THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PREPARED for publication in Newsweek magazine. After it was sent to them, they rejected it saying it was too "idiosyncratic." Since we needed something to fill up this side of the album cover, this article will now meet its destiny as decorative filler material.
As you will recall, folks, nobody ever had as much going for them in the beginning as we did. Let's face it we. . . were fantastic. Today, unfortunately, we are merely WEIRD. This is a shocking thing to say, since no Red-Blooded American likes to think of his or herself as being WEIRD, but when there are other options and a whole nation CHOOSES CHEESE, that is WEIRD.
Our mental health has been in a semi-wretched condition for quite some time now. One of the reasons for this distress, aside from CHOOSING CHEESE as a way of life, is the fact that we have (against some incredibly stiff competition) emerged victorious as the biggest bunch of liars on the face of the planet. No society has managed to invest more time and energy in the perpetuation of the fiction that it is moral, sane, and wholesome than our current crop of Modern Americans.
This same delusion is the Mysterious Force behind our national desire to avoid behaving in any way that might be construed as INTELLIGENT. Modern Americans behave as if intelligence were some sort of hideous deformity. To cosmeticize it, many otherwise normal citizens attempt a peculiar type of self-inflicted homemade mental nose-job (designed to lower the recipient's socio-intellectual profile to the point where the ability to communicate on the most mongolian level provides the necessary certification to become ONE OF THE GUYS). Let's face it . . . nobody wants to hang out with somebody who is smarter than they are. This is not FUN.
Americans have always valued the idea of FUN. We have a National Craving for FUN. We don't get very much of it anymore, so we do two things: first we rummage around for anything that might be FUN, then (since it really wasn't FUN stuff in the first place) we pretend to enjoy it (whatever it was). The net result: STRESSED CHEESE.
But where does all this CHEESE really come from? It wouldn't be fair to blame it all on TV, although some credit must be given to whoever it is at each of the networks that GIVES US WHAT WE WANT. (You don't ask—you don't get.) Folks, we now have GOT IT . . . lots of it . . . and, in our Infinite American Wisdom, we have constructed elaborate systems to insure that future generations will have an even more abundant supply of that fragrant substance upon which we presently thrive.
If we can't blame it on the TV, then where does it come from? Obviously, we are weird if we have to ask such a question. Surely we must realize by now (except for the fact that we lie to ourselves so much that we get confused sometimes) that as Contemporary Americans we have an almost magical ability to turn anything we touch into a festering mound of self-destructing poot.
How can we do this with such incredible precision? Well, one good way is to form a Committee. Committees composed of all kinds of desperate American Types have been known to convert the combined unfulfilled emotional needs and repressed biological urges of their memberships into complex masses of cheese-like organisms at the rap of a gavel. Committee Cheese is usually sliced very thin, then bound into volumes for eventual dispersal in courts of law, legislative chambers, and public facilities where you are invited to eat all you want.
If that doesn't fill you up, there's the exciting Union Cheese . . . the most readily available cheese-type offered. The thing that's so exciting about Union Cheese, from the gourmet's point of view, is the classic simplicity of the mathematical formula from which it is derived. In fact, it is difficult to avoid a state of Total Ecstasy if one contemplates the proposition that no import quota yet devised has proven equal to the task of neutralizing the lethal emissions generated by the ripening process of this piquant native confection. Should we not be overtaken by some unspeakable emotion when we consider the fact that the smaller the amount of care taken in the preparation of each Union Cheese Artifact, the more triumphant the blast as the vapors stream forth from every nook and cranny of whatever it was that the stalwart craftsperson got paid $19.00 per hour to slap together?
Still hungry? Union Cheese might be the most readily available, but no type of cheese in America today has achieved the popular acceptance of Accountant Cheese. If it is true that YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT, then surely our national willingness to eat this stuff tells us more about ourselves than we probably wish to know. Obviously we have found The Cheese To Believe In. Why not? It is manufactured by people who count money, endorsed as nutritionally sound by Civic Leaders, and delivered by The Media door to door.
The Quality of Our Lives (if we think of this matter in terms of "How much of what we individually consider to be Beautiful are we able to experience every day?" seems an irrelevant matter, now that all decisions regarding the creation and distribution of Works of Art must first pass under the limbo bar (a/k/a "The Bottom Line"), along with things like Taste and The Public Interest, all tied like a tin can to the wagging tale of the sacred Prime Rate Poodle. The aforementioned festering poot is coming your way at a theatre or drive-in near you. It wakes you up every morning as it droozles out of your digital clock radio. An ARTS COUNCIL somewhere is getting a special batch ready with little tuxedos on it so you can think it's precious.
Yes Virginia . . . there is a FREE LUNCH. We are eating it now. Can I get you a napkin?
FZ April 1, 1981
It's a miserable Friday night
I'm so lonely
And nobody'll give me a ride
To the Grateful Dead concert . . . Oh rats!
