Words by Don Falcone
This site presents lyrics, poems, articles & other words by Don Falcone,
including those used on CDs by the following recording artists:
Spirits Burning, Spaceship Eyes, Melting Euphoria, and Thessalonians
Dig a the, Dig a the, Dig a the earth . . .
Dig a the, Dig a the, Dig a the earth . . .It's an alien injection
That's what she needs
An alien injection
for all our infectionsOne little boost
To see the up and the coming
A solution we pray
Help! is on the waySaw her today, she looked dead
It could be, I heard she died
Scan the paper, touch the ink
She finally got her name in printThat's all I see, that's all I'll read
I don't know time, I don't know space
Lots of creatures just like her
They dance with rhythm, then they pull awayRattle and reach -- I come apart
Rattle and reach -- to put together again
Rattle and reach -- make images
Rattle and reach -- to dig out . . .Send her flowers she can't wear
Send a card that she can't read
This happens when the children stay
out too late and really start to playAnd the boat that she rows on the delta narrow
is an antique ship that salt water will rip
And the scarf-covered course that once bridled a horse
soon tames a black cat and makes others grow fatRattle and reach -- I come apart
Rattle and reach -- to put together again
Rattle and reach -- make images
Rattle and reach -- to dig out . . .Dig a the, Dig a the, Dig a the earth . . .
Dig a the, Dig a the, Dig a the earth . . .
It's an alien injection
That's what she needs
An alien injection
for all our infectionsOne little boost
To see the up and the coming
A solution we pray
and Help! is on the wayRattle and reach -- I come apart
Rattle and reach -- to put together again
Rattle and reach -- make images
Rattle and reach -- to dig out and dig in(Just give it a day, help is on its way)
I like to wear my alien close to my heart
It's such a cool t-shirt, I bought 2 right from the start
I guess you could say I treat it like a piece of art
This alien that I wear so close to my heartI've got a (little) round alien ball to boot
She comes to life when I squeeze her roots
I keep it in a box in a closet in a room in a house
in a country in a world in a planet
and I hope she'll live forever
Mmm... I hope she'll last forever . . .Rattle and Reach . . .
secrets in books put away
some freefalls and lovers
and boxes of winter and play
no breathing, no sleeping . . .I never realized
the length of string
I don't comprehend
all the rubies, all the rubiestomorrow's the biggest day
the warmest, the wisest
here comes the moment of sway
no hiding no sliding . . .I never realized
the length of string
I don't comprehend
all the rubies, all the rubiesthis one is me . . . that one is you
one crams the dream
the other the soul
like a cool cream
that takes its tollthese things our hands can hold
these things that can blind us
we hold these things to light
some pass, some don'tall the rubies, all the rubies, all the rubies
for better or worseno one keeps mum
we tell all, all we know
no one keeps mum
we tell all
Balance is alive
and sensitive to touch
Balance is abstract
It is surreal,
Balance is strong yet weak, faithful yet ignorant.
It is the hope
That vice and virtue
Find themselves, in an
Eternal juxtaposition.
Balance is a disease
Balance is a must.
Balance occupies our minds and our souls,
Refusing to release its hold
Balance is what it is
By birthright, by name.
We have great need for balance.
Beautiful
Stealth, In A Church
(Poem & Lyrics by Don Falcone)
the ass ass mass
ass
of oof oof roof oof
folds his ong ong song ong
under the ench ench bench ench
could it be love?
/luther oother an
lois ois, ooper eroes all/ (2x)
/a pure tan from opera opera one/ (2x)
who owns who owns who owns
a truth from the makers
of a hollar dollar mahler of fistfuls
and how much should a hero get paid?
ipso facto
kribtoe crabtoe
be air fool
where you step
ipso facto
kribtoe crabtoe
be air fool
where you stop
(beautiful stealth)
in a church . . .
the ass ass mass ass
of oof oof roof off
folds his ong ong song ong
under the ench ench bench ench
where we
we watch from the ands
with our ands
folded over our ands
(i) Luana Doom!
Luana, Luana, doom!
Luana, Luana, doom!
Luana, Luana, doom!
Luana, Luana, doom . . .(ii) Luana The Duchess
Duchess of hard
And all of her dukes
Frame by frame, she's still
Living in the songDuchess of hard
And all of her dukes
Snapshot within our History Web
She's left for dead on the Editor's BlockHer real life forever locked
So, so many lost tick tocks
Time to roll, get ready to go
To the next chapter, but not aloneGet ready for . . . amazing sounds
Galaxina, Doom Fighter
Fantasy abounds
Amazing soundsTo the next chapter now
But not alone
Galaxina, Doom Fighter
Fantasy abounds
(iii) A Preacher For Luana
There's a man with a gun
And he fires lots of word
Is he good or is he bad
What does he want with usReading and writing is what he learned
How will he use it
Reading and writing is what he learned
Now he will use itSights a girl as evil
Because she wears denim tight
Is he laughing with us
Why does he laugh at allReading and writing is what he learned
How will he use it
Reading and writing is what he's learned
Now he will use it (to show the world his way)You can call him the preacher
You can judge him as he judges us
He's a willing servant to a god
He believes in and trustsWe can call him the preacher
We can judge him as he judges us
He's a willing servant to a god
Who believes in and trusts
Has a home in the sky
Held by string, held by hope
Wrapped around the crowd below
Keep them in good 'n' tightReading and writing is what he learned . . .
