"The Only Way to Do it is Rather Violent" (house, bling)

Crowe · 01-17-2006, 01:36 AM

This is a song that I wrote in the same vein as 99 Red Balloons. In theory, the song would be somewhat "upbeat" while talking about a pretty morbid subject. Take a read, and know that this is storytelling through song in it's most literal sense. Hope you enjoy it.

"The Only Way To Do It is Rather Violent"

As it was told not long ago,
by little old men with pipes and all,
cherry tobacco fillin' the air,
they told of a boy, a future heir.
He would know everything there is to know
A prophet, for the human race.
Seeing all and knowing all, he'd help us all.
So the waiters have waited, and the sky has changed.
In a little old hospital in ole' Reykjavic, Iceland,
a boy is born with golden eyes,
born not long ago and the world held it's breath.

He grew and grew til the things he knew,
filled his head with such horrors and sights,
that as soon as he could he found a gun
and ended the nightmares he had at night.
The newspapers cried, Prophet dead at nine!

Shouted from rooftops from Brazil to Japan, oh no,
The world had finally gotten outta hand.
Leaders conviened in a high up place, to discuss
this thing called the human race.
Well they argued and argued and nothing was won.
Who was the cause of the world's distress?
Countries blamed countries and words became fists,
These leaders became animals and they shouted to their generals
End this madness shoot intecontinental ballistic missles!
Ah and you never saw anything so pretty,
the world lit up like a roman candle and everything,
everything was incinerated and obliterated.
Yeah, it was over like that. The power of logic,
overcame us all, and from the fall out, people emerged.

Covered in dirt and a little discouraged, they set out in search.
Survivors conviened in a high up place,
to discuss this thing called the human race
The child was right when he ended his life,
no one wants to be born into war,
and once more we are forced to come to terms.
And as hoarse voices joined in a chorus,
someone sang a song with a bit of guitar,
and from the bottom of this mountain,
the council looked down and the saw the prophet.
Standing next to a guitar player, he sang sweetly,
serenading the people up high,
looking up at them with golden eyes.

This is my gift to you, council on high. A clean slate, make it right.
With that he walked from sight, waiting for a day when,
he'll be needed again, he will be needed again.
he will be needed again. He'll be needed again.

In my edit, I took out extraneous yeahs, and ohs - as to improve the piece

either/or · 01-17-2006, 02:37 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Crowe

Leaders conviened in a high up place, to discuss
this thing called the human race.
[/center]

wow i really liked this. you have a real talent for creating good word thingies. songs.

Crazy Luv · 01-17-2006, 02:09 PM

Crowe, what can i say, you know damn well that you are one of the best.

Crowe · 01-17-2006, 04:20 PM

Ah thank ye miss and either/or. Its fun experimenting and coming out w/ something people like... makes the success twice as sweet. Like eating two sugar packets and then downing some pixy stix. Damn, I'm cravin' now.

either/or · 01-17-2006, 04:21 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Crowe

Ah thank ye miss and either/or. Its fun experimenting and coming out w/ something people like... makes the success twice as sweet. Like eating two sugar packets and then downing some pixy stix. Damn, I'm cravin' now.

ah a songwriter and a comedian. very good.

creepinson · 01-17-2006, 07:17 PM

although this song definately shows your talents as a writer, i must say... i really dont like it. It has some real flow problems (so far as i can tell) and alot of the yeah's and oh's really turned me off.

its a concept that i cant begin to describe... which is a good thing

although theres only love over here... suger coating = crap

yes you are one of the best

this... is not

i would expect the same harshness

Crowe · 01-17-2006, 07:40 PM

ah creep! I was wondering when you were gonna show up

thank you. But about the flow thing. Sometimes it is hard to dictate flow by reading it, and therefore I introduce to you Bright Eyes' "Waste of Paint" - now, judging by the format in which it is written - you would be like. Holy hell this could never be a song- but then you listen to it, and it is a beautiful song. But the yeah's and oh's probably need to go, you are right for sure about that. I sing it out loud and I right what I say, and sometimes that is better for a live performance or something similar. I'll go ahead and take those out.

