If I were the kind of person to get fucked up, and fuck up, and just plain fuck in some dank little club rathole-in-the-wall joint in a no-name town on the edge of the civilised world, I'd listen to some serious music. And I don't mean angry-face serious, I mean fucking dark and rancid rock 'n' roll with menace and malice and swagger.
"Look at you with your drainpipe jeans, your leather jacket, your white t-shirt.
You're no Dean, you're no stick-smoking outlaw,
You're just scene."
Shit like the Kills, the Icarus Line, the Stooges. Bands who think they're definitive. Fuckheads spitting out smack about drugs and junk and bodies in trunks, all with a sweet little fuck-you-fuck-me-two-dollar smile. It should be played in a place where the lights don't work, the ceiling's coming down, the toilets are backed up and the barman keeps a shiv on the shelf. Last Chance Saloon, where you pay up or be ready to cash your cheque.
"I saw you walk in in your pretty high heeled boots,
you looked so nice with your thrift store skirt.
Shame you had to spit on me,
and earn a razorblade smirk."
No romance, except in the darkest and harshest sense, the kind of love that drives people to nasty places where a knife in the back beats a kiss to the lips, a hand round the throat beats an arm round the waist. It's romantic only in it's black-as-pitch amorality, the doomed love to end all loves.
'She looked down at me and said "You should never've left me in the morning".
She cocked the gun,
And then she pulled the trigger.
Bitch was right.'
Always look on the dark side of life, in the wee small hours, when the dawn looks real far away.
"Her eyes are rolling back in her head, seeing things somewhere else that most people never see, led by the little demon Diacetylmorphine. I'm left behind, again, like that time in Nashville. She'll not forget me this time, that I swear. I take the blade up and watch the red ink well up from her skin..."
"Look at you with your drainpipe jeans, your leather jacket, your white t-shirt.
You're no Dean, you're no stick-smoking outlaw,
You're just scene."
Shit like the Kills, the Icarus Line, the Stooges. Bands who think they're definitive. Fuckheads spitting out smack about drugs and junk and bodies in trunks, all with a sweet little fuck-you-fuck-me-two-dollar smile. It should be played in a place where the lights don't work, the ceiling's coming down, the toilets are backed up and the barman keeps a shiv on the shelf. Last Chance Saloon, where you pay up or be ready to cash your cheque.
"I saw you walk in in your pretty high heeled boots,
you looked so nice with your thrift store skirt.
Shame you had to spit on me,
and earn a razorblade smirk."
No romance, except in the darkest and harshest sense, the kind of love that drives people to nasty places where a knife in the back beats a kiss to the lips, a hand round the throat beats an arm round the waist. It's romantic only in it's black-as-pitch amorality, the doomed love to end all loves.
'She looked down at me and said "You should never've left me in the morning".
She cocked the gun,
And then she pulled the trigger.
Bitch was right.'
Always look on the dark side of life, in the wee small hours, when the dawn looks real far away.
"Her eyes are rolling back in her head, seeing things somewhere else that most people never see, led by the little demon Diacetylmorphine. I'm left behind, again, like that time in Nashville. She'll not forget me this time, that I swear. I take the blade up and watch the red ink well up from her skin..."