Sights a good as evil
Says she swears every night
And a boy just as bad
Says he falls right behind
Reading and writing is what he learned . . .
You can call him the preacher
You can judge him as he judges us
He's a willing servant to a god
He believes in and trusts
We can call him the preacher
We can judge him as he judges us
He's a willing servant to a god
Who believes in and trustsThere's our girl with no clothes
And she fires lots of word
Is she good or she bad
What does she want with usReading and writing is what we've learned . . .
iv. Luana The Host (& the Carnival for the Defense)
Luana, Luana, doom . . .It's our carnival of time
Our carnival of space
We take it on the road
To see what we can showIt's not about - art
Or note-ability
We just want to leave a mark
On societyYou can be god, you can be a man
and I will be the host
You can be the players, you can be the audience
and I will be the hostIt's our carnival of time
Our carnival of space
We take it to the road
To see what we can showIt's not about - art
Or note-ability
We just want to leave a mark(It's our carnival of time
Our carnival of space)You can be god, you can be a man
and I will be the host
You can be the start, you can be the end
And I will be the host
You are so right when you pray I've got a message today You are so right when you pray As I walked up the road, I looked into whispers... Dreamers are dreaming, all the things Caught in the fire
Caught in a fire, unsteady flame Caught in the fire, unsteady flame Dreamers are dreaming, all the things ...you open the door... Maybe we're moulded from tin So how do you know we are real? Maybe we're grafted on trees, Are the things that you hold the ones So, how do you know we are real? Maybe we're crafted from wood (chorus) (Currumbin Bird Sanctuary) we were birds once, we marvel at our stolen colors (chorus) (excerpts from Centigrade 232) (chorus) (closing haikus)
Candles
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone)
Take a
look at me over here
I cannot move, but I'll always be near
Because you're the same,
you're with me
We've been playing a serious game
A lot of time has passed us by
No one remembers just when we died
Somewhere upon the beaten track
This spirit you love may not
come back
Only with hope can we stay
You are so right when you pray
I think it came from a place up high
I never see just what you say
But it's written here in ink that's dry
I wish that you could come to me
I wish that I could go to you
If they turn me round I know I'll see
Something old and something new
Only with hope can we stay
You are so right when you pray
Child
Growing
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone, with additions by Bridget Wishart)
It's just
the wind...
she whispers her dreams...
She whispers her dreams, weaving
her doubt
sitting within, she's never been out
Believes in the dark, because of the
night
sweet candle light, she holds to it tight
the window of the record shop
And you were there, you and him
and you were laughing and you
were singing, laughing, and singing
She whispers her dreams, weaving
her doubt
sitting within, she's never been out
Believes in the dark, because of the
night
sweet candle light, she holds to it tight
that they know
but she is breathing, living to grow
Footsteps are falling, down in the snow
no one will enter, but the footprints
won't go
eyes never tire, of watching your game
eyes never tire, of watching your game
Breeze on your face, window ajar
for a moment dark moves, the dream
not so far
that they know
but she is breathing, living to grow
Warm air cools, outside is yours
you take it to hand, open the door....
open the door... child growing
...child growing... child growing..
...child growing... child... child growing...
...open the door
Crafted
From Wood
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone and Bridget Wishart)
Maybe we're
crafted from wood
I thought into flesh and to bone
Or could I have misunderstood?
And everyone's sculpted from stone
Or possibly spun out of hay
Big Bad Wolf can blow us to heaven
And Angels rebuild us from clay
Just cause we think and we feel
You can smell, you can touch and
give me so much,
But isn't that part of the deal?
It could be we're grown in a vat
Might we be sprouted from seeds?
I'm sure it can happen like that
that I see?
Does the stuff that you dream mean
something to me?
And what is the difference with
inside and out?
What is the truth, what should I
doubt?
Just cause we think and we feel
You can smell, you can touch and
give me so much
But isn't that part of the deal?
I thought into flesh and to bone
Or could I have misunderstood?
And maybe we're sculpted from stone
maybe we're sculpted from stone...