ON TO BRIGHT EYES!

I have a friend, he is made mostly of pain. He wakes up, drives to work,
and then straight back home again. He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper.
I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover.
And I tried to tell him he had a sense of color and composition so magnificent.
And he said "Thank you, please but your flattery is truly not becoming me.
Your eyes are poor. You are blind. You see, no beauty could have come from me.
I am a waste of breath, of space, of time."
I knew a woman, she was dignified and true. Her love for her man was one of her many virtues.
Until one day, she found out that he had lied and decided the rest of her life,
from that point on would be a lie. But she was grateful for everything that had happened.
And she was anxious for all that would come next. But then she wept.
What did you expect? In that big, old house with all those cars she kept.
"Oh!" and "such is life," she often said. With one day leading her to the next,
you get a little closer to your death, which was fine with her.
She never got upset and with all the days she may have left,
she would never clean another mess or fold his shirts or look her best.
She was free to waste away alone.
Last night, my brother he got drunk and drove. And this cop pulled him off to the side of the road.
And he said, "Officer! Officer! You have got the wrong man.
No, no, I'm a student of medicine, the son of a banker, you don't understand!"
The cop said, "No one got hurt, you should be thankful. And you carelessness,
it is something awful. And no, I can't just let you go. And though your father's name is known,
your decisions are yours alone. You are nothing but a stepping stone
on a path to debt, to loss, to shame."
The last few months I have been living with this couple.
Yeah, you know, the kind that buy everything in doubles. They fit together, like a puzzle.
I love their love and I am thankful that someone actually
receives the prize that was promised by all those fairy tales that drugged us.
And they still do me. I'm sick, lonely, no laurel tree, just green envy.
Will my number come up eventually? Like Love is some kind of lottery,
where you can scratch and see what is underneath. It's "Sorry",
just one cherry, "Play Again." Get lucky.
So I have been hanging out down by the train's depot. No, I don't ride.
I just sit and watch the people there. They remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it is all nonsense.
And that their lives are one track, and can't they see how it is all pointless?
But then, my knees give under me. My head feels weak and
suddenly it is clear to see that it is not them but me, who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve.
And I am never real; it is just a sketch of me.
And everything I have is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of tape, of time.
Sometimes I park my car down my the cathedral, where floodlights point up at the steeples.
Choir practice is filling up with people. I hear the sound escaping as an echo.
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle. When voices blend they sound like angels.
I hope there is still some room left in the middle.
But when I lift my voice up now to reach them. The range is too high, way up in heaven.
So I hold my tongue, forget the song, tie my shoe and start walking off.
And try to just keep moving on, with my broken heart and my absent God
and I have no faith but it is all I want, to be loved and believe in my soul, in my soul...

creepinson · 01-17-2006, 07:48 PM

yeah while reading it, it looks like it could never work but somehow, through stupidity or genious (which one is this Crowe?) you seem to find a way...

i suppose its all a matter of sacrificing our ability to understand the flow through written lyrics for a more soffisticated understanding of any hidden meanings you may be implying, or shoving down our throats (often times much more effective)

you continue to be one of my favourite writers on the forum...

that being said... CHANGE THE ALL KNOWING LINE

your pal,

mr. creepinson

Crowe · 01-17-2006, 08:16 PM

the all knowing line? which one? and why doesn't it work? I'll have to revise that mofo.

And I agree with you, shoving down throats is direct and wonderful, but how much more brilliant is it to slip it through the ear with eloquence and fluidity.

I want you to write more songs. Or maybe we could collaborate.

Crazy Luv · 01-17-2006, 08:30 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Crowe

the all knowing line? which one? and why doesn't it work? I'll have to revise that mofo.

And I agree with you, shoving down throats is direct and wonderful, but how much more brilliant is it to slip it through the ear with eloquence and fluidity.

