LaFaro's Jonny Black explains 'Easy Meat' track-by-track. An insight? Maybe. The truth? Possibly. Good reading? Definitely.
A slight curlicue of deft percussion making way for a soft fluffy musical soufflé. Nuance abounds. Most revisions don’t improve the system; they only serve to draw it further from its initial state of beauty and undress. Without warning it turns complicated, unfair and cluttered with gobbledygook intended to confuse. I didn’t order coffee. I don’t even like coffee. I don’t remember lighting this cigarette, and I don’t remember if I’m here alone or waiting for someone.
A New Jersey teen moves to California, gets a wee bit bullied and then learns karate from a handyman.
Is this it? That’s what it’s all about man? Eating, drinking, f**king, sucking? Snorting? Then what? You’re 50. You got a bag for a belly. You got tits; you need a bra. They got hair on them.. You got a liver; they got spots on it, and you’re eating this f**king shit, looking like these rich f**king mummies in here…
Look at that. A junkie. I got a f**kin’ junkie for a wife. She don’t eat nothing. Sleeps all day with them black shades on. Wakes up with a Quaalude, and who won’t f**k me ‘cause she’s in a coma. I can’t even have a baby with her, man. Her womb is so polluted, I can’t even have a f**kin’ little baby with her.
"Wingers and Chips"
Wingers and Chips is the theme tune to our new television pilot (currently awaiting the green light) of the same name about two co-dependant sixteen-year-olds who are forced to deal with separation anxiety after their plan to stage a booze-soaked party goes awry.
Give me scotch. I’m starving.
In third year, I cheated on my history exam. In fourth year, I stole my uncle Max’s toupee and I glued it on my face when I was Moses in my Hebrew school play. In fifth year, I knocked my sister Edie down the stairs and I blamed it on the dog. When my mum sent me to summer camp for fat kids and then they served lunch I got nuts and I pigged out and they kicked me out…
… but the worst thing I ever done – I mixed a pot of fake puke at home and then I went to this movie theatre, hid the puke in my jacket, climbed up to the balcony and then, I made a noise like this: Hua-hua-hua-huuaaaaa – and then I dumped it over the side, all over the people in the audience. And then - this was horrible - all the people started getting sick and throwing up all over each other. I never felt so bad in my entire life.
This particular little ditty is primarily about a former drug lord who returns from prison to wipe out all his competition and distribute the ill-gotten profits of his operations to the local poor and lower classes. Kind of a violent modern twist on the old classic Robin Hood tale. The unrest that is so prevalent in the middle of the composition finally gives way to exhaustive but welcome relief by the end.
"Have a Word With Yourself"
“We at the Alliance Party are working hard to build a shared society, without division, free from sectarianism and prejudice and in which everyone – regardless of religion, gender, class, disability, colour, age, sexuality or nationality – are treated with respect and enabled to fill their full potential, free from fear. We’re working to create a sustainable society – in which our beautiful environment is cherished, in which we don’t spend money we do not have, and in which the rights of the individual are not smothered by the demands of the state and big institutions.”
And that, I think, was the handle – that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of old and evil. Not any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than seven years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Belfast and look west, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark – that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.
"Easy Peasy Meat"
I made a big decision a little while ago.
I don’t remember what it was, which probably goes to show
That many times a simple choice can prove to be essential
Even though it might appear inconsequential.
I must’ve been distracted when I left my home because
Left or right I’m sure I went. (I wonder which it was!)
Anyway, I’ve never veered: I walked in that direction
Utterly absorbed, it seems, in quiet introspection.
For no reason I can think of, I’ve wandered far astray.
And that is how I got to where I find myself today.
Thin spears of moist misery fire through the somnolent air of a pregnant December Wednesday and shatter in juicy pools of aqua upon the expectant earth below. Against a grey and gloaming sky thick with a seamless ceiling of cloud, the green striped landscape beneath calms like cool and verdant carpet. All at once this contrite contrast
is broken by two infinite shafts of lugubrious light, piercing the landscape like the eyes of Jesus.
But this is no holy vision for these are headlights and they are moving. Fast.
Sensing that this baby wants to play, I power into a particularly snicketty section of sinew at 110 percent. With an instinctive twitch on the right hoof snap shut on the loud pedal and feel the taut tail of the Kia step wide. I simply catch it with a dab of oppo’ and I’m away…
In a dystopic and crime-ridden city, a terminally wounded cop returns to the force as a powerful cyborg with submerged memories haunting him.
"Off the Chart"
Casual Gary came twitching around my biscuits last Buble. Seemed drawn to a handsome Cack Lasby I’ve had on my juice pipes since James. Trouble is, the Gary’s only got six crisps in his back slicer when I need two Steve’s and a drum kit just to kiss my knees. Fortunately I managed to talk him into a big-faced Karen I got just three Geoffs ago. He knocked me down by a weasel, everyone went away sweaty. You know as well as anyone Nigel not to behave like that in Debenhams. Meaty.
Oh and another thing; Marie said ironically most of the real damage was blamed on Nicholas Parsons. Minty.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I have alzheimers.
Cheese on toast.
This is us meeting a tone-deaf Hungarian saxophone-playing beggar outside a train
station in Berlin last Christmas. Touring adventures don’t get any better than this.
Death has replaced sex as the 21st century’s definitive taboo. While the valance has long been ripped away from the collective Victorian piano leg, the corpse has become primed with symbolic explosives, threatening the very foundations of society built upon the mythology of modernist progress. Be it the computer-generated cadavers of CSI Miami, or reality TV autopsies, LaFaro argue that the corpse has become an increasingly pervasive object of revulsion and attraction in our culture. With all this in mind, we thought it best to showcase a literary and musical autopsy of sorts, in which death and the human corpse are explored with a surgeon’s ear (and more often than not, a coroner’s guitar).
“The night was sultry…”