Drive-By
Poetry
(Haikus
by Roger Neville-Neil, Chorus by Don Falcone, "Currumbin
Bird Sanctuary" by Thom,
"Centigrade 232" by
Robert Calvert)
(opening haikus)
white circular lines
along the streets that i walk
alone in the night
our lives cross boundaries
like halos of spectrral dust
in a video scene
our lives cross boundaries
like halos of spectral dust
in a vivid dream
give me a shot of your drive-by poetry
a haiku, a rhyme, or a form that's free,
give me a shot of your drive-by poetry
give me a shot
zoo means feeding times, regular as pension checks
these wild birds flash, flock, flip in to drink adventure's milk
they flap out again threading the skies with insubordiante
gossiping, once the feeding stops
we see our once wide wings, our tiny ranbow opulences
we hold ourselves in a world with hands and feed our futures
stock is food and water, y2k means nothing to a bird
milennial fever is a human disease
and we are birds who flip above ourselves
with smiling ecstasies
give me a shot of your drive-by poetry
a haiku, a rhyme, or a form that's free,
give me a shot of your drive-by poetry
give me a shot
At Lexington they are going to burn
A hoard of books for charity....
give me a shot of your drive-by poetry
a haiku, a rhyme, or a form that's free,
give me a shot of your drive-by poetry
give me a shot
granite stelas
rising from earth to heaven
(excerpts from Centigrade 232)
At Lexington they are going to burn
A hoard of books for charity....
Round these towering volumes the flames will churn
As night and winter's dark they spurn
And threaten with their clarity.
The fire's fierce theatre draws herds of folk
All willing to be hynotised;
Anemones of flame and reefs of smoke
Enchant us so, we'd gladly choke
To see the dark so well disguised.'Oh, look, the Bible's all on fire', we cheered
At its catching. 'Oh watch it flare'.
It was like this of old, when witches reared
Against the stake; we stood and peered
At such Aladdin caves of air.These mushrooming billows of coral form
The fevered brain of fire on high,
Whose dream of destroying the world by storm
Will, in the ashes, still be warm
Long after its illusions die.
Don't be afraid of shadows Listen for the pulse of your soul Don't be afraid of the pulse Let wisdom be your guide
(Mantra
by Don Falcone)
The answers you seek, are at rest, in the shadows
Become one with all that is hidden
The mystery will make you happy
Let this pulse guide your wisdom and your passion
Become one with your ethereal self
The mystery will make you happy
This pulse is at rest in the shadows
Become one with all that is ethereal
The mystery will make you happy
Don't be afraid of your passion
Become one with your passion
The mystery will make you happy
cannot see myself today
so I do what I want
I have to sin today
I have to sin today
and now I'm sorry, sometimesthink I see a clearing in the forest
think I see a like city in your mind
think I feel a lover on my back
think I feel your fingers scratching at thatI must end what I begin today
it's my time
and now i'm sorry, sometimesthink I see a clearing in the forest
think I see a like city in your mind
think I feel a lover on my back
think I feel your fingers scratching at thatevery opera needs a waterfront
and my opera is no different from yours
Like your pretty beads and veil In our eye of the day, You are swept so far away There are things you cannot see, Can you handle the future memories The girl you're looking at Can you handle the future memories
Eye
Of The Day
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone and Bridget Wishart)
You hide your face
Death hides so much more
Courtesan to the rich, dying for the cause
Ladoux's hand obscures the trail
Life behind the mask was dark
Without the ritual and dance
It's a crying shame. You played the game
One against another
It's a crying shame, You played the game
My undercover lover
Our shining star, You fell so far
Caught up in alibis
Our shining star, You fell so far
Lost in truth and lies
In the dark of the night, Truth is kept out of sight
In our eye of the day, You are swept so far away
In the dark of the night, Truth is kept out of sight
There are things you cannot find
There are things you cannot be,
No way to turn back time
There are things you cannot see,
Places you cannot find
There are things you cannot be,
There's no way to turn back time
Future Memories
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone)
The toys you're playing with
Are made too break and steal
The games you're playing out
Teach how to shout and kill
The money in your hand
Will buy your food and clothes
The paper forms you fill out
Each truth and lie they slowly show
Can you handle them one by one
Can you handle the future memories
Can you handle them one by one
You know you want to use her
The girl you're going with
You know you're going to lose her
The only friend you've got
Is leaving in the morn
The only life you've got
Starts to die when you are born
Can you handle them one by one
Can you handle the future memories
Can you handle them one by one
Some minds may feel the natural disasters of the late 20th
century signify a coming Armageddon. That if Babel was the watershed
were communication went awry, then the science of modern civilization
that preaches a telecommunications superhighway, is in fact food
for the gods to show renewed wrath.
Other minds, unite in a belief that the ever-growing ambient
soul of society can interpreted as a tribute to the best that
is human. And that understanding between different entities can
only be achieved through a communication that weaves in more
than one direction.
What has always been our strength, our excitement, is the
spices around us. From the taste of ginger, to the crisp sound
of autumn leaves beneath a gentle walk, to the pulsating white
of a full moon. Spices are everywhere, forever weaving.
Ambient music is one of these spices, and as one, is inherently
shared. Built from the perceptions of musicians, incorporating
sounds that occur in the world, naturally and unnaturally, it
begins as an open door. Listeners are invited to assimilate floating
ambient sounds in the traditional way: listen, dream, levitate.
Furthermore, listeners can communicate more intimately with the
music by becoming part of the music. Ambient music is a voice
which attempts to inspire listeners to become pro-active, to
help breathe new life into its eternal dialogue, by ceasing to
be a listener only. It is time to speak a voice and become part
of the ambient weave: be it via acoustic or electronic instruments,
be it with skill or naïveté, be it with television
or radio, be it with any sound or non-sound.