I want you to write more songs. Or maybe we could collaborate.

luv that word

but anyways, i think you know my opinion on the story/song thing

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01-17-2006, 01:36 AM
Crowe Music Addict Join Date: Dec 2005 Location: Chicago/St. Louie Posts: 726	"The Only Way to Do it is Rather Violent" This is a song that I wrote in the same vein as 99 Red Balloons. In theory, the song would be somewhat "upbeat" while talking about a pretty morbid subject. Take a read, and know that this is storytelling through song in it's most literal sense. Hope you enjoy it. "The Only Way To Do It is Rather Violent" As it was told not long ago, by little old men with pipes and all, cherry tobacco fillin' the air, they told of a boy, a future heir. He would know everything there is to know A prophet, for the human race. Seeing all and knowing all, he'd help us all. So the waiters have waited, and the sky has changed. In a little old hospital in ole' Reykjavic, Iceland, a boy is born with golden eyes, born not long ago and the world held it's breath. He grew and grew til the things he knew, filled his head with such horrors and sights, that as soon as he could he found a gun and ended the nightmares he had at night. The newspapers cried, Prophet dead at nine! Shouted from rooftops from Brazil to Japan, oh no, The world had finally gotten outta hand. Leaders conviened in a high up place, to discuss this thing called the human race. Well they argued and argued and nothing was won. Who was the cause of the world's distress? Countries blamed countries and words became fists, These leaders became animals and they shouted to their generals End this madness shoot intecontinental ballistic missles! Ah and you never saw anything so pretty, the world lit up like a roman candle and everything, everything was incinerated and obliterated. Yeah, it was over like that. The power of logic, overcame us all, and from the fall out, people emerged. Covered in dirt and a little discouraged, they set out in search. Survivors conviened in a high up place, to discuss this thing called the human race The child was right when he ended his life, no one wants to be born into war, and once more we are forced to come to terms. And as hoarse voices joined in a chorus, someone sang a song with a bit of guitar, and from the bottom of this mountain, the council looked down and the saw the prophet. Standing next to a guitar player, he sang sweetly, serenading the people up high, looking up at them with golden eyes. This is my gift to you, council on high. A clean slate, make it right. With that he walked from sight, waiting for a day when, he'll be needed again, he will be needed again. he will be needed again. He'll be needed again. In my edit, I took out extraneous yeahs, and ohs - as to improve the piece

01-17-2006, 02:09 PM
Crazy Luv a l'amou fou pou tout Join Date: Dec 2005 Location: NY Posts: 376	Crowe, what can i say, you know damn well that you are one of the best. __________________ Gotta Problem Wit Me...SOLVE IT..Think Im Trippin...TIE MA SHOE..Cant Face Me..THEN TURN DA FUCK AROUND Though our hands are chained like they are They haven't taken music from us yet So that's how we'll fight We'll never apologize for saying what we feel Thats like apologizing just for being real

01-17-2006, 04:20 PM
Crowe Music Addict Join Date: Dec 2005 Location: Chicago/St. Louie Posts: 726	Ah thank ye miss and either/or. Its fun experimenting and coming out w/ something people like... makes the success twice as sweet. Like eating two sugar packets and then downing some pixy stix. Damn, I'm cravin' now.

01-17-2006, 07:17 PM
creepinson you are freakin out, man Join Date: Jan 2006 Location: ajax, ontario Posts: 135	although this song definately shows your talents as a writer, i must say... i really dont like it. It has some real flow problems (so far as i can tell) and alot of the yeah's and oh's really turned me off. its a concept that i cant begin to describe... which is a good thing although theres only love over here... suger coating = crap yes you are one of the best this... is not i would expect the same harshness

