In May 1942, soon after the United States had entered World War II after Pearl Harbor, F D Roosevelt’s Vice President James A Wallace delivered the speech of his life, in which he cast a future world peace as meaning “a better standard of living for the common man, not merely in the United States and England, but also in India, Russia, China, and Latin America–not merely in the United Nations, but also in Germany and Italy and Japan”
“Some have spoken of the “American Century”. I say that the century on which we are entering—the century which will come into being after this war—can be and must be the century of the common man.”
As well as being translated into 20 languages and millions of copies being distributed around the world, the speech also inspired the leader of the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra, Eugene Goossens, to commission a fanfare. He asked American composers to submit patriotic pieces to support the war effort, reprising a similar initiative during World War I and each one to precede the CSO’s orchestral concerts. A total of eighteen fanfares were submitted, including Fanfare for Paratroopers, Fanfare for the Medical Corp, Fanfare for Airmen, and one that became very famous, Aaron Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man.
The fanfare is written for four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, tuba, timpani, bass drum, and tam-tam, and is as stirring a piece of brass soundscape as one can imagine. It captures wonderfully the spirit of Wallace’s optimistic theme of ushering in a just future world. Below, let’s watch this dramatic rendering by the Dutch Radio Philharmonic Orchestra, and then listen to the brilliant prog rock version released in 1977 by Emerson Lake and Palmer (and which was my first exposure to Copland’s music).
The injustices endured by enslaved African Americans in the United States between the 17th century right up until the Thirteenth Amendment abolishing slavery in 1865, but then also the residual racism and segregation that simmered after its abolition well into the twentieth century, makes for difficult reading. A podcast I have been listening to about the history of slavery in the US opens with a slave song, I’m Goin’ To Tell God All O’ My Troubles, sung by Paul Robeson in that famous baritone of his, and it’s worth looking at the life of the man Paul Robeson, whose story is really about how you can’t keep a good man down, against all the odds.
Robeson was both an academic and an athlete, and won a scholarship to Rutgers College in 1915, the only black man there at the time. He excelled for the Rutgers football team, the Scarlet Knights, although at one point he was benched because a Southern football team refused to take the field because the Scarlet Knights were fielding a negro. But he kept going and flourished both athletically and academically, ending up finishing university with flying colours and accepted into the prestigious honour societies Phi Beta Kappa and Cap and Skull.
He went on to study law at Columbia University, whilst simultaneously playing professional American football for the Milwaukee Badgers and promoting his fine singing by acting in off-campus productions. After graduating, he became a figure in the Harlem Renaissance with performances in the Eugene O’Neill plays The Emperor Jones and All God’s Chillun Got Wings, and gave up both his football and his fledgling law career. He was later to find worldwide fame from performances such as his “Joe” in Show Boat at London’s Drury Lane Theatre, featuring the benchmark song Ol’ Man River, and as Othello in three separate productions of that play.
Robeson soon found himself welcomed and courted by elite social circles, but this did not turn his head, and he was to become a prolific political activist for civil rights and other social justice campaigns throughout his life, as well as supporting the Republican cause in the Spanish Civil War. His sympathies for the Soviet Union and communism caused him to be blacklisted during the McCarthy era, but his reputation as a strong and respected voice for justice had already been sealed, and he never gave up.
Between 1925 and 1961, Robeson recorded and released some 276 distinct songs, spanning many styles, including spirituals, popular standards, European folk songs, political songs and poetry. I’m Goin’ To Tell God All O’ My Troubles was released as the B-side to Deep River in 1927, and is a deeply felt expression of life under the yoke.
Gabriel Fauré (1845 – 1924) was one of the foremost French composers of his generation, and his name sits comfortably amongst those of his near-contemporaries Berlioz, Debussy and Saint-Saens. It is said that his career straddles the gap between Romanticism and modernism: when he was born Chopin was still composing and by the time of his death jazz had arrived. Among his best-known works are his Pavane, Requiem, Sicilienne, and his nocturnes for the piano but I’m going to look at an interesting collection of pieces for piano duet that Faure composed called the Dolly Suite, Op. 56.
The Dolly Suite consists of six short pieces written between 1893 and 1896, to mark the birthdays and other events in the life of the daughter of the composer’s mistress, French singer Emma Bardac (who went on to become Claude Debussy’s mistress, too; she clearly had a thing for composers!). Each piece has its own title: Berceuse, Mi-a-ou,Le Jardin de Dolly, Kitty-valse, Tendresse, and Le Pas Espagnole, and the complete suite takes about fifteen minutes to perform.
