Lyrics Two Or Three Spectres - Peter Hammill

Two Or Three Spectres

«I understand profit and without that, it’s no use
Why don’t you go away and write commercial songs;
Come back in three years, that shouldn’t be too long…»
He’s a joker and an acrobat
A record exec.
in a Mayfair flat
With Altec speakers wall to wall
A Radford and a Revox and through it all he plays
Strictly nowhere Muzak
«Hey, listen, baby, this band’s got a lot of soul…
If we can beat that out of them I see a disc of gold!
Give them an image, maybe glitter, maybe sex
Maybe outrage, maybe elegance —
How about as nervous wrecks?»
Signs up the product at two percent
Justified by vinyl shortage and the increased rent
On the yacht he has to hire to make his pitch at Midem
And all the press receptions for his business friends
Who spill their Taittinger upon the floor
While the band sip English lager just outside the door
Treble, alto, bass clefs on the page
Crotchets, quavers, minims all the rage
But you’ll never find a pound note in the score —
It’s there when it’s strictly merchandise
Through all the propagated lies about what the whole thing’s for
He’ll make you a star, he’ll make you so famous
That all you desire is to be left nameless
Drained of all you felt you had to offer at the start
He knows what eats your heart
That’s too bad
Not without blame, either, are the gentlemen of the press:
You can talk about the state of music
They will write about your dress
Play them the new album, they will say it’s great (or not) —
When the articles come out, they’re all about
How many dogs you’ve got
God to keep the human interest high
And the hacks are only too willing to comply
Pander to the ego, build up frail men as gods —
But somewhere in the process, the prime purpose is forgotten
Now I bet you thought that was a hard line to sing
But I’ve done it anyway, it’s my thing!
Groupies offer their bodies, the hangers-on their coke;
It’s all very jolly — what a joke!
Fellini creatures cluster round the dressing-room
The heavenly bodies all got to have their moons
In the cult of the superman the music plays a supporting role
And far more important is the shape of his nose
The size of his codpiece and the cut of his clothes…
Soul and feeling always take second place
To the bump and grind of a Fender bass
Frankly, most musicians bore me — but not as much as those
Who chase the glory to bask in reflected light
Making the man much more important
Than his arpeggios and mordants
When it’s the other way that’s right
On the values by which this world makes its heroes
Then the best violinist ever was Nero
Because he had the most Press
And his fire gimmick was simply the best
We got the live thing too
The Human Zoo:
Ten thousand arms are raised, just like the Hitler Youth —
Might think you were at Nuremberg, if it weren’t for all the groovers
Ten thousand peace signs mark the entry of the sax
Ten thousand peace signs
But they’re different from the back