I got to be free
Free as the wind
Free is the way
I got to be
Maybe I'm lost
Maybe I sinned
I got to be
Totally free
Our parents don't love us
Our teachers they say
Things that are boring
So we're running away
And we will be free
And people will see
That when we are free
That's the way we should be
(Parents, parents . . . FRANCE . . . etc.)
Nothing left to do but get out the 'ol glue
(Sniff it good now . . .)
Our parents don't love us
Our teachers they say
Things that are boring
So we're running away
And we will be free
And people will see
That when we are free
That's the way we should be
(WE MUST BE FREE!)
The glue! The glue! I can't find the glue!
(WE MUST BE FREE AS THE WIND)
If I was at the concert now, I'd be RIPPED!
(WE WERE FREE WHEN WE WERE BORN!)
I could tighten my headband for an extra rush
During Jerry's guitar solo
Then I could go to a midnite show of 200 MOTELS!
(WE WERE BORN FREE, BUT, NOW WE ARE NOT FREE ANYMORE!)
"Opal, you hot little bitch!"
"You can take this pin 'n hang it in yer ass!"
"You ain't the devil!"
"Where's my waitress?"
BUT WE WANNA BE FREE
AN' WE'RE GONNA BE FREE
YES, WE WANNA BE FREE AND WE'RE GONNA BE FREE
. . . did you know that
FREE IS WHEN YOU DON'T HAVE TO PAY FOR NOTHING
OR DO NOTHING
WE WANT TO BE FREE
FREE AS THE WIND
FREE IS WHEN YOU DON'T HAVE TO PAY FOR NOTHING
OR DO NOTHING
WE WANT TO BE FREE
FREE AS THE WIND
FREE IS WHEN YOU DON'T HAVE TO PAY FOR NOTHING
OR DO NOTHING
WE WANT TO BE FREE
FREE AS THE WIND
FREE IS WHEN YOU DON'T HAVE TO PAY FOR NOTHING
OR DO NOTHING
WE WANT TO BE FREE
FREE AS THE WIND
Harder Than Your Husband
We must say good-bye
There's no need for you to cry
It's better that I tell you this tonight
Our affair has been quite heated
You thought I was what you needed
But the time has come, my darlin'
To set things right, 'cause
I'll be harder than yer husband
To get along with
Harder than yer husband every night
Harder than yer husband
Harder than yer husband
An' I don't want our love affair
To end with a fight
You been like a little angel
How you loved me
I appreciate the warmth of your embrace
Well, the world don't need to know
How I adored you
But there's somethin' I must tell you, darlin'
Face to face . . .
I'll be harder than yer husband
To get along with
Harder than yer husband every night
Harder than yer husband
Harder than yer husband
An' I don't want our love affair
To end with a fight
So it's adios, adios, my little darlin'
(Adios my little darlin'. . .)
Keep that hankie that I gave you for when you cry
There are things that trouble me
And I'm sure that you must see
That it breaks my heart the same as yours
When we say good-bye
Harder than yer husband
Harder than yer . . . much, much, much
Harder than yer husband
Harder than yer . . . much, much, much
Harder than yer husband
Harder than yer . . . much, much, much
Harder than yer husband
Harder than yer . . .
Doreen
Doreen . . . don't make me wait
Til tomorrow
Oh-wo-no-oh-wo . . .
Please darling
Let me love you tonight
An' it'll be awright
You . . . can't make me say
I don't want you
Oh-wo-no-oh-wo . . .
My heart
Is burning with love
And I want you tonight
I really love you
You make me feel good
Please don't deceive me
Doreen you know you should
Stay with me always
We could be lovers
Doreen you're different
Than all the . . . others
Doreen . . . don't make me wait
Til tomorrow
Oh-wo-no-oh-wo . . .
Please darling
Let me love you tonight
An' it'll be awright
You. . . can't make me say
I don't want you
Oh-wo-no-oh-wo. . .
My heart
Is burning with love
And I want you tonight
Goblin Girl
Hob-noblin
Wit de goblin
De Goblin Girl
From da mystery world
Hob-noblin
Wit de goblin
She's black 'n green
'Cause it's Halloween
Raggedy black
Is the way she dress
Little green shoes
'N her hair's a mess
On Halloween night
At de costume ball
She's a Goblin Girl
An' she can gobble it all
She's a goblin
She's a Goblin Girl
She's a goblin
She's a Goblin Girl
I been hobblin'
'Cause of the Goblin
Goblin Girl . . . Goblin Girl
Some girls like
To dress like a witch
Some girls like to dress like a queen
Best way a girl
Can dress for me
Is in a Goblin Suit
(They look so cute. . .)
When they're a goblin
There ain't a problin
When they're a goblin
I start a-wobblin'
Pink all over
Some is tan
Goblin Girls
From every land
They look good
From any which-a-way
Every Halloween
You can hear me say:
"Goblin Girl, take it away. . ."
Hob-noblin
Wit de goblin
De Goblin Girl
From da mystery world
(TRICK OR TREAT NOW . . . etc.)