The best-known piece is Berceuse (French for “lullaby”), which in the UK became famous as the play-out tune to the BBC radio programme for very young children, Listen with Mother, which broadcast from 1950 onwards, and which will likely be recognised by many a baby boomer. The Berceuse has been arranged for several combinations of instruments over the years but below we’ll listen to it in its original piano duet form, played by Dutch brothers Lucas and Arthur Jussen. Are you sitting comfortably?
I don’t recall now how I actually discovered Be-Bop Deluxe and came to be the owner of their 1976 album Modern Music. Possibly I heard the album’s single Kiss of Light on the radio, since it is that song that slots into my memory as “the first”. Equally, I may have been introduced by schoolmates Rocky Collier or Chris Hobbs, since they too were big fans and indeed the latter was there with me at my first ever gig: Be-Bop Deluxe at Leeds Grand Theatre, February 1978. However, own the album I did, and my overriding memory is the feeling of reverence I had for it. The themes and concepts conjured up by band leader and guitar genius Bill Nelson were thrilling and otherworldly; I recall at the foot of the back cover a line that summed it up simply but effectively: “Music and lyrics written by Bill Nelson to enchant”.
Modern Music was the band’s fourth album, so I had discovered them late (to be fair, I was only thirteen) and only retrospectively educated myself in the band’s evolution from glam rock pretenders to sophisticated art rockers. The band had formed in Wakefield in 1972 and had started out playing the West Yorkshire pub scene, one regular venue being the Staging Post in Whinmoor, Leeds. Several personnel changes had ensued by the time I had got into them, with my definitive line-up being Simon Fox on drums, Charlie Tumahai on bass and Andy Clark on keyboards, an ensemble that understood Nelson’s vision and was eminently capable of helping him manifest it.
The track listing itself gives hints of the fantastical nature of that vision: Orphans of Babylon, The Bird Charmer’s Destiny, Honeymoon on Mars, The Dance of the Uncle Sam Humanoids. To the uninitiated, such titles might smack of prog-rock concept-album pretension but the melodies, the textures, the hooks, and the overall musical splendour argue against such a simplistic appraisal. It is certainly conceptual, and indeed Nelson can get away with making the whole of side B a suite of short tracks merging into one another, but pretentious it ain’t. Too much quality.
The album cover shows the band besuited and un-rock star like, with Bill presciently sporting a “TV-watch” (or smartwatch, as we’d call it today, albeit without the antennas!). This was nothing like their glam rock origins, nor anything like the punk nihilism that was bursting onto the scene at around the same time (in the same month as the album’s release, September 1976, the 100 Club was hosting a two-day punk festival featuring the Sex Pistols, the Clash and the Damned). Modern Music represented a unique sound and vision, and although the band would only release one more album and disband before they could achieve lasting fame, it stands as a monument to Bill Nelson’s considerable musical abilities.
Here is the title track, which gives but a flavour of the music though I would recommend immersing oneself in the whole album to get the proper Be-Bop experience.
Léo Delibes (1836–1891) was a French Romantic composer, best known for his ballets and operas. His works include the ballets Coppélia (1870) and Sylvia (1876), both of which were key works in the development of modern ballet and remain core works in the international ballet repertoire, and the opera Lakmé (1883), which includes the well-known “Flower Duet“. I say “well-known”; it’s possible that you know it without knowing you know it (although you may need to wait for the 1.05 minute mark before it clicks). Although Delibes’ name may be less famous today than other contemporary French composers such as Berlioz, Debussy or Ravel, the melody he has bequeathed is a gem.
Lakmé was Delibes’ attempt at a serious opera, having composed several light comic opérettes in the 1850s and 1860s. The opera combines many orientalist aspects that were popular at the time: an exotic location (similar to other French operas of the period, such as Bizet’s Les pêcheurs de perles and Massenet’s Le roi de Lahore), a fanatical priest, mysterious Hindu rituals, and “the novelty of exotically colonial English people”. The stuff that would probably discomfit modern sensibilities but which in 1883 was firmly de rigueur.
The opera includes the Flower Duet (“Sous le dôme épais“) for soprano and mezzo-soprano, performed in Act 1 by Lakmé, the daughter of a Brahmin priest, and her servant Mallika. Here we see it performed by soprano Sabine Devieilhe and mezzo-soprano Marianne Crebassa.
