Red Songs

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Bankrupt


Chris T-T: singing, piano, guitar, thumb piano, percussion

Jon Clayton: plucked cello

Jen Macro, Gill Sandell and Daniel Fell: singing


I put my money in a bank account

I put my money in a bank account

I put my money in a bank account

But the bank fell down and my money’s never coming back out


I put my money in a bank account

(You put your money in a bank account)

I put my money in a bank account

But the bank fell down and my money’s never coming back out


Save my money for when I get old

Save my money for when I get old

Save my money for when I get old

But the boss stole the money and I was never told


Save my money for when I get old

(You save your money for when you get old)

Save my money for when I get old

But the boss stole the money and I was never told

And I can’t pay the bills and it’s getting cold…


Ghost in the machine

Numbers on a screen

Lying by ommision about cash you’ve never seen

You’ll never see


Put your money underneath your bed

Put your money underneath your bed

If everybody put their money underneath their bed

That’s that: revolution and no bloodshed

Everybody!

Put your money underneath your bed

Put your money underneath your bed

If everybody put their money underneath their bed

That’s that: revolution and no bloodshed

Not a drop of blood shed


Ghost in the machine

Numbers on a screen

Lying by ommision about cash you’ve never seen

You’ll never see


If you really believe in making poverty history

Open the boarders


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Tony’s Heart


Chris: singing, guitar

Gill: singing, accordian


Tony’s ill - his life in doubt.

“It’s his heart,” they said, “Feels like it’s giving out”.

He was admitted to the doctor’s care

but when they opened Tony up, it wasn’t there.

The radiologist fainted to the ground,

while all the surgeons, open-mouthed, gathered around.

They prodded and poked, craned their necks to see

the big old hole where a heart should be.


“Where the hell has it gone?

Where the hell has it gone,

can a heart fall apart when the hard work starts,

or was he born without one?”


Word spread fast down the corridors,

about the empty ribcage still alive in one of the private wards.

They phoned the experts and called up his medical files,

while in the carpark a spokesman issued a firm denial.

Within an hour, the Secret Services arrived.

They locked the doors and sealed the building before checking he was alive.

“Tony’s fine,” they said, “He just drank too much beer.

Stitch him up,” they said, “We’re taking him out of here”.


But how the hell is it done?

“How the hell is it done

a medical miracle, a gift from God,

or is he an alien?”


“You will never speak of what you’ve seen

and you will sign this piece of paper before we let you leave.

Not only your career you buy with silence tonight:

a secret like this is worth more than your family’s life.”


“Where the hell has it gone?

Where the hell has it gone,

can a heart fall apart when the hard work starts,

or was he born without one?”


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A Plague On Both Your Houses


Chris: singing, guitar, piano, Hammond, synth

Jon: electric bass, cello

Jen: electric guitar, singing

Chopper: snare

Stephen Gilchrist: viola, singing


I’m hurt, maybe dying

But the troops turned the Red Cross away

They threw out all the conventions

And when the journalists came they locked the gate

They were many, they were overwhelming

Our buildings are dust and debris

There’s nothing left of the insurrection

Now they’ve turned their attention to me


They want to know who I work for

They want to know where I’ve been

But they don’t like the answers I’m giving them

Now they’re letting off steam with their fists and their feet *

So lie still brother, play dead now

You saw what they did to the boy who cried out

You saw what they did to the doctor’s face

When he tried to put our case


A plague on both your houses

The house of money and the house of God

A curse on all your names and your stupid games

From the people you forgot


The girl with a baby in her belly

Has nothing left to eat

The teacher and the musician,

The policeman and the priest

Waiting for the liberation you trumpet from the rooftops

Even as you trample through

My house is on fire, no power, no water

But you think I should thank you


A plague on both your houses

The house of money and the house of God

A curse on all your names and your stupid games

From the people you forgot

What kind of Christian are you?

What kind of Jew are you?

What kind of Muslim are you?

To do the things you do

To do the things you do


All of the stories they told

All of the stories are lies

All of the promises broken

Just a bullet in between my eyes


And a curse on the Bible

The Tora and the Q’uran as well

And a curse on your whole generation

For raising us up to follow you to hell.


A plague on both your houses

The house of money and the house of God

A curse on all your names and your stupid games

From the people you forgot

What kind of Christian are you?