Talkin"bout the bad girls
All the Goblin Girls
Talkin"bout the bad, bad girls
The little Goblin Girls
Some are called Doreen
Some are dressed in green
They're tricking your treat
But they're bad girls
They're very bad girls
(LEPRECHAUN LIGHT . . . etc.)
They make your face look like
you got scales on it
But that's okay. . .
When the green light shines down
On the black guys in the band
Everybody in the audience
Thinks they're seeing something
That looks like it's made out of
Fish skin
But Coy leaves the green gels in the truss
Because he knows the guys in the front
Really enjoy looking like they've got
Scales all over their body. . .
Theme From the 3rd Movement of
SINISTER FOOTWEAR
Instrumental
Society Pages
You're the ol' lady from the society pages
From a small town somewhere I used to be
You owned the paper and a bunch of other stuff
That didn't appeal to me
OL' LADY, OL' LADY
OL' LADY, OL' LADY
OL' LADY, OL' LADY
OL' LADY, OL' LADY
The hospital plans (yer brother drew 'em all)
You ran the paper 'n the Charity Ball
Every day on the third or fourth page
There you was. . . you was quite the rage
Somehow, you was all kinda cheap 'n wrong
Just like in a lotta small towns
Where folks like you
Hang around too long
And pass out jobs to yer relatives 'n such
So you all keeps a lot, 'n nobody else
Ever gets too much. . . to speak of. . .
So what? What can you say?
So long as the trash gets picked up
So long as the trash gets locked up
Just so the trash don't stack up
Some day you won't be on page three
Or page four anymore
OL' LADY, OL' LADY
OL' LADY, OL' LADY
OL' LADY, OL' LADY
OL' LADY, OL' LADY
By the grace of God you had a son
He's the one and only one
He grew up and by and by
He came to be a Beautiful Guy
I'm A Beautiful Guy
I'm a beautiful guy
And you have walked by
And I have gave you the eye
But you pretend to be shy
But I'm a beautiful guy
(You know what I mean? You know what I mean?)
And so I want you to know why, why, why
You make me cry, cry, cry
'Cause you wanna try, try, try
Some stupid game on me
They're drinking lighter
They're full of water
I hear them say:
"Let's jog. . ."
They're playing tennis
Their butts are tighter
What could be whiter?
Hey?
Your athletic approach has a lot of appeal
The girl is responding to your little deal
She's modern 'n empty 'n totally vain
But beauty, of course, can feel no pain
Beauty Knows No Pain
Beauty knows no pain
So what you cryin' about
Girl
Beauty knows no pain
So what you cryin' about
Girl
Beauty knows no
Beauty knows no
Beauty knows no
Even if yer plain
You could be tryin' it out
Girl
Even if yer plain
You could be tryin' it out
Girl
Beauty is no
Beauty is no
Beauty is no
Beauty is a bikini wax 'n waitin' for yer nails to dry
Beauty is a colored pencil, scribbled all around yer eye
Beauty is a pair of shoes that makes you wanna die
Beauty is a
Beauty is a
Beauty is a
Lie
But you don't care if it's a lie
'Cause you are such a beautiful guy
Your head is north, your feet is south
And you save the rest for Charlie's mouth
Your head is north
Your feet is south
And you save the rest for
CHARLIE'S ENORMOUS MOUTH . . .
Charlie's Enormous Mouth
Charlie's enormous mouth, well, it's awright
The girl got a very large mouth, but it's awright
Her teeth look okay
She must be brushin"em quite a bit
'Course her mouth is extra large
'N we can only assume as to how
She's been usin' it
Charlie's enormous mouth, well, it's awright
The girl got a very large mouth, but it's awright
She got lips all around the hole
Where she puts her food in
They call it THE MOUTH
They call it THE MOUTH
They call it THE MOUTH
Which is as good a place as any for a tongue
To include in, that's why
They call it THE MOUTH
They call it THE MOUTH
They call it THE MOUTH
La la la la la la
La la la la la la
(Kinda young
Kinda wow. . .)
Charlie's enormous nose, well, it's all white
The girl got a very large nose but it's all white
It once was okay
But she been blowin' it quite a bit
'Course her friends are extra large
'N we can only assume as to how
She's been choosin' it
Charlie's enormous nose, well, it's all white
The girl got a very large nose, but it's all white
She got stuff all around the hole
Where she puts her spoon in
They call it THE NOSE
They call it THE NOSE
They call it THE NOSE
And when it finally rots away I guess you'd
Prob'ly drive a truck in . . . they used to
Call it THE NOSE
They called it THE NOSE
They called it THE NOSE
La la la la la la la
(Kinda young
Kinda dead . . .)
Charlie's disgusting brain, well, it's all black
The girl got a very dead brain, it won't come back
She used to convey
But then she took an extra hit
'Course her friends are extra dumb
'N they were terribly excited while they
Watched her doin' it
Charlie's disgusting brain, well it's all black
The girl got a very dead brain, it won't come back
She got dirt all around the hole
Where they dumped her box in
They call it THE GRAVE
They call it THE GRAVE
They call it THE GRAVE
Which is as good a place as any for a
Chump to repose in . . . that's why they
Call it THE GRAVE
They call it THE GRAVE
They call it THE GRAVE . . .