Incidentally, have you ever wondered how foreign language poems still rhyme when translated into English? Of course, this is where translation has to be creative in its own right. The Flower Duet provides a case in point. See how Theodore T Barker, in 1890, turned the original French lyrics into singable English, preserving the form and rhyme:
French lyrics Viens, Mallika, les lianes en fleurs Jettent déjà leur ombre Sur le ruisseau sacré qui coule, calme et sombre, Eveillé par le chant des oiseaux tapageurs
Literal English Come, Mallika, the flowering lianas already cast their shadow on the sacred stream which flows, calm and dark, awakened by the song of rowdy birds.
Singable English Come, Mallika, the flowering vines Their shadows now are throwing Along the sacred stream, That calmly here is flowing; Enlivened by the songs of birds among the pines.
The German-born George Frideric Handel moved to London in 1712 and remained there until his death in 1759. My first memory that involves Handel was a piece of music called Water Music, possibly from some sheet music my grandma had but equally possibly not (it’s one of those early “not sure where” memories). It was composed in 1717 in response to a request from King George I for a concert on the Thames. Handel was obviously well in with the Court; ten years after Water Music he was commissioned to write four anthems for the Coronation ceremony of King George II. One of these, the glorious Zadok the Priest, has been played at every British coronation ceremony since.
Another notable composition of Handel’s was Music for the Royal Fireworks in 1749, written for a “party in the park” to celebrate the end of the War of the Austrian Succession. Mozart called it a “spectacle of English pride and joy”. A year later, Handel arranged a performance of his famous Messiah to benefit Thomas Coram’s Foundling Hospital in London. The performance was considered a great success and was followed by annual concerts that continued throughout his life – an early forerunner of our “benefit concerts” today.
It is, however, Handel’s piece from his great opera Solomon, namely the opening instrumental of Act III, Arrival of the Queen of Sheba, that I’m showcasing today. If you don’t already know it from its name, you will instantly recognise it when you play it below. It has been used extensively for anything that could benefit from some vivacious “processional” music (including the 2012 London Olympics opening ceremony in which the music accompanies Daniel Craig’s James Bond as he meets the Queen at Buckingham Palace) and you can hear why: it’s a joyous romp of violins and oboes.
The wider piece, Solomon, was widely recognised by commentators of the day as a eulogy for Georgian England, with the just and wise King Solomon representing King George II, and the mighty, prosperous kingdom of Israel reflecting the similarly happy state of England at the time of the work’s premiere. Also, since it was in English (Handel had written his operas in Italian up until Messiah in 1742), it became hugely popular with the public. So put some sandals on, grab your palm, and welcome the Queen of Sheba as she disembarks!
You could call this a “two for one” this week in that the poem that inspired Ralph Vaughan Williams’ masterful piece for violin and piano, The Lark Ascending, is itself a masterpiece. Written by poet George Meredith in 1881, and having the same title, it was a paean to the skylark and its song. Siegfried Sassoon called it “a sustained lyric which never for a moment falls short of the effect aimed at, soars up and up with the song it imitates, and unites inspired spontaneity with a demonstration of effortless technical ingenuity…one has only to read the poem a few times to become aware of its perfection”. For those whose appetite is whetted by Sassoon’s praise, the poem is at the foot of this blog; however, today let’s look at the beautiful music it inspired.
Vaughan Williams was one of England’s great composers. Influenced by Tudor music and English folksong, he composed everything from operas, ballets and choral pieces to chamber music and symphonies, spread over sixty years, and is a staple of the British concert repertoire. He continued to compose in his seventies and eighties, producing his last symphony months before his death at eighty-five in 1958.
Vaughan Williams loved poetry and was a keen reader of the great Victorian poets. The composer’s second wife, Ursula, herself a poet, wrote that in The Lark Ascending Vaughan Williams had “taken a literary idea on which to build his musical thought…and had made the violin become both the bird’s song and its flight”. It’s not hard to detect the allusion in the music.
Although completed in 1914, the premiere of The Lark Ascending wasn’t until 15th December 1920 at the Shirehampton Public Hall (given by leading British violinist of the time Marie Hall and the pianist Geoffrey Mendham). Rather like the Edwardian era itself, as viewed retrospectively from the other side of the Great War, it seems to reflect nostalgia for a partly mythological lost age of innocence.