The Ambient room is an open room, now and forever.
When you're sitting on a goldmine When you're sitting on a goldmine When you're sitting on a goldmine When you're sitting on a goldmine When you're sitting on a goldmine When you're sitting on a goldmine
Goldmine
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone)
sign on the dotted line
and don't forget the flashlight
be sure you'll want some more
do all things in their time
and decorate your hearts delight
be ready for the tour
Heavy . . .
Heavy the mind when your soul weighs a ton
Heavy . . . Heavy the mind . . .
when your sitting on a goldmine.
chop off a piece for the little ones
they can sit by your side, with their mouths open wide
Heavy the mind... when your soul cannot die
Heavy the mind... when your soul cannot die
Heavy the mind... when you're sitting on a goldmine
do you have to pull apart
the day from the dream
are you stepping up or down
to high esteem
chop off a piece for the little ones
they can sit by your side
with their mouths open wide
Heavy the mind . . . when your soul weighs a ton
No one can kill the things that cannot die
Heavy the mind . . .
The Hawk
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone)
The hawk in my room
Won't leave me alone
Choose your friends well
To get to the heart
The hawk in my room
Won't leave me alone
Choose your friends well
With time to depart
In my room of privacy
A voice takes me to fantasy
Go to bed boy and we will dream
Go to bed boy from here on outThe hawk in my room
Won't leave me alone
He's here on the wall
He's here in my soul
He's the worse thing that I've ever owned
He cuts to the boneLearn to tear and learn to die
Anger from the core he makes me fly
Just a start of eyes of fire
Don't know why I never tireThe hawk in my room
Won't leave me alone
He's here on the wall
He's here in my soul
He's the worse thing that I've ever owned
He cuts to the boneThe hawk in my room
Won't leave me alone
Choose your friends well
To get to the heart
The hawk in my room
Won't leave me alone
Choose your friends well
With time to depart
Hawkwind
(Article from Reflector)
Swim out, swim out from the dark gray of your
Inner
Vastness Of Space
(Poem by Don Falcone)
mother's womb swim out, swim out
into the harbor of infinity, rise up, rise above
the clear blue liquid that encases your home
turn around, push down, dive out,
suspend in mid air your beauty exposed
between heaven and sea swim out and leave
this body, from the sea, depart into space,
the pure black of space
do not look back at the sea
do not lace your mind with memories of the sea
do not let your heart beat to the rhythm of the sea
rise up and leave this body from the sea,
be broken into space, be healed
let your eyes gaze into the vastness of space
let your mind be flooded with the vastness
of space let your heart be fed with the vastness
of space let your body suspend in the vastness
of space let your beauty be exposed in this vastness
that is space.
dance, in the bunkers, cuz a you, cuz a you, cuz a you want
gather cloth scatter cloth
Kamarupa
(Poem (on
CD Disk) by Don Falcone)
dig, dig, dig a thee earth,
digi, dig, dig a thee earth,
digi, dig, dig a thee earth,
dig a thee earth
one piece to wear to wear,
one piece on your sleeve, to wear
and soon, I will tell, I will tell you,
it is safe to touch, to,digi, dig, dig a thee earth,
digi, dig, dig a thee earth,
digi, dig, dig a thee earth,as no one listens
dig,
dig
touch,
we are out,
we are out,
we are out,
earshot
Songs, demos, project
The lyrics to this novel
Songs, demos, project
The only opportunityThe only opportunity
The clips heard here
The only opportunity
Shiny and cold . . . Gold . . . Turns to gold . . . Watch out for sparks! Inside, tied to me Watch out for sparks! . . .
Midas Touch
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone & Bridget Wishart)
Turns to gold . .
.
Don't you see what's happening?
Our dreams are changing
The lines of life in our hands
It's a curse what makes it worse is your desire
It's a curse what makes it worse is your desire
Your desire -- The Midas Touch
This is what's occurring, dreams are turning
The lines of our hands, are forever burning
Don't you see what's happened?
My dream has changed us
And your lines of life . . .
Touch, touch, touch
Aaaaah The Midas Touch . . .
Mother
Of The Dragon
(Lyrics by Don Falcone & Bridget Wishart)
Inside, tied to me
Better hope the water's lying
Better pray I'm not carrying
Nurturing, encircling
Blood is false
Skin is teasing
Life, a life, alive . . .
Could I be bringing
A creature into this world?
Oh, could I be carrying
A creature into this world?
That tear, and scar
That leave a mark
That burn and char
Better hope the water's lying
Better pray I'm not carrying
Nurturing, encircling
Blood is false
Skin is teasing
Life, a life, alive
Could I be bringing
A creature into this world?
Oh, could I be carrying
A creature into this world?
Ahhhhh . . .
Pray, pray and pray, pray and pray
I'm not ever, a host or a home,
No, not a mother
Pray, pray and pray, pray and pray
for a baby . . .
Pray, pray and pray, for a baby,
maybe . . .
