Song Description
A moody downtempo/chill piece with elements of blues & live instrumentation in the mix A moody downtempo/chill piece with elements of blues & live instrumentation in the mix (a la BB King's "The Thrill Is Gone" meets Massive Attack's "Unfinished Sympathy"
| Song Length |
4:51 |
Genre |
Electronic - Trip Hop, Blues - Modern |
| Tempo |
Medium Fast (131 - 150) |
Lead Vocal |
Male Vocal |
| Mood |
Cool, Poignant |
Subject |
Determination, Imagination |
| Language |
English |
Era |
2000 and later |
Lyrics
They just found Jimmy on his moped seat
In his garage the other day.
Just last week it was Stuart & Hester
& you always knew it'd go that way.
They drop like flies these days, these kind of guys
Who loved not wisely but too well.
They set their compass, like Cortez, towards the sound
Of songs that as yet no one's tried to sell.
The New Romantics
Heard The Big Music,
& once you've heard it, you can't hide it on a shelf.
When the world where you live
Doesn't put back what you give,
You sometimes long for someplace new to put yourself.
A bone-gray basketball named Spaulding's there
To keep you company on the nights
You pound the pavement like a Childe Harold
& try to battle back the spite.
When you feel too much, it's hard not to let
The bitterness take you away,
But then you'd be just another cartoon character
& someone'd have to draw you every day.
The New Romantics
Heard The Big Music,
& once you've heard it, you are changed so utterly.
When you think your work here
Has come to nothing,
You start to feel like you've got somewhere else to be.
Gradually & all at once, like Omar Sharif, a speck appearing out of the landscape.
Momentary, like a droplet of sand in close-up, apart again, then absorbed again, then apart again, then absorbed again into an eternal enormity.
Gone again, like Matt Damon at the end of Syriana, decreasing into the scenery.
An endlessly ascending crane shot over the rim of someplace more real than this.
There is someplace without Decembers
Where grass is sharp & grows past the eye,
& any pain that's half-remembered
Forms the context for the sky.
There's private junipers for anyone
Who checks their trophies at the bar,
& the language of the nightingale makes sense
When mixed with bagpipes & the sound of stars.
The New Romantics
Heard The Big Music,
& once you've heard it, you can't hide it on a shelf.
When the world where you live
Doesn't put back what you give,
You sometimes long for someplace new to put yourself.