Tuesday, July 19, 2011

The Weakerthans: Sounds Familiar

 

I love The Weakerthans for the poetry of their songs, and especially the odd rhythms. Perhaps my favorite songs is off their album Fallow (yes, from 1997... so what?). Here’s how any old lyrics site has the lyrics to the song:

We emerged from youth all wide-eyed like the rest. Shedding skin faster than skin can grow, and armed with hammers, feathers, blunt knives: words, to meet and to define and to... but you must know the same games that we played in dirt, in dusty school yards has found a higher pitch and broader scale than we feared possible, and someone must be picked last, and one must bruise and one must fail. And that still twitching bird was so deceived by a window, so we eulogized fondly, we dug deep and threw its elegant plumage and frantic black eyes in a hole, and rushed out to kill something new, so we could bury that too.
The first chapters of lives almost made us give up altogether. Pushed towards tired forms of self immolation that seemed so original. I must, we must never stop watching the sky with our hands in our pockets, stop peering in windows when we know doors are shut. Stop yelling small stories and bad jokes and sorrows, and my voice will scratch to yell many more, but before I spill the things I mean to hide away, or gouge my eyes with platitudes of sentiment, I'll drown the urge for permanence and certainty; crouch down and scrawl my name with yours in wet cement.

Two paragraphs of prose. Which is fine. It’s interesting to see it written that way. Especially when it sounds like this (he’s singing it faster than the album here, too):

 

Now perhaps you see how this form of the lyrics is not capturing the poetry of the lyrics. So, here is how I laid out the lyrics. My blog is skinny, so I’ve capitalized and bolded new lines.

We emerged from youth all wide-eyed like the rest.
Shedding skin
Faster than skin can grow,
And armed with hammers, feathers, blunt knives: words, to meet and to define and to...
But you must know
The same games that we played in dirt,
In dusty school yards has found a higher pitch and broader scale
Than we feared possible, and someone must be picked last,
And one must bruise and one must fail.
And that still twitching bird was so
Deceived by a window,
So we eulogized fondly, we dug deep and threw
Its elegant plumage and frantic black eyes in a hole,
Then rushed out to kill something new,
So we could bury that too.
The first chapters of lives almost made us give up altogether.
Pushed towards tired forms of self immolation
That seemed so original. I must,
We must never stop
Watching the sky with our hands in our pockets, stop
Peering in windows when we know doors are shut.
Stop yelling small stories and bad jokes and sorrows, and
My voice will scratch to yell
Many more, but
Before I spill the things I mean to hide away,
Or gouge my eyes with platitudes of sentiment,
I'll drown the urge for permanence and certainty;
Crouch down and scrawl my name with yours in
Wet
Cement.

I feel that is much more satisfying written out that way. And about 100 times more interesting. But really, you need to listen to the recording. Try to follow along with the prose version, then try to follow with my poetry version. Interesting, eh?