OCR
(For Protection)
(Poem by Don Falcone; composed of graffiti
from San Francisco Mission District)
low riders
casual riders
street racers
riders rule
don't kill my bruth
low riders
casual riders
street racers
don't kill my bruth
er disco
su
don't
lowri asual street erru
lowri asual el lobo
lowri asual street erru
(el lobo)
kill my lo el diab
el diab kill my
pover my dog so sigh
el diab
blo
cut
feed
el pover el tea
kill my low diab
el diab kill my
pover my dog my knee
crow
rat
pig
lowri asual street erru
lowri asual el lobo
One
Spirit Burning
(Lyrics by Don Falcone)
Sitting way back on your father's chair
Watching the TV breathing
Feeling the love your mother gave
You know she's upstairs sleeping.
And when you go to sleep, the world is turning
The fire in your dream, it starts to flicker
And when you go to sleep, the world is turning
You are just one spirit burning.
Rush of a car going past your house
And the trees are blowing
Someone on TV is getting shot
And the blood is flowing.
And when you go to sleep, the world is turning
The fire in your dream, it starts to flicker
And when you go to sleep, the world is turning
You are just one spirit burning.
The eye is a window to the world.
Beyond this window is a craft.
It wears wings and makes thunder.
This is our crash.
This is our spaceship eyes.
The
Real Time
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone)
You say
you want to eat
That you like the taste of deceit
You walk right to where there's food
And hope someone's in the mood
And you say you want me to disappear
That I'm the one you fear
You say you want to touch
You just hope it doesn't cost much
You're pulling it off again
The sheets that hide crime
You cannot pretend
This isn't the time
This is the real timeYou say you want to live
You want the water, the one that gives
And you see it running down your back
Giving slack along our attack
And you hope someone's in the mood
Any he says hey baby can I please
You're my prisoner and you must escape
I've sure you've got some dinner on the takeYou're pulling it off again
The sheets that hide crime
You cannot pretend
This isn't the time
This is the real timeLooking at our history
I don't see no mystery
It never matter who would win
We would call off the sinI could look you in the eye
And I knew I wouldn't . . . .This is the real time
This is the real time
We breathe a language we live, and wait to receive
Breathe out, the breath of life, breathe in, a shower of voice
We breathe a light we bring, in a vast and awesome universe
We breathe a quiet we live, and bring alike
Reflections in a Radio Shower
(Poem by Don Falcone)
We breathe alive we breathe, the most promising way to search,
and it shines
We breathe a superb magnet.
Breathe out, the reflected light, breathe in, a shower of voice
We breathe alive we breathe, a sequence of loops, suspended in
a line of vision
We breathe a concentrated light.
We can now look into the crystal ball of the past and sight
Robert Calvert, the artist, at times heroic, often inventive,
forever singing. It is truly a crystal ball for many, because
the visage remains a prediction of sorts; many who look, can
never meet the physical man, never talk one-on-one to him. We
experience him in isolation, in our living rooms, our dens, through
loudspeakers, headphones, and now on the internet, through computers.
The language hinted at in his lyrics is alive for as long as
we wish to keep it alive.
Initially, we can only reap from the past: spoken and sung
words, written works, music, and the pictorial and verbal memories
that have survived. It becomes the task of those who have been
inflicted with the best of his poison pen, to make sense of this
past, to welcome all to the present, which eternally becomes
the future.
I remember going to see Hawkwind and telling my wife that
anything can happen at a Hawkwind concert. Maybe Bob Calvert
will show up, I said. Dave Brock put to rest all hope when he
spoke up: "We'd like to dedicate the next piece to the late
Bob Calvert." It was an irony the singer might appreciate.
But while I got an anecdote, a man remained dead and unwittingly
died again. A rock fan would do well to remember to temper their
emotions. It's fine to mourn the loss of an artist, but one should
acknowledge those who have lost more: a wife, a child, all those
who were a part of his daily breath.
Still, in life, Calvert made every effort to reach all of
us. Not as a pilot of planes, but as an adventurer of art, specifically
within the rock motif. While Silver Machine speaks to our child-like
primal fantasies, each subsequent work of Calvert tempts us to
dig deeper into other art-forms, closer and closer to a world
that has less to do with rock music and more with redefining
our lives.
Like many sci-fi rock fans, I graduated from Marvel Comics
to sci-fi/fantasy paperbacks. I was already reading Michael Moorcock
when I was introduced to the breathtaking tribal chaos of Hawkwind's
Space Ritual. Throughout this sonic expedition, lurked this voice,
at one turn calm and clear, at another slightly deranged, so
that we might partake in both future states perfect and imperfect.
In this beginning, Calvert and company took me deeper into Moorcock's
New Worlds. This would soon change.
I was aware that Moorcock greatly admired writer J.G. Ballard,
but it would be Calvert's lyrical adaptation of Ballard's High
Rise that finally persuaded me to check out the original. I suspect
Calvert influenced many of us to read Hesse's Steppenwolf or
to view certain films (Damnation Alley). Some of Calvert's lyrics
created their own story, like Spirit of the Age (marrying two
of his poems, one about a clone, the other an android); It's
spin of unexpected words asks us to exercise our minds in the
same manner, albeit a shorter format, that Ballard or Hesse might.