What kind of Jew are you?

What kind of Muslim are you?

To do the things you do

What kind of fear do you instill?

A drug dealer selling pills

How much blood will you spill?

How much blood will you spill?


I’m hurt, maybe dying

But the troops turned the Red Cross away

They threw out all the conventions

And when the journalists came they locked the gate


* phrase pinched from Steven Adams - thanks / apologies


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The Huntsman Comes A-Marchin’


Chris: singing, guitar


The countryside is dying

They’re closing village stores

While shepherds watched their flocks by night

The government burned them all

And here’s another post office

With boards across the door


The people from the city came

To breathe the cleaner air

They listen to The Archers

Buy new coats and grow their hair

Then they buy up all the houses

So country people born-and-bred

Can’t afford to live there


Now the Countryside Alliance

We’ll call them ‘the cunts’ for short

They promised in defiance

That a battle would be fought

Then ignored the real problems

To shout about their bloody sport


Call it a betrayal - it looks like that to me

Call it bad behaviour and a waste of time and money

I’ve never been in favour of police brutality

But when the huntsman comes a-marchin’

Well give him one for me, officer, give him one for me.


Now the cunts have come to London

To give us all what for:

There were only 20 thousand of them

Marching down through Whitehall

But they were such a bunch of thugs

The police arrested more

Than when 2 million normal people

Marched against the war


Call it a betrayal - looks like that to me

Call it bad behaviour and a waste of time and money

I’ve never been in favour of police brutality

But when the huntsman comes a-marchin’

Well give him one for me, officer, give him one for me.


Where were you when the miners fought to save their livelihoods?

Dressed up in red velvet somewhere deep in the woods

You loved the fucking poll tax, you propped up Margaret Thatcher

And you didn’t give a fuck about Tony Blair

‘Til he threw your hobby back at ya.


The countryside is dying

Some say it’s already dead

And the huntsman has a boner as the dogs pull it to shreds

Then he wipes the blood on his daughter’s face

And drags her back to bed.


Call it a betrayal - looks like that to me

Call it bad behaviour and a waste of time and money

And I’ve never been in favour of police brutality

But when the huntsman comes a-marchin’

Well give him one for me, officer, give him one for me.


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M1 Song


Chris: singing


I stood down at the side of the road waiting for the RAC

The engine died on my 4 wheel drive somewhere south of Leeds


Late for work too many times - today’s the final straw

So I’m watching the cars go passing by for an hour or more.

Drivers faces all the same: maps of misery

Not a single smile or a single laugh as far as the eye can see.

Now maybe I had smoked too much or the fumes got in my brain

But sitting on that grassy verge I think I went insane.

I swear, right there, I had a vision and I shuffled back in time

To the very birth of this M1 in 1959

And I felt the fear of 400 trees, standing all around

As men approached with their new machines to level out the ground.


Then real-as-real I saw a workman, talking to a tree

And the tree she spoke right back to him in the voice of an old lady

Then he ups and runs across to his boss, the foreman swaggers towards her

“What have you to say,” he says, “Before I give the order?”

“We are the last of a great old wood, we’ve lived a thousand years,

We’ve seen the world around us change but we thought we’d always been here.

But now you men are building fast and few of us remain

If you kill us now, I can’t explain how, but England will never be the same.”


The foreman laughs a bitter laugh to hear the talking tree

“Mention this to the planning team and it’ll be the end of me!

Well you may be the last of your kind and you may speak the truth

But to let this project fall behind is more than my job is worth.”

Then around the tree there came five cranes of yellow painted steel

Brought down the tree: the tree was slain and chopped up in the field.


I stood down at the side of the road waiting for the RAC

The engine died on my 4 wheel drive somewhere south of Leeds


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The Court Of You


Chris: singing, piano, guitar

Jon: cello

Gill: flute

Jen: singing

Timothy Victor: banjo


verse 1

The court of you will be upstanding

Watching you take your seat

The court of you will come to order

The dock of you is full of me


verse 2

The court of you is now in session

Prosecuting you take the stand

No rule broken no crime committed

Nothing to defend so no defense is planned


verse 3

I can argue or stay silent

The scales of justice, you lean on them

The court of you will find me guilty

Sentence lasts until the court comes round again


Kangaroo

Kangaroo

The court of you

Is a kangaroo


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Uh… The Press (for Paul Dacre)


Chris: singing, guitar, Hammond, clapping, detuned ukelele

Jon: clapping


The father of the bride is on the run

No-one’s really sure what he may - or may not - have done

But the press… uh… the press will have a field day.