Although most performances these days are orchestral versions, some have recreated the original version for violin and piano only, including this exquisite performance by Finnish violinist Kreeta-Julia Heikkilä, with Jaan Ots on the piano, at the Helsinki Chamber Music Festival 2019.
The Lark Ascending by George Meredith
He rises and begins to round, He drops the silver chain of sound Of many links without a break, In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake, All intervolv’d and spreading wide, Like water-dimples down a tide Where ripple ripple overcurls And eddy into eddy whirls; A press of hurried notes that run So fleet they scarce are more than one, Yet changingly the trills repeat And linger ringing while they fleet, Sweet to the quick o’ the ear, and dear To her beyond the handmaid ear, Who sits beside our inner springs, Too often dry for this he brings, Which seems the very jet of earth At sight of sun, her musci’s mirth, As up he wings the spiral stair, A song of light, and pierces air With fountain ardor, fountain play, To reach the shining tops of day, And drink in everything discern’d An ecstasy to music turn’d, Impell’d by what his happy bill Disperses; drinking, showering still, Unthinking save that he may give His voice the outlet, there to live Renew’d in endless notes of glee, So thirsty of his voice is he, For all to hear and all to know That he is joy, awake, aglow, The tumult of the heart to hear Through pureness filter’d crystal-clear, And know the pleasure sprinkled bright By simple singing of delight, Shrill, irreflective, unrestrain’d, Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustain’d Without a break, without a fall, Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical, Perennial, quavering up the chord Like myriad dews of sunny sward That trembling into fulness shine, And sparkle dropping argentine; Such wooing as the ear receives From zephyr caught in choric leaves Of aspens when their chattering net Is flush’d to white with shivers wet; And such the water-spirit’s chime On mountain heights in morning’s prime, Too freshly sweet to seem excess, Too animate to need a stress; But wider over many heads The starry voice ascending spreads, Awakening, as it waxes thin, The best in us to him akin; And every face to watch him rais’d, Puts on the light of children prais’d, So rich our human pleasure ripes When sweetness on sincereness pipes, Though nought be promis’d from the seas, But only a soft-ruffling breeze Sweep glittering on a still content, Serenity in ravishment.
For singing till his heaven fills, ’T is love of earth that he instils, And ever winging up and up, Our valley is his golden cup, And he the wine which overflows To lift us with him as he goes: The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine He is, the hills, the human line, The meadows green, the fallows brown, The dreams of labor in the town; He sings the sap, the quicken’d veins; The wedding song of sun and rains He is, the dance of children, thanks Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks, And eye of violets while they breathe; All these the circling song will wreathe, And you shall hear the herb and tree, The better heart of men shall see, Shall feel celestially, as long As you crave nothing save the song. Was never voice of ours could say Our inmost in the sweetest way, Like yonder voice aloft, and link All hearers in the song they drink: Our wisdom speaks from failing blood, Our passion is too full in flood, We want the key of his wild note Of truthful in a tuneful throat, The song seraphically free Of taint of personality, So pure that it salutes the suns The voice of one for millions, In whom the millions rejoice For giving their one spirit voice.
Yet men have we, whom we revere, Now names, and men still housing here, Whose lives, by many a battle-dint Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint, Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet For song our highest heaven to greet: Whom heavenly singing gives us new, Enspheres them brilliant in our blue, From firmest base to farthest leap, Because their love of Earth is deep, And they are warriors in accord With life to serve and pass reward, So touching purest and so heard In the brain’s reflex of yon bird; Wherefore their soul in me, or mine, Through self-forgetfulness divine, In them, that song aloft maintains, To fill the sky and thrill the plains With showerings drawn from human stores, As he to silence nearer soars, Extends the world at wings and dome, More spacious making more our home, Till lost on his aërial rings In light, and then the fancy sings.
When I look back at this blog’s coverage of influential British rock bands of the sixties, I see that the “big three” of The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and The Who have all had their moment in the spotlight. There’s another band of the time, though, that arguably deserves to be counted in a “big four” and that is the band formed in Muswell Hill in 1964 by Ray and Dave Davies, namely The Kinks.
Unlike the aforementioned bands who unarguably achieved the status of international legends of rock, the Kinks never fully capitalised on their opportunities and talents. For example, although the band emerged during the great British rhythm and blues and Merseybeat scenes and joined those bands spearheading the so-called British Invasion of the United States, the constant fighting between the Davies brothers (a pop-cultural forerunner of the Gallagher brothers, if ever there was one) led to a touring ban in 1965.