In the world of 'serious' poetry, New York poet John Ashberry
was busy breaking expectations from line to line (in direct opposition
to the language required when he wrote technical manuals for
a living), and digging deeper and deeper into a minimalist linguistics.
Calvert was also breaking the language, on one hand twisting
lines in a clever manner, but moving headlong towards the minimalistic
voice of the city and it's cold machines.
Over time, the original search in space (outer, then inner)
becomes an expanded adventure. For me, it would be Calvert and
the Hawklords' onstage mechanized persona which introduced me
to Japanese Noh Theater. It was track's like Automoton that really
prepared me for minimalist music works by Philip Glass, Steve
Reich, and even the dark ambient works of the 90s. So much so
that I might one day pursue ambient soundscapes with Thessalonians
and Spaceship Eyes.
Calvert prefaces early industrial music and acknowledges inspiration
from Bertolt Brecht and his 'sprechgesang' (Speechsong) "which
gives a very Germanic feel to our machine-gun lyrics. . . a lot
of people who live in the cities are influenced by what goes
on with them, we're influenced by the cities themselves."
As one deciphers the influence that Hawkwind has had on musics
like punk, new wave, metal, industrial, ambient and techno, one
can then begin to see that Calvert laid down much of the early
cement, or at the very least, got us to look at where the cement
was being created. Calvert's adventures, in a Joyce-like manner,
say: Check it out, follow me and check it all out, because everything
that has existed can lead us into everything that can and will
exist. His adventure asks us to travel beyond rock and conventional
art-forms. For fans who have become artists, be it rock or otherwise,
Calvert is a teacher, a mentor in absentia.
However, life is not just an adventure, or a box of yea and
nay Pandoras to be studied and reshaped. Seeded in many of Calvert's
work's are messages, however coded. We can believe the hype,
in that we acknowledge that hype exists. We can believe in science
that we realize there is both good and bad in this venture. We
can see that fantasy and fiction are viable paths that can indeed
lead to reality, but that the opposite is true.
Calvert is never about absolutes, only possibilities. His
message, at it's most serious, is that the human condition is
plagued with problems, regardless of whether we can wrap it up
in neat little sci-fi/fantasy packages.
It is at this moment that Robert Calvert becomes the hero.
Not as a soldier in armor, but as a rising voice that looks into
its own crystal ball, with the text of the world by his side,
preparing to pour out his findings. The hero, here, has but one
request: Listen. Listen to the sounds.
Working Down A Diamond Mine, Acid Rain, Picket Line. The adventurer
at his twilight now asks us to follow him into reality and enlightenment:
Perhaps, if we acknowledge the problems, the fears, then we can
begin to deal with them and find solutions.
At the heart of any inventor, is the drive to find solutions.
But what happens if there exist personal demons along the way?
For Calvert, sometimes described as a hypo-active, manic depressive,
these are potent artistic death traps. He can be admired that
he continued to experiment and present musical solutions in such
a state.
For those who are afflicted, this is heroic in its own manner.
The drive in his vocal delivery, even the lyric/poem on paper,
is forever tied to the challenge of feeding this mental duality.
Another great challenge to Calvert, aside from securing record
deals and support for artistic endeavors, is the battle for acceptance.
Robert Calvert never asks to be considered a hero or even an
adventurer. As a musician and poet, his actions suggest that
he desires to be acknowledged as an artist; more than just a
rock icon. One reason I believe this: I too began writing poetry
before I played music. And as I've had a certain level of success
musically, the poet side of me cries for a greater legitimacy
for both my music and a poetry I have done little to cultivate
in recent years. For better or worse, rock, at its pinnacle,
most often does not fit into the serious art circle; though many
have tried to make it so.
Calvert understood this. He understood that music is one form
of language. And language is at the heart of serious art. Calvert,
with his Morse code music, his shortwave samples, his megaphone
maniacal deliveries, and his cool mechanical computer rhythms,
sought to expand his and our personal languages and our experiences
with language. The language of the space pioneer begat the language
of the scientist which begat the language of the city which begat
the language of the worker.
Given that his lyrics were becoming more serious, and his
inner self might have been craving serious recognition, one might
expect Calvert to totally leave the muse of rock. However, at
the time when he was furthest from the lyrical language of his
Hawkwind origins, his music swung closer to the simplicities
of rock 'n' roll than ever before. One should not be surprised.
If nothing else, Calvert never fails to surprise. Or, perhaps,
he was beginning to accept that he was and always would be, a
rock 'n' roller.
I often wonder what Calvert might have accomplished if he
would have pursued the topic of non-vocal music throughout one
album; perhaps we would have gotten an ambient adventure of sorts,
or even a serious new music. We do have other paths of language
that Calvert realized publicly; in theater, in poetry. But because
Calvert is rarely remembered as a poet or as a playwright outside
of rock circles, he seems to float endlessly as a tragic figure
- an artistic Hamlet if you will.