01-17-2006, 07:40 PM
Crowe Music Addict Join Date: Dec 2005 Location: Chicago/St. Louie Posts: 726	ah creep! I was wondering when you were gonna show up thank you. But about the flow thing. Sometimes it is hard to dictate flow by reading it, and therefore I introduce to you Bright Eyes' "Waste of Paint" - now, judging by the format in which it is written - you would be like. Holy hell this could never be a song- but then you listen to it, and it is a beautiful song. But the yeah's and oh's probably need to go, you are right for sure about that. I sing it out loud and I right what I say, and sometimes that is better for a live performance or something similar. I'll go ahead and take those out. ON TO BRIGHT EYES! I have a friend, he is made mostly of pain. He wakes up, drives to work, and then straight back home again. He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper. I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover. And I tried to tell him he had a sense of color and composition so magnificent. And he said "Thank you, please but your flattery is truly not becoming me. Your eyes are poor. You are blind. You see, no beauty could have come from me. I am a waste of breath, of space, of time." I knew a woman, she was dignified and true. Her love for her man was one of her many virtues. Until one day, she found out that he had lied and decided the rest of her life, from that point on would be a lie. But she was grateful for everything that had happened. And she was anxious for all that would come next. But then she wept. What did you expect? In that big, old house with all those cars she kept. "Oh!" and "such is life," she often said. With one day leading her to the next, you get a little closer to your death, which was fine with her. She never got upset and with all the days she may have left, she would never clean another mess or fold his shirts or look her best. She was free to waste away alone. Last night, my brother he got drunk and drove. And this cop pulled him off to the side of the road. And he said, "Officer! Officer! You have got the wrong man. No, no, I'm a student of medicine, the son of a banker, you don't understand!" The cop said, "No one got hurt, you should be thankful. And you carelessness, it is something awful. And no, I can't just let you go. And though your father's name is known, your decisions are yours alone. You are nothing but a stepping stone on a path to debt, to loss, to shame." The last few months I have been living with this couple. Yeah, you know, the kind that buy everything in doubles. They fit together, like a puzzle. I love their love and I am thankful that someone actually receives the prize that was promised by all those fairy tales that drugged us. And they still do me. I'm sick, lonely, no laurel tree, just green envy. Will my number come up eventually? Like Love is some kind of lottery, where you can scratch and see what is underneath. It's "Sorry", just one cherry, "Play Again." Get lucky. So I have been hanging out down by the train's depot. No, I don't ride. I just sit and watch the people there. They remind me of wind up cars in motion. The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions. And I want to scream out that it is all nonsense. And that their lives are one track, and can't they see how it is all pointless? But then, my knees give under me. My head feels weak and suddenly it is clear to see that it is not them but me, who has lost my self-identity. As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry, like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve. And I am never real; it is just a sketch of me. And everything I have is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of tape, of time. Sometimes I park my car down my the cathedral, where floodlights point up at the steeples. Choir practice is filling up with people. I hear the sound escaping as an echo. Sloping off the ceiling at an angle. When voices blend they sound like angels. I hope there is still some room left in the middle. But when I lift my voice up now to reach them. The range is too high, way up in heaven. So I hold my tongue, forget the song, tie my shoe and start walking off. And try to just keep moving on, with my broken heart and my absent God and I have no faith but it is all I want, to be loved and believe in my soul, in my soul...

01-17-2006, 07:48 PM
creepinson you are freakin out, man Join Date: Jan 2006 Location: ajax, ontario Posts: 135	yeah while reading it, it looks like it could never work but somehow, through stupidity or genious (which one is this Crowe?) you seem to find a way... i suppose its all a matter of sacrificing our ability to understand the flow through written lyrics for a more soffisticated understanding of any hidden meanings you may be implying, or shoving down our throats (often times much more effective) you continue to be one of my favourite writers on the forum... that being said... CHANGE THE ALL KNOWING LINE your pal, mr. creepinson

01-17-2006, 08:16 PM
Crowe Music Addict Join Date: Dec 2005 Location: Chicago/St. Louie Posts: 726	the all knowing line? which one? and why doesn't it work? I'll have to revise that mofo. And I agree with you, shoving down throats is direct and wonderful, but how much more brilliant is it to slip it through the ear with eloquence and fluidity. I want you to write more songs. Or maybe we could collaborate.