melodica deathship - black tea bubblin - tour promo by equilibrium
'Here is an invitation to cruise the cold Northern Seas. Exit Dublin Bay upon a highly combustible wicker barge. Smoking is encouraged. Ashtrays are not provided and we've all soaked our skin in kerosene.
When the beat drops, gulls fill the sky of Dublin Bay like broken promises. The clouds are a dull Irish bruise. They've stuffed the cannons with pawnshop hardware and long lines of melodica. We shall troll for reeling ghosts. Wings splash like whiskey upon ice. The aim is demented by clouds of drifting gunpowder and poor judgment. The voice of this shanty is wave upon keel and a broken compass. Depend upon dead reckoning. You are chained to the oar. Pull, pull, pull.
Night has fallen. There are dark things squirming just beneath the surface of the sea. The prow of the deathship is piercing the skulls of a hard swell, coursing through wine-dark waters. The sails are full and black. Far below, at the bottom of the sea, the drowned sway upon a light-less dance floor. The beat is now a depth charge. Black eel melody slithers through rib cage percussion.
Far in the distance the glow of Babylon burning. We must sail away from the shore. The sea is pure. Out here, the world is nothing but horizon.
Leagues from shore, the captain sings a shanty, the crew's thoughts return to Derry. They will make landfall if they don't all drown. They will make landfall and not leave their women to others. Irish soil is the solid beat. The promise of a return. Regardless, fear rules the deck as the crew swabs plank and ties knots of melody. Who is not haunted by the specter of drowning? Who can sing with saltwater in his lungs? Not a man. They work to the beat of the ocean against the hull of the ship. The captain's voice twines sky and sea together as the crew's souls are slowly taken down to Hades by twilight. It is a song of drowned sailors dreaming of sunlight.
Fog and the promise of Valhalla. The wind has died. The crew is dead, but they have not realized it yet. The transition was smooth as a windless sea. The water warm as blood. The sailors swim to the bottom. They make beds on the sea floor and fall to sleep dreaming of Irish soil.
The ocean sways, holds the sailors to its breast. Sleep. This is a song of beloved exile.'
Here is a stream of a promo CD we did in 2008 to sell while we were roving around Ireland.
The above sleeve notes never made it to the CD and it is a shame and disgrace. The words follow the flow of the mix and are a rewarding read if you are so inclined. I think at some stage I am going to record a reading of this over a suitable instrumental piece because it is too good to ignore.
It was written by my friend and poet Ryan Masters and I am grateful for his gift.