As well as the volatile relationship between the brothers, the song-writing style of Ray Davies sometimes took the band away from the expected commercial music their contemporaries were striving for. He simply had too much wit and intelligence and eclecticism, drawing on British music hall, folk and country music to inform some of his output. Take 1968’s The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society album: released the same week as the Beatles’ White album, it contained a collection of character studies and meditations on a disappearing English way of life, all brilliantly observed. Sadly, in a commercial world dominated by psychedelia and effects pedals and the Summer of Love, The Kinks had turned down the distortion on Dave’s guitar, and the album sunk without a trace (despite it later becoming established critically as an all-time classic).
Despite such occasional commercial failures, the band remain one of the most influential bands of all time, and you only have to look at the songs to know why. You Really Got Me and All Day and All of the Night basically introduced the idea of the three-chord riff; and did much to turn rock ‘n’ roll into rock. Gloriously melodic, storytelling songs abound: Sunny Afternoon, Waterloo Sunset, Dedicated Follower of Fashion, David Watts, Come Dancing, Lola. A host of future pop stars cited their influence and held them in high esteem (just ask Damon Albarn or Paul Weller).
A personal favourite of mine is Autumn Almanac, a charming vignette of Baroque pop released in 1967; here’s a Top of the Pops appearance to appreciate, and the lyrics below to remind us of just how English-pastoral-romantic Ray Davies could get.
From the dew-soaked hedge creeps a crawly caterpillar When the dawn begins to crack, it’s all part of my autumn almanac Breeze blows leaves of a musty-coloured yellow So I sweep them in my sack, yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac
Friday evenings, people get together Hiding from the weather, tea and toasted Buttered currant buns, can’t compensate For lack of sun because the summer’s all gone
La la la la, oh my poor rheumatic back Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac La la la la, oh my autumn almanac Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac
I like my football on a Saturday Roast beef on Sundays, all right I go to Blackpool for my holidays Sit in the open sunlight
This is my street and I’m never gonna to leave it And I’m always gonna to stay here if I live to be ninety-nine ‘Cause all the people I meet, seem to come from my street And I can’t get away because it’s calling me, come on home Hear it calling me, come on home
La la la la, oh my autumn almanac Yes, yes, yes, it’s my autumn almanac La la la la, oh my autumn almanac Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes Bop bop bop bop bop, whoa Bop bop bop bop bop, whoa
Khachaturian! A great name, for a start, that I recall seeing written on the back of one of those compilation albums of classical music, owned by my parents. That album was actually a great introduction to the classics; it’s where I first heard The Flight of the Bumblebee, The Ride of the Valkyries, The Blue Danube, The Hall of the Mountain King, and, in the case of Khachaturian, the frenzied Sabre Dance.
Aram Khachaturian was born in 1903 in Tblisi, Georgia, of Armenian extraction (I think it was that patronymic suffix, –ian, common to Armenian surnames – such as Kardashian – that added a certain something). Following the Sovietization of the Caucasus in 1921, Khachaturian moved to Moscow, where he enrolled at the Gnessin Musical Institute and subsequently studied at the Moscow Conservatory. He wrote several significant concertos and symphonies, but he is best known for his ballets Gayane (from which comes the Sabre Dance) and Spartacus (from which comes the focus of this blog, the captivating Adagio of Spartacus and Phrygia).
Spartacus follows the trials and tribulations of the famous gladiator-general, Spartacus, the leader of the slave uprising against the Romans in 73 BC (which actually happened, incidentally, and was exhaustively chronicled by Plutarch, but that – as I so often have to say – is another story!).
The Roman consul Crassus has returned to Rome from his latest conquests in a triumphal procession. Among his captives are the Thracian king Spartacus and his wife Phrygia. To entertain Crassus and his cronies, Spartacus is sent into the gladiatorial ring and is forced to kill a close friend. Horrified at his deed, Spartacus incites his fellow captives to rebellion, and ends up freeing the slave women, including Phrygia. The Adagio marks their celebration.
It open with a delicate syncopated rhythm from the strings, and a series of trills on the flute. A slow ascending scale is played by the cellos, and the oboe eases the music into the famous ‘love theme’ for the first time. It’s tremendous stuff and readers of a certain age will almost certainly remember its use as the theme music to the TV programme, The Onedin Line.