Any Downers?
And all around
At the side of the grave
Stood Charlie's friends
Who could not save
This stupid girl
From the way she behaved
But among the mourners
And the frowners
A cry were heard . . . (aaaargh!)
ANY DOWNERS?
ANY DOWNERS?
ANY DOWNERS?
ANY DOWNERS?
No I ain't got any more
No I ain't got any more
No I ain't got any more
No I ain't got any more
Your downers are gone
They was all you could get
To ease your mind
And your deep regret
Over Charlie's mouth
So enormous 'n wet
Now all you got
Is your T.V. set
You turn it on
You watch and dream
A dream of love
On the tiny screeen
And what do you see
As you lay in bed?
It's a bald kinda girl
With a pointed head
Oh no . . .
Conehead
Conehead . . . she ain't really dumb
She's just a
Conehead . . . 'tater chip crumbs
All over her face
Is there any more beer
Stashed away at her place? She's just a
Conehead . . . she can't help herself
"She's a Conehead girl . . ."
Pitch her a ring
That is the thing
That's getting her hot-uh
A hoop or a ring
Goin' over the top of her Conehead
"She is from a small town in France
'N she's a Conehead kind of a girl, kind of guy"
That's what she gives me is-uh Oooh!
Conehead
When she's on her knees
The point is so high
I keep sayin' please
Keep it out of my eye, she's a
Conehead
(She's a Conehead kind of a girl, kind of a guy, kind of a girl-thing . . .)
Saturday Night
You're home alone
The TV lights up
As her dad comes home
He's been workin' all day
At the drivin' school
In a stupid-lookin' hat
That he uses to fool
The people of Earth
Who might get back
If they knew he was really
From Remulak, where the
Conehead . . . people are from, where the
Conehead . . . people go to, when the
Conehead . . . people are done with their
Conehead . . . things that are fun
Connie the Cone
Is dressed real neat
Like a teen-age girl
From down the street
But Mom 'n Dad
They don't approve
Carbohydrates
Is all they groove
Connie's eye
Has a tiny tear
But they rinse it away
With a case of beer
A bag of chips
'N fiberglass
Her diet's a riot
I can't keep quiet
I'd love to try it
But I think I'll pass
To eat that kind stuff they pack
You'd hafta be from Remulak, where the
Conehead . . . people are from, where the
Conehead . . . people go to, when the
Conehead . . . people are done with the
Conehead . . . things that are fun, where the
Conehead . . . people are from, where the
Conehead . . . people go to, when the
Conehead . . . people are done, with the
Conehead . . . things that are fun
You Are What You Is
Do you know what you are?
You are what you is
You is what you am
(A cow don't make ham . . .)
You ain't what you're not
So see what you got
You are what you is
An' that's all it 'tis
A foolish young man
From a middle class fam'ly
Started singin' the blues
'Cause he thought it was manly
Now he talks like the Kingfish
("Saffiiiee!")
From Amos 'n Andy
("Holy mack'l dere . . . Holy mack'l dere!")
He tells you that chitlins . . .
Well, they taste just like candy
He thinks that he's got
De whole thang down
From the Nivea Lotion
To de Royal Crown
Do you know what you are?
You are what you is
You is what you am
(A cow don't make ham . . .)
You ain't what you're not
So see what you got
You are what you is
An' that's all it 'tis
A foolish young man
Of the Negro Persuasion
Devoted his life
To become a caucasian
He stopped eating pork
He stopped eating greens
He traded his dashiki
("Uhuru!")
For some Jordache Jeans
He learned to play golf
An' he got a good score
Now he says to himself
"I AIN'T NO NIGGER NO MORE . . . HEY! HEY! HEY!"
"I don't understand you . . ."
BWANA MA-COO-BAH
"Would you please speak more clearly . . ."
MERCEDES BAINNNNNNNZ
Who is who
(I don't know. . .)
'N what is what
(Somethin' I just don't know. . .)
'N why is this
(Tell me now. . .)
Appropriot
(That's a funny pronunciation if'n ever I heard one. . .)
If you don't like
(Where'd you get that word?)
What you has got
(Appropriot? The word is not. . .)
Drop it in the dirt
(Drop it yeah. . .)
'N let it rot
(I can smell it now. . .)
Someone else
(Here de come, here de come. . .)
Will surely come
(I told you they was comin')
'N pick it up
(That's right!)
'Cause he wants some
(An' he wants it for free. . .)
And when one day
(There will come a day. . .)
You wonder who
(I wonder too. . .)
You used to was
(Who I was anyway. . .)
'N what you do
(I used to work at the post office. . .)
You'll scratch your head
(But I don't wanna un-do my doo. . .)
