood Seven, rooms to rent, till your name goes up in lights Hollywood Seven, dream your dream - seven bucks a night And then the months went by without a job The money that she saved was nearly spent So she started bringin' strangers home Just tryin' to find a way to pay the rent And she'd sit down and drink my coffee, got nothin' much to say Just busy rehearsin' in her mind the scene she'd never play On Hollywood Seven, rooms to rent, till your name goes up in lights Hollywood Seven, dream your dreams for seven bucks a night I found her there one mornin' She didn't come for coffee when I called She'd gone and brought the wrong one home this time There were crazy lipstick marks all over the wall Now she's goin' back to Omaha but not the way she'd planned There'll be no crowd to cheer her on, no welcome home, no band On Hollywood Seven, rooms to rent, till your name goes up in lights Hollywood Seven, dream your dream for seven bucks a night She came in one night from Syracuse, tired from sleepin' on the plane Took a cab to Hollywood, dreamin' of the lights, that would spell her name So I watched her take the lease on the empty room across the hall Wakin' up every mornin', waitin' for that call On Hollywood Seven, rooms to rent, till your name goes up in lights Hollywood Seven, dreamin' your dream - seven bucks a night On Hollywood Seven, dreams to rent, till your name goes up in lights Hollywood Seven, pay your dues - seven bucks a night

Victoria Williams, says Joey Burns, “would describe things like a story: ‘This song is a cloud in the shape of an elephant, and it’s trying to squeeze through a keyhole to get into this room.”26 This technique, says Brian Viglione, is particularly effective with songwriters, “because they tend to be very feeling-based. If they don’t have the terminology at their disposal, they can say, ‘Well, this is where I’m coming from emotionally.’ And I work very well with that, because a lot of my playing is based on emotion too. When I try to listen to the lyrics of a song, that can help guide my drum performance, because I can play off the lyric. There’s that symbiotic relationship between the story being told, and how I can help support that.

If you hurl outside?” From his far-off hidey-hole, Dave was directing, not asking. “Shovel it up and put it in the trash. I don’t want my dogs to get to it because it’s whatever you ate plus the shrooms and they’ll gobble it all up and freak the fuck out.” “I promise you. I won’t throw up,” Flynn heard Allison groan before her vomit hit the kitchen sink. “Outside.” “It’s cold out there, honey,” LA Tina said with a deep, soothing voice. “Someone grab up all that pretty blonde hair so it don’t get puked on.” As Flynn fully immersed himself in the music, the merry-go-round in the song was spinning sound and vision around him. Mushrooms were coming on quickly, powerfully, puckering his saliva glands and twisting his stomach into knots. Unsure if he’d actually made it to the bathroom, he was relieved when he saw his emesis kaleidoscopically stewing in the sink. Opening the spigot to wash the corruption down the drain, he splashed cold water on his face as he watched his eyes lit like fires from faraway camps, lips pushing the folds of his cheeks into reiterative grins. A timeless face reminded him of who he was and what resided within him as water drizzled down his chin and swirled into the drain. Emerging back into the rest of the world, a melodic hum hung just above his head. He found his way back to where the notes fully unfurled the song’s motif. Throwing himself into an air-guitar stance, he grimaced as he acted bending out the first, bluesy guitar note. Sparking and glowing like a welding rod, the room around him blazed with his light. Emma leered and licked her lips after glugging down a huge swig of Flynn pretending to be Pink Floyd. Tall, thin, somewhat handsome and exotic in his urbanity, Flynn was poised in a way Pogoner boys could never be. Something about him prickled wildly on her skin and excited her. Gliding from the kitchen to where he rocked, arms raised to reveal her Venus form, she sashayed with dabs of riffing blues, synthesizers scaling the air while guitars and bass vibrated through shabby carpet. As she joined him to take the music within, two objects in space edged closer and closer, gravity pulling both to an inevitable collision. In the gentle light of Christmas bulbs and uncountable candles, they circled round in time to the music, watching each other as neon Nazca-line insects scrambled across the walls. “Remember when you were young?” Emma crooned deep and soft. “You shone like the sun…” Flynn picked up before they both continued with the chorus. “Now there’s a look in your eyes,” she watched him draw closer. “Like black holes in the sky…” “Shine! On! You! Crazy… DIAMOND!” they both shouted, him with uncertainty, her full-throated and stepping into her own, reminding the house why no band playing in town turned down her offer to stand on stage and belt one out. Continuing to spin toward one another, trading lyrics and leers, the two ground their desire like peppercorns, seasoning the diminishing space between them. Whisper came out of the kitchen after a few verses, singing loudly and a bit off-key, Ra-Ra and LA Tina in tow. “You wore out your welcome, with random precision…” “Blown on the steel… breeze…” the followers continued as a chorus. Emma and Flynn unraveled from one another and gave the group a look of, Really? Now? “Come on you raver,” all a chorus, “you seer of visions. Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner and shine….” Everyone then fell out, shaking to various degrees as though they’d just been brought to tongues by some tent-preacher’s sermon.