Below, I present a version of the ballet performed by Anna Nikulina and Mikhail Lobukhin of the Bolshoi Ballet. In addition, below that, I have chosen another version: a piano-only rendering of the music, and I include it because it is just too exquisite to omit. The pianist is Matthew Cameron, who, as well as being a virtuoso concert pianist, appears to be good-looking and, according to his website, collects antique historic swords, with a collection dating back to the 9th century. Hat tip!
Walter Becker and Donald Fagen met in a coffee shop at New York State’s Bard College in 1967, discovered that they had similar tastes and opinions about music, and soon started writing songs together. After a stint peddling songs in Manhattan’s famous Brill Building, the duo moved to Los Angeles to try their luck on the west coast. Realising their songs were too complex for other recording artists, they formed Steely Dan, and with producer Gary Katz, would go on to produce seven fabulous albums of sophisticated jazz rock between 1972 and 1980.
Their quest for perfection is legendary, and the duo’s shared aesthetic meant that Steely Dan would soon enough became less “band” and more Becker and Fagen backed by a series of session musicians. They would audition musician after musician and commission take after take in a fastidious search for just the right sound, just the right style, to complement their vision. But boy, did it pay off, as they got to harness the talents of such legends as guitarist Larry Carlton, bass player Chuck Rainey, and drummer Bernard Purdie, not to mention one Michael McDonald of Doobie Brothers fame on backing vocals.
Their well-crafted songs were largely critical and commercial successes and many would become radio staples: Reelin’ In The Years, Do It Again, Rikki Don’t Lose That Number, Haitian Divorce, Peg. For me, one song in particular sums up not only the genius of the music but Fagen’s wonderful storytelling ability: Kid Charlemagne, the lead single from 1976’s The Royal Scam album. The song tells the story of the rise and downfall of counter-culture figurehead Owsley Stanley (nicknamed “Bear”), the Grateful Dead audio engineer and self-proclaimed “King of Acid”. Bear’s clandestine laboratory was responsible for supplying the majority of the burgeoning Californian LSD scene of the sixties, and in him, Fagen found the perfect character to weave a typically noir story around.
Take a look at the lyrics; they are full of deft touches. Fagen describes one of Bear’s particularly successful LSD formulations: “Just by chance you crossed the diamond with the pearl”. And on Bear’s dedication to his craft: “On the hill the stuff was laced with kerosene, but yours was kitchen clean”. And when things start to unravel (Bear was inevitably busted of course), we can sense the paranoia: “Clean this mess up else we’ll all end up in jail, those test tubes and the scale, just get it all out of here”. And when the brown stuff is about to hit the fan, the climactic question-response “Is there gas in the car? Yes, there’s gas in the car”. At this point I’m not only engaged with the story, I’m positively willing them to get the hell out of there!
Fagen’s lyrics overlay a musical package that boasts a wonderful funk backbeat courtesy of Rainey and Purdie, razor sharp rhythms and melodies from Becker and Fagen themselves and from jazz pianists Paul Griffin and Don Grolnick, and an astounding guitar solo (and outro) from Larry Carlton. It is musical alchemy of the highest order.
Here’s the best live version I can find, in which the duo seem to have exercised the same rigour with this set of musicians as they did making the album!
While the music played you worked by candlelight Those San Francisco nights Were the best in town Just by chance you crossed the diamond with the pearl You turned it on the world That’s when you turned the world around
Did you feel like Jesus Did you realize That you were a champion in their eyes
On the hill the stuff was laced with kerosene But yours was kitchen clean Everyone stopped to stare at your technicolor motor home Every A-Frame had your number on the wall You must have had it all You’d go to LA on a dare And you’d go it alone
Could you live forever Could you see the day Could you feel your whole world fall apart and fade away Get along, get along Kid Charlemagne Get along Kid Charlemagne
Now your patrons have all left you in the red Your low rent friends are dead This life can be very strange All those dayglow freaks who used to paint the face They’ve joined the human race Some things will never change
Son you were mistaken You are obsolete Look at all the white men on the street Get along, get along Kid Charlemagne Get along Kid Charlemagne
Clean this mess up else we’ll all end up in jail Those test tubes and the scale Just get them all out of here Is there gas in the car Yes, there’s gas in the car I think the people down the hall Know who you are
Careful what you carry ‘Cause the man is wise You are still an outlaw in their eyes Get along, get along Kid Charlemagne Get along Kid Charlemagne
Walter Becker and Donald Fagen
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