'N look around
(Just to see what's goin' on. . .)
But what you lost
(Can't seem to find it. . .)
Will not be found
(A Mercedes Benz. . .)
Do you know what you are?
(I know. . .)
You are what you is
(I'm the kinda guy. . .)
You is what you am
(That ought to be drivin' a Mercedes Benz. . .)
A cow don't make a ham
(A four-fifty SLC. . .)
You ain't what you're not
(A big ol' red one. . .)
So see what you got
(With some golf clubs stickin' out de trunk. . .)
You are what you is
(I'm gwine down to de links on Saturday mornin'. . .)
An' that's all it is
(Gimme a five dollar bill. . .)
YOU ARE WHAT YOU IS
(And an overcoat too. . .)
AND THAT'S ALL IT IS
(Robbie, take me to Greek Town. . .)
YOU ARE WHAT YOU IS
(I'm harder than yer husband; harder than yer husband. . .)
AN THAT'S ALL IT IS
(I'm goin' down to White Street, y'all. . .)
YOU ARE WHAT YOU IS
(Gone down to the Mudd Club 'n work the wall. . .)
AN THAT'S ALL IT IS
('N work the floor 'n work the pipe
'N work the wall some more. . .
And here we are, at the Mudd Club, y'all. . .
I hope you enjoy yourself, 'cause the show's about
To begin. . .)
Mudd Club
Hey, they're really dancin'
They're on auto-destruct
On the floor
On the pipe
Bouncin' off-a the wall
Hey, the people here are really
Tearin' it up
On the side
In the back
By the front of the stage
They ain't really crazy
You can take it from me
I should know
'Cause I go
Every time I'm in town
If you never tried it
Lemme straighten you out
It's the best kinda place
To unfasten yerself
MUDD CLUB
All the way downtown
MUDD CLUB
They ain't messin' around
Just turn to the left 'n look around
Because it's there somewhere
If you ain't found it, better
Hurry up
The folks down there's on auto-destruct
And so can you be too
(Fact of the matter,
it's made for you. . .)
Try it on a Saturday 'bout four o'clock in the mornin'
Or even a Monday at midnight
When there's just a few of them
Fabulous Poodles
Doin' the Peppermint Twist for real
In a black sack dress with nine inch heels
And then a guy with a blue mohawk comes in
In Serious Leather. . .
(And all the rest of whom for which
To whensonever of partially indeterminate
Bio-chemical degradation
Seek the path to the sudsy yellow nozzle
Of their foaming nocturnal
Parametric digital whole-wheat inter-faith
Geo-thermal terpsichorean ejectamenta)
In Serious Leather. . . Serious Chains
Then they work the wall
'N work the floor
'N work the pipe
'N work the wall some more
In Serious Leather
In Serious Chains
In Serious Clothing
From when they come downtown
From the ruins of Studio '54
To twist 'n frugg
In an arrogant gesture
To the best of what the 20th Century has to offer, at the
MUDD CLUB
Al Malkin's down there now,
Looking for a virgin with nice breath. . .
(Why, maybe it's you. . .
And you don't even know it!)
Hey, they're really dancin'
They're on auto-destruct
On the floor
On the pipe
Bouncin' off-a the wall
Hey, the people here are really
Tearin' it up
On the side
In the back
By the front of the stage
They ain't really crazy
You can take it from me
I should know
'Cause I go
Every time I'm in town
If you never tried it
Lemme straighten you out
It's the best kinda place
To unfasten yerself while you
WORK THE WALL
WORK THE FLOOR
WORK THE PIPE
IN SERIOUS PAIN . . .
The Meek Shall Inherit Nothing
Some take the bible
For what it's worth
When it says that the meek
Shall inherit the Earth
Well, I heard that some sheik
Has bought New Jersey last week
'N you suckers ain't gettin' nothin'
Is Hare Rama really wrong
If you wander around
With a napkin on
With a bell on a stick
An' your hair is all gone. . .
(The geek shall inherit nothin')
You say yer life's a bum deal
'N yer up against the wall. . .
Well, people, you ain't even got no kinda
Deal at all
'Cause what they do
In Washington
They just takes care
of NUMBER ONE
An' NUMBER ONE ain't YOU
You ain't even NUMBER TWO
Those Jesus Freaks
Well, they're friendly but
The shit they believe
Has got their minds all shut
An' they don't even care
When the church takes a cut
Ain't it bleak when you got so much nothin'
(So whaddya do?)
Eat that pork
Eat that ham
Laugh till ya choke
On Billy Graham
Moses, Aaron 'n Abraham. . .
They're all a waste of time
'N it's your ass that's on the line
(IT'S YOUR ASS THAT'S ON THE LINE)
Do what you wanna
Do what you will
Just don't mess up
Your neighbor's thrill
'N when you pay the bill
Kindly leave a little tip
And help the next poor sucker
On his one way trip. . .
SOME TAKE THE BIBLE. . .
(Aw gimme a half a dozen for the hotel room!)