I was asked to help start a space rock band in the early 90s,
as the resident poet. Two years later, Melting Euphoria were
still a 3-piece; with a great rhythm section, my keyboard rhythms,
leads and pads were required much more than any vocalizations.
However, live and on the band's premiere CD, I got to take on
the Calvert poet/vocal threads. Much like he did, I used poems
that were not originally written for a rock motif. And like him,
I tried my hand at various emotions. I felt the best Calvert
performances were dark clear intonations, the voice futuristic,
but striking at the core of our existence. I don't know if my
performances on Melting Euphoria's 'Through The Strands Of Time'
succeeded toward this goal, but I would not have another opportunity
within Melting Euphoria's walls, as I soon quit the band and
continued onwards with instrumental projects.
Since then, when I've spoken on record or CD, I've considered
the following: Calvert, as his career continued, seemed intent
on not just speaking future texts or current issue texts for
the sake of it: There was always direction, purpose. I hope that
all artists consider this lead.
There is another Calvert influence that permeated into my
earlier works, as well as my current work with Spaceship Eyes
and space rock band Spirits Burning. For example, during the
Melting Euphoria sessions, I would breathe into a straw aimed
towards the mike to produce an eerie wind; or breathe into a
straw placed inside a plastic cup containing just a little liquid
for a micro-sized test tube concoction; I placed a metal ball
with an internal bell on a pillow and recorded the soft tinkling
motives of it as I gave it a virtual magical carpet ride. I don't
know if I would trace this type of experimentation only to Calvert.
But I do know that it this sense of play from the lyrics and
musics of the Calvert's and the Eno's that has influenced many
musicians who have followed.
We are often too serious in our artworks. Within Calvert is
this: The message may be serious, but that does not need to prevent
us from being playful in its presentations, or from attempting
new strategies that seem child-like and wide-eyed in their approach.
The rock forum was perfect for Calvert's mental adventures
and heroism. Calvert is not a reknown poet in most poetry circles.
His output in theater was rather minimal. His legacy is in Hawkwind
and as a solo rock musician. Herein lies the heart of his artistry.
And each day seems to produce a new Calvert convert to this work,
breathing new life into it. Simply put, Robert Calvert, for those
who have looked and those who will be welcomed in the future,
is an artist who attempted much and achieved much. The scales
on which we judge this success does not matter. What does matter,
is the chord he struck for many, and that it continues to resound.
Secret
Invention
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone)
I've got a secret
A secret invention
I've got a secret
It goes like this . . .
I want to keep out the noise, keep it pure
I want to keep it concealed, keep it to myself
It's deep in power and it's deep in wealth
But I wouldn't want to lose it in a sea of stealth
I've got a secret
A secret invention
I've got a secret
I want to keep out the noise, keep it pure
I want to keep it concealed, keep it to myself
It's a tool for all ages, with an eye to progress
But I can't reveal the truth -- I'm in the middle of a test
I've got a secret
A secret invention
I've got a secret
It goes like this . . .
I want to keep out the noise, keep it pure
I want to keep it concealed, keep it to myself
It doesn't need a god, and it doesn't need law
I can give it life, I can give it my all
I've got a secret
A secret invention
I've got a secret
It goes like this . . .
Listen to seawater touching land, then letting go, to tools
of sound, silent, then alive. Become aware of the channel that
flows within: where your mind gives life to shapes. Slowly interpret
the sound. Let memories descend to open hands. Listen to parts
of sound that you have not heard before. Consider lifepaths not
taken. Shape, reshape.
Hearing allows us to open mechanisms seemingly closed when
we are awake. But unlike sleep-induced dreamlives which often
disappear, the life we give to a sound, and the redefined life
we experience for ourselves, become imbedded in our mindscope.
When next we listen, we will do so differently.
All meaning is floating. Life forever changing. For as
we breathe, so flows the silent channel.
Speak
To The Wind
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone)
Look to the center
of the tallest tree,
look to the top of the sky
I see faces that move like they're trying to cry,
I feel a chill, and I grow old
I put my hands in the middle of a pool of dirt,
reach for the treasure inside
I let them sing like they never have sung before,
I hear a sound, and it's my voice
I speak to the wind of what I don't know,
I speak to the wind, I may never know
Roll over dig down, open lips make sound,
speak like you want to say something new
Roll over give ground, open lips make sound,
speak like you want to say something new
Roll over dig down, open lips make sound,
speak like you want to say something new
Roll over give ground, speak like you want to,
roll over give ground, speak like you can
The gift horse is a Trojan horse
Her mouth is full of snake
My love, you may go to sleep
Lay your trust in me, and I'll stay awakeThe midnight dream is an endless dream
Whispers die in an ocean of steam
My love, you may go to sleep
Lay your trust in me, and I'll stay awakeLay your trust, lay, lay
Lay your trust in me.The train is in your way
She's no good for you
The train is in your way
She may never reach, but stay in viewYour boyhood home is a priceless home
The wind can cradle and metal can shake
My love, you may go to sleep
Lay your trust in me, and I'll stay awakeLay your trust, lay, lay
Lay your trust in me.