The supermodel woke up with a junkie in her bed

A headache from the birthday party, wishing she was dead

But the press… uh… the press will have a field day.


Squeal squeal squeal little piggy

Squeal squeal squeal

Squeal squeal squeal little piggy

Look at what you’ve done


The Minister is standing on the bridge

Preaching to the soldiers how God loves all the killing they did.

And the press, already knew what he was going to say.


But if the editor of the Daily Mail had fucked the girl next door

And given her a job as an intern so he could help himself to more

You know the rest: “Your secret’s safe with us” they’d all say.


Squeal squeal squeal little piggy

Squeal squeal squeal

Squeal squeal squeal little piggy

Look at what you’ve done.


It doesn’t really matter, never really matters

Chicken or egg, the damage is done

A Gypsy Queen or the Mayor of London


100 Palestinians died today

But a pretty girl on television cried today

Can you guess, which one made the front page?

Uh… the press, know just when to look the other way.


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Admit One


Chris: singing, cookie jar frog, palm rubbing

Jon: looping


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Simmer Down, Simmer Down


Chris: singing, guitar, saucepans, woodblock, shaker, piano, Hammond

Jon: electric bass, cupboard

Gill: flute

TV: banjo


Settle down, settle down boy

The sergeant’s looking over

Simmer down, simmer down, simmer down

Don’t wanna make a scene

Do it carefully


Slow it down, slow it down boy

Switch it on and set the timer

Simmer down, simmer down, simmer down

Place the charges underneath

Down where they won’t be seen


You’re no match for their big machine

My father said with his head in his hands

But his eyes grew wide as we

Unfolded our plans


Look around, look around boy

Policeman bending over

Simmer down, simmer down, simmer down

He’s raising the alarm

But it’s too late he won’t get far


Stick around, stick around boy

The waiting’s nearly over

Quiet down, quiet down, quiet down

In a moment we’ll be done

And some of them are children


7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 Now!

Everything changes in the blink of an eye

It was all a game until

You watch people die (in a civil war)

People die (in a civil war)


Settle down, settle down man

Take a day to think it over

Simmer down, simmer down, simmer down

Think on what you’ve done

Because we’ve only just begun

We’ve only just begun

We’ve only just begun

We’ve only just begun


7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 Now!

Everything changes in the blink of an eye

It was all a game until

You watch people die (in a civil war)

People die (in a civil war)

And people die (in civil war)


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Preaching


Chris: singing, guitar, percussion

TV: banjo, gob-iron, singing

Stephen: singing


Poverty’s bad war is bad racism’s bad,

Well done, have a biscuit

Sing it out loud to a partisan crowd,

If everybody here agrees with me

Maybe I should go and sing to the enemies

But no, I don’t want to risk it.


Don’t you ever think this is all just a big waste of time?

Have you ever seen a single person change his mind?


Move along son - don’t you know,

If you’re preaching to the converted you might as well go home.

Move along son - don’t you know,

You’re preaching to the converted.


Shaking hands, kissing babies, making speeches

If there’s a point, well sorry I missed it.

Climbing up a ladder where opinion doesn’t matter

If all of my mates believe in me,

Maybe I should run the whole country -

I bet you can’t resist it


Nobody’s got any good red songs anymore.

And Billy Bragg’s gone fishing in his four by four.


Move along son - don’t you know,

If you’re preaching to the converted you might as well go home.

Move along son - don’t you know,

You’re preaching to the converted.


And I’m sick to death of the dicks on the left

Being just as nasty as the dicks on the right

Leaving stupid dicks in the middle having all the fun:

Everybody is a dick, green, blue, yellow or red,

You get a bit of power and it goes straight to your head

So take your spin and your need to win

And stick it up your bum.

And wiggle it around while it’s up there -

That’s your brain stuck on your thumb


Move along son - don’t you know,

If you’re preaching to the converted you might as well go home.

Move along son - don’t you know,

You’re preaching to the converted.

You’re preaching to the converted.

You’re preaching to the converted.


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