Dumb All Over
Whoever we are
Wherever we're from
We shoulda noticed by now
Our behavior is dumb
And if our chances
Expect to improve
It's gonna take a lot more
Than tryin' to remove
The other race
Or the other whatever
From the face
Of the planet altogether
They call it THE EARTH
Which is a dumb kinda name
But they named it right
'Cause we behave the same. . .
We are dumb all over
Dumb all over,
Yes we are
Dumb all over,
Near 'n far
Dumb all over,
Black 'n white
People, we is not wrapped tight
Nurds on the left
Nurds on the right
Religious fanatics
On the air every night
Sayin' the Bible
Tells the story
'N makes the details
Sound real gory
'Bout what to do
If the geeks over there
Don't believe in the book
We got over here
You can't run a race
Without no feet
'N pretty soon
There won't be no street
For dummies to jog on
Or doggies to dog on
Religious fanatics
Can make it be all gone
(I mean it won't blow up
'N disappear
It'll just look ugly
For a thousand years. . .)
You can't run a country
By a book of religion
Not by a heap
Or a lump or a smidgeon
Of foolish rules
Of ancient date
Designed to make
You all feel great
While you fold, spindle
And mutilate
Those unbelievers
From a neighboring state
TO ARMS! TO ARMS!
Hooray! That's great
Two legs ain't bad
Unless there's a crate
They ship the parts
To mama in
For souvenirs: two ears (Get Down!)
Not his, not hers (but what the hey?)
The Good Book says:
"It gotta be that way!"
But their book says:
"REVENGE THE CRUSADES. . .
With whips 'n chains
'N hand grenades. . ."
TWO ARMS? TWO ARMS?
Have another and another
Our God says:
"There ain't no other!"
Our God says
"It's all okay!"
Our God says
"This is the way!"
It says in the book:
"Burn 'n destroy. . .
'N repent, 'n redeem
'N revenge, 'n deploy
'N rumble thee forth
To the land of the unbelieving scum on the other side
'Cause they don't go for what's in the book
'N that makes 'em BAD
So verily we must choppeth them up
And stompeth them down
Or rent a nice French bomb
To poof them out of existance
While leaving their real estate just where we need it
To use again
For temples in which to praise
OUR GOD
("Cause he can really take care of business!")
And when his humble TV servant
With humble white hair
And humble glasses
And a nice brown suit
And maybe a blonde wife who takes phone calls
Tells us our God says
It's okay to do this stuff
Then we gotta do it,
'Cause if we don't do it,
We ain't gwine up to hebbin!
(Depending on which book you're using at the
time. . . Can't use theirs. . . it don't work
. . . it's all lies. . . Gotta use mine. . .)
Ain't that right?
That's what they say
Every night. . .
Every day. . .
Hey, we can't really be dumb
If we're just following God's Orders
Hey, Let's get serious. . .
God knows what he's doin'. . .
He wrote this book here
An' the book says:
"He made us all to be just like Him," so. . .
If we're dumb. . .
Then God is dumb. . .
(An' maybe even a little ugly on the side)
Heavenly Bank Account
And if these words you do not heed
Your pocketbook just kinda might recede
When some man comes along and claims a godly need
He will clean you out right through your tweed
That's right, remember there is a big difference between kneeling down and bending over. . .
He's got twenty million dollars
In his Heavenly Bank Account. . .
All from those chumps who was
Born again
Oh yeah, oh yeah
He's got seven limousines
And a private plane. . .
All for the use of his
Special Friends
Oh yeah, oh yeah
He's got thousand-dollar suits
And a Wembley Tie. . .
Girls love to stroke it
While he's on the phone
Oh yeah, oh yeah
At the House of Representatives
He's a groovy guy. . .
When he Gives Thanks
He is not alone. . .
He is dealin'
He is really dealin'
IRS can't determine
Where The Hook is
It is easy with the Bible
To pretend that
You're in Show Biz
They won't get him
They will never get him
For the naughty stuff
That he did
It is best in cases like this
To pretend that
You are stupid
He's got Presidential Help
All along the way
He says the grace
While the lawyers chew
Oh yeah
They sure do
And the Governors agree to say:
"He's a lovely man!"
He makes it easier for
Them to screw
All of you. . .
Yes, that's true!
'Cause he helps put The Fear of God
In the Common Man
Snatchin' up money
Everywhere he can
Oh yeah
Oh yeah
He's got twenty million dollars
In his Heavenly Bank Account
You ain't got nothin', people
You ain't got nothin', people
You ain't got nothin', people
Thank the man . . . oh yeah
Sucide Chump
You say there ain't no use in livin'
It's all a waste of time
'N you wanna throw your life away, well
People that's just fine
Go ahead on 'n get it over with then
Find you a bridge 'n take a jump
Just make sure you do it right the first time
'Cause nothin's worse than a Suicide Chump
You say there ain't no light a-shinin'
Through the bushes up ahead
'N we're all gonna be so sorry
When we find out you are dead
Go head on 'n get it over with then
Find you a bridge 'n take a jump
Just make sure you do it right the first time
'Cause nothin's worse than a Suicide Chump
Now maybe you're scared of jumpin'
'N poison makes you sick
'N you want a little attention
'N you need it pretty quick
Don't wanna mess your face up
Or we won't know if it's you
Aw, there's just so much to worry about
Now what you gonna do?