This
Mark You Make
(Lyrics by Don Falcone)
Please
focus, before you shoot
I wouldn't want to see you do me wrong
Picture me, but hesitate
Once you get me there's no turning back
Please focus, before you shoot
Make the most, here comes my fade from black
Each time you look, each time you touch
There is a mark you make
Each time you look, each time you touch
There is a love you hateAnd it takes years to recover and misplace
Yes it takes years to discover and replace
This mark you make, this mark you make
When you misfire, when you misfire
Each time you look . . .Please focus, before you shoot
I wouldn't want to see you do me wrong
Don't overlook, or estimate
I wouldn't want to be like that for long
Please focus, before you shoot
I only ask when I'm not strongEach time you look, each time you touch
There is a mark you make
Each time you look, each time you touch
There is a love you hateAnd it takes years to recover and misplace
Yes it takes years to discover and replace
This mark you make, this mark you make
When you misfire, when you misfireEach time you look . .
This mark you make, this mark you make
Each time you look . .
This mark you make, this mark you make
This mark you make . . .
Here comes another cosmic cluster
i'm drowning in space dripping in space and I sight a band of muses who knows what they are all about
who knows what they are all about
Two friends sitting here in the dark You turned your cheek when we We're gone for days and we stay You turned your cheek when we Two friends sitting here in the dark Talk about people we have loved
Throw
Yourself In (Lyrics for Intelli-Fish)
("Throw Yourself In"
lyrics for Intelli-Fish by Don Falcone)
Here comes another
cosmic cluster
down far
swim out
hot star
blind spot
but i still might get out
from my soul to my mouth
they're shifting light, and playing night
on a dry (bed of) space beach
Two
Friends
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone, with additions by Bridget Wishart)
Two friends
sitting here in the dark
Waiting for the rain to go
Plenty to say, nothing to do
We look inside, we look at you
Look inside, look at you
Talk about people we have known
Bring them all back to life
What went wrong, what went right?
Knowing where to go, knowing
what we know
No matter what they need
Draw a little closer with each breath
Let the rain be their melody
Rain be their melody
Bear our souls down to the ground
We'll be honest, we'll be free
Let our eyes shoot in the dark
Light a light for you and me
Light a light for you and me
kissed good night
But yeah, you laughed on cue
at all the lines
out of touch
But yeah, we'll talk again
And we'll say so much
When the time is... right
kissed good night
But yeah, you laughed on cue
Waiting for the rain to go
Got plenty to say, nothing to do
But look inside, and grow
Look inside and grow
Bring them all back to life
Bear our souls down to the ground
We shot so far, we shot so far,
yeah, we shot so far...
Shot so far, shot so far, shot so far...
oh no!
The
Unknown
(Lyrics
by Don Falcone)
I choose my place, outline of flesh
remember my name, purpose of fame
to dance around the spin of birth
Comes the flash, new lease on life
stir to wake, pause to love
I like the feel for what it's worth
I like the feel for what it's worth
We take from the hand
and give to the world the unknown
When we like the night we like the moves
we know we're right when we forfeit our dues
we want to hold it all for all time
Control of ease on top of the world
get to the soul and make it roll
knowing it all makes it fine
knowing it all makes it fine
We take from the hand
and give to the world the unknown
What works for years should work for less
what's in your heart is the place to start
and the words you choose should never lose
because gods they come and gods they go . . .
We take from the hand
and give to the world the unknown
In this spirit, exists Spice Barons, Patternclear, Satellite
IV, etc., combining natural and electronic sounds so that they
make a perfect sense. All that we are emanates from the same
seed. But how the flower is picked and assimilated remains random.
In listening to the ambience that surrounds us, there is always
the potential for shared experience. There is also the potential
for individualized impressions which are constantly redefining
the ambience. This occurs when an aural composition moves further
and further from the maps formed by its initial listeners (i.e.,
its godly or human creators). For better or worse, our ambience
will float away from us, toward the plural you -- in enough directions
to keep it eternally unidentified.
Rub the belly of Venus Sparingly in a tunnel of allure
Venusian
Skylight
(Lyrics by Don Falcone)
White
Eagle . . . Red Lion . . .
Slide to the other side of Mars
Rub the belly of Venus
Slide to the other side of Mars
Rich in high frequencies
and curved in metallic light
We place the seeds . . .
I'm the quiet side of midnight in a deserted room
My laughter the shiver
Released from its tombI am
and I'm not
Anything
You can't see(chorus)
You open your eyes, and you will see
You'll see the walking shadow arrive
You open your eyes, and you will see
You'll see the walking shadow aliveI am the walking shadow
Enter wher your dreams have fled
The nocturnal spectre
No sound like a cat paws treadI'm a faint line in space
A border where nothing exists
A retinal void
The memory you're unable to resistI am
and I'm not
Anything
You can't see(chorus)
You open your eyes, and you will see
You'll see the walking shadow arrive
You open your eyes, and you will see
You'll see the walking shadow aliveI am the walking shadow
I continue when you cease to be
I infiltrate all light
Cause your vision to flee