Go head on 'n get it over with then
Go head on 'n get it over with then
Go head on 'n get it over with then
Go head on 'n get it over with then
You're on the bridge;
Scared to leap,
But a girl walks over
To take a peep. . .
She says: "DON'T DO IT!"
But wouldn't you know. . .
The girl got a head
Like a buffalo
With a little red hair
All over the top
An' her breath would make the
Traffic stop
She says "I LOVE YOU. . .
BUT FIRST, LET'S EAT!"
And all you can say as you run down the street is. . .
Jumbo, Go Away
Jumbo, go away
Jumbo, go away
Jumbo leave me alone
Get your head off my bone
I wanna go home
(I'm hungry. . .)
Jumbo lighten up
Jumbo lighten up
Jumbo give me a break
Lighten up on my snake
That's all I can take
(Robbie, take me to Greek Town!)
It seems I can't explain
The way I feel about you
You just don't understand
You're from Kalamazoo. . .
You got to realize
Our little romance deal
Will not materialize
Into a thing that you'd call REAL
(I think I have worms. . .)
Jumbo gotta go
Jumbo gotta go
Jumbo better get back
Or your eye will get black
When I give you a smack
(Boo-hoo-hoo. . .)
Jumbo don't you cry
Jumbo don't you cry
Jumbo this is good-bye
I ain't gonna lie
So wash up your pie
Wash up your pie
(There are three things that smell like fish!)
Wash up your pie
(One of them is fish. . .)
Wash up your pie
(The other two. . .)
Wash up your pie
(Are growing on you. . .)
If Only She Woulda
You took a chance
On Jumbo's love
If only she woulda
Gave you the shove
That might have sent you
On your way
But it's too late now,
You got a letter today. . .
Life and love
Has left you shafted
And on top of that
You just got drafted
Drafted Again
Registered mail. . . special delivery. . .
OH NO
You're gonna hafta sign fer this, buddy
OH NO
I know you're in there, ya little sumbitch
OH NO
Goddam little communist. . .
(weep, weep, weep)
I don't wanna get drafted
I don't wanna go
I don't wanna get drafted
PHOOEY!
I don't wanna get drafted
I don't wanna go
I don't wanna get drafted
NO-OH-WOH-OH-WOH. . .
Roller skates 'n disco
It's a lot of fun
I'm too young 'n stupid
To operate a gun
LaCelia Jackson! Come on down!
I DON'T WANNA GET DRAFTED
Nancy Butterworth! Come on down!
You're the next contestants on SOOOOO WHAT!
I DON'T WANNA GET DRAFTED
And, but, also. . .
I DON'T WANNA GET DRAFTED
A new car!
I DON'T WANNA GET DRAFTED
But that's not all. . .
My-y-y sister don't wanna get drafted
She don't wanna go
My sister don't wanna get drafted
My-y-y sister don't wanna get drafted
She don't wanna go
My sister don't wanna get drafted
Wars are really ugly
They're dirty and they're cold
I don't want nobody
To shoot me in the fox hole. . . fox hole
Aiieeeeeeeee. . . shot in the fox hole
Aiieeeeeeeee. . . shot in the fox hole
Aiieeeeeeeee. . . shot in the fox hole
Aiieeeeeeeee. . . shot in the fox hole
"Leave my nose alone, please. . ."
© 1981 Munchkin Music All rights reserved, including publication of lyric extracts for reviewing purposes. No portion of the music or lyrics herein may be altered or subjected to quotation in any medium whatsoever without written consent from the copyright owner. Failure to obtain such permission may reult in legal action.
For those of you who would like to hear a whole album of Zappa guitar solos,
BARKING PUMPKIN has the answer (actually 3 answers) . . .
AVAILABLE NOW BY MAIL ORDER ONLY! After years of preparation,
it is our pleasure to offer you the chance to own and operate your very own copies
of Shut Up 'n Play Yer Guitar,
Shut Up 'n Play Yer Guitar Some More,
& Return of The Son of Shut Up 'n Play Yer Guitar!
Three special albums available individually or in one exciting lump (depending on how you order), containing F.Z. at his fiendish best on guitar solos in many different styles, backed up by some of your favorite rhythm section players, recorded live and in the studio, and pressed with the kind of attention to audio detail that makes BARKING PUMPKIN one of the finest independent labels in the world today. No song to wait through. No lyrics to disturb your imagination. All instrumental music. All selections never before released.
If you are a guitar player or a guitar fanatic, these albums are a NECESSITY for your collection (or even if you're a drummer or a bass player, there's stuff on these albums that just might curl your toes up a little bit). As a matter of fact, if you just like instrumental music, what's on these discs should provide you with hours of challenging listening. Just fill in the coupon and within 4 to 6 weeks (you know how splendid the postal system is) you can receive your copies . . . that's right, go ahead . . . order all three at the same time . . .
Mail completed coupon and check or money order to Barking Pumpkin Records, PO Box 5510, Terre Haute, Indiana 47805. $9.98 for one, $18.98 for two, or $27.98 for all three; plus $1.50 postage & handling. California residents please add 6% sales tax; Indiana residents please add 4% sales tax.
_________________________
YES, I ADMIT IT! I CANNOT GO ON LIVING WITHOUT MY VERY OWN COPY OF [ ] SHUT UP 'N PLAY YER GUITAR [ ] SHUT UP 'N PLAY YER GUITAR SOME MORE [ ] RETURN OF THE SON OF SHUT UP 'N PLAY YER GUITAR. THAT IS WHY I AM ENCLOSING $_______FOR______ [ ] LP's [ ] CASSETTES.
$9.98 for one, $18.98 for two, or $27.98 for all three; plus $1.50 postage & handling. California residents please add 6% sales tax; Indiana residents please add 4% sales tax.
Name . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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Shut up 'n play yer guitar
five-five-FIVE
Hog Heaven
Shut Up 'n Play Yer Guitar
While You Were Out
Treacherous Cretins
Heavy Duty Judy
Soup 'n Old Clothes
Shut up 'n play yer guitar SOME MORE
Variations on The Carlos Santana Secret Chord Progression
Gee, I Like Your Pants
Canarsie
Ship Ahoy
The Deathless Horsie
Shut Up 'n Play Yer Guitar Some More
Pink Napkins
RETURN OF THE SON OF Shut up 'n play yer guitar
Beat It With Your Fist
Return of The Son of Shut Up 'n Play Yer Guitar
Pinocchio's Furniture
Why Johnny Can't Read
Stucco Homes
Canard Du Jour
SIDE 1:
Teen-age Wind 3:01
Harder Than Your Husband 2:29
Doreen 4:43
Goblin Girl 4:07
Theme From The 3rd Movement of Sinister Footwear 3:34
TOTAL TIME 17:54
SIDE 2:
Society Pages 2:27
I'm A Beautiful Guy 1:56
Beauty Knows No Pain 3:01
Charlie's Enormous Mouth 3:36
Any Downers? 2:09
Conehead 4:20
TOTAL TIME 17:29
SIDE 3:
You Are What You Is 4:22
Mudd Club 3:11
The Meek Shall Inherit Nothing 3:10
Dumb All Over 5:50
TOTAL TIME 16:33
SIDE 4:
Heavenly Bank Account 4: 03
Suicide Chump 2:50
Jumbo Go Away 3:42
If Only She Woulda 3:47
Drafted Again 3:05
TOTAL TIME 17:27
FRANK ZAPPA Lead Guitar and Vocals
IKE WILLIS Rhythm Guitar and Vocals
RAY WHITE Rhythm Guitar and Vocals
BOB HARRIS Boy Soprano and Trumpet
STEVE VAI Strat Abuse
TOMMY MARS Keyboards
ARTHUR BARROW Bass
ED MANN Percussion
DAVID OCKER Clarinet and Bass Clarinet
MOTORHEAD SHERWOOD Tenor Sax
DENNY WALLEY Slide Guitar
DAVID LOGEMAN Drums
CRAIG "TWISTER" STEWART Harmonica
Guest Vocalists:
JIMMY CARL BLACK
MOTORHEAD SHERWOOD
AHMET
MOON
MARK PINSKE
DENNY WALLEY
FRANK ZAPPA Producer
MARK PINSKE Engineer
ALAN SIDES Engineer
BOB STONE Remix Engineer
GEORGE DOUGLAS Engineering Assistant
DAVID GRAY Engineering Assistant
JO HANSCH AT K-DISC Disc Mastering
RAY OLSON Assistant to Joe Hansch
JOHN LIVZEY Cover Photo
JOHN VINCE Graphics
THOMAS NORDEGG Everything Remote
DENNIS SAGER Everything Digital
MIDGET SLOATMAN Everything Elsewhere
NONE Special Assistance
SUSAN RUBIO Shorthand
BENNETT GLOTZER Tennis
UMRK CENTRAL Studio
All Selections Composed &
Arranged by
FRANK ZAPPA
All Selections Published by
MUNCHKIN MUSIC,
ASCAP
© 1981 Munchkin Music. All Rights Reserved
WARNING: Unauthorized reproduction of this recording is prohibited by Federal law and subject to criminal prosecution.
Manufactured by
BARKING PUMPKIN RECORDS
P.O. Box 69338, Los Angeles, CA 90069
(P) 1981 Barking Pumpkin Records
CBS RECORDS Distributor
Printed in
U.S.A.
GLOTZER MANAGEMENT
7720 Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90046, (213) 851-5461