LYRICS // World Under My Feet (1999)

Let's face it, probably about 90% of songs written around the world are probably love songs of some sort or another. I'd say that those songs could then be broken down further into themes of (a) 'I want to love you', (b) 'I love you' and (c) 'I loved you'.

For example, Eddie Cochran's 'Something Else' would be (a) <"...that can't stop me from a-thinkin' to myself, she's sure fine lookin' man, she's something else">, The Beatles' 'Don't Let Me Down' would be (b) <"I'm in love for the first time. Don't you know it's gonna last..."> and Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive' would be (c) <"At first I was afraid I was petrified. Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side...">.

'World Under My Feet' would fall into the (a) category. It was written during one of those partnerless times, and is about the search for 'the one', that special somebody that we all want to find and how difficult it can be to find them. It was also an attempt to write in both the third person (for the verses) and the first person (for the chorus), unable to choose whether the song should be 'about someone else' or autobiographical.

Maybe it was a bit of both...

The song was recorded with The Zamora and can be downloaded here.

Photo of Pete, Dom and Justin of The Zamora by Dan Paton.

World Under My Feet

He's been away for such a long time,
Delivering shivers down her spine.
He's felt the world under his feet,
But without her by his side he still feels incomplete.

La la la la la la la
La la la la la la la
La la la la la la la
La

I'll be all you want if you want me to be.
You can take your pick if you want to be me.
I'll be all you want if you want me to be.
You can take your pick if you want to be me.

He doesn't know where to find her,
Although he's searched both near and far.
But he'll have won the game and claimed his prize,
The first time that they look into each other's eyes, now.

La la la la la la la
La la la la la la la
La la la la la la la
La

I'll be all you want if you want me to be.
You can take your pick if you want to be me.
I'll be all you want if you want me to be.
You can take your pick if you want to be me.

LYRICS // The Shadowboxer (2000)

This was a song that was written for The Zamora, about a party that I attended back in the summer of 2000. The band was fully formed by then, with a set of material and a gig or two under our belts already. I was riding pretty high on it all, relishing the 'rock 'n' roll frontman' role to the hilt.

It seemed like the kind of party that a rock star should be attending - a flight attendant's 30th birthday bash, and in full fancy dress too. Most of the women there would also be flight attendants and 'I'm a singer in a rock band' ought to be a pretty good ice-breaker in such a situation!

I went for the 70's look in my outfit; fully clad in leather, with a garishly bright and large collared yellow shirt, plus an afro wig. Unfortunately, I did have a little bit of a habit of drinking myself into somewhat of a stupor at parties and sometimes making a bit of a fool of myself too.

At some point in the evening, I got chatting to a young lady named Caroline, who worked for Virgin Atlantic and spent the earliest parts of her life in Nigeria. After a while, she took a trip to the bathroom and we carried on our conversation through the closed door as she took off her dress. We were both quite smashed and she must have wandered off somewhere after emerging. I must have followed.

The next thing I knew, it was about 5AM and I was waking up on the pavement of some respectable Surrey neighbourhood, still clad in my pimp gear. I somehow ambled back to the house where the party had been held and tried to piece the rest of the night together. She'd gone already by then, but had woken up in somebody's hedge a block or two away.

Later on that day, I had a recording session with the band and a hell of a rock 'n' roll tale to tell them!

The recording of the song can be downloaded here.

Photo of drummer Pete by Dan Paton

The Shadowboxer

At five in the morning, I awoke on the pavement,
In an afro and pimp shirt, no idea how I got there.
Cordelia's perfume slipped out through her fur,
Sweet Caroline talked of Nigeria.

With a drink in my hand I made my way through the crowd,
To the girl in pink rubber and the air hostesses.
Got stopped at the gate by a man with a gun,
Who asked me for their names and addresses.

I'm just doing fine watching shadows doing time.
I'm just doing fine watching shadows doing time.
I'm just doing fine watching shadows doing time.
I'm just doing fine watching shadows doing time.

She took off her dress behind the bathroom door,
And fuelled my imagination.
But the words that fell and slipped from my lips,
Just ruined my good reputation.

At five in the morning, I awoke on the pavement,
In an afro and pimp shirt, no idea how I got there.
Cordelia's perfume slipped out through her fur,
Sweet Caroline talked of Nigeria.

I'm just doing fine watching shadows doing time.
I'm just doing fine watching shadows doing time.
I'm just doing fine watching shadows doing time.
I'm just doing fine watching shadows doing time.

Nigeria, Nigeria, Nigeria.

Nigeria, Nigeria, Nigeria.

I'm just doing fine watching shadows doing time.
I'm just doing fine watching shadows doing time.
I'm just doing fine watching shadows doing time.
I'm just doing fine watching shadows doing time.

LYRICS // Bad Hair Day (1995)

I wrote my first full set of lyrics at 16, in collaboration with the school friend that I started my first band with. Not wanting to write yet another silly love song and captured by the nonsensical nature of the wordplay, we tried to write our own version of 'I Am The Walrus'. It was ambitious in its own way, yet came out as a shoddy stab at schoolboy psychedelia with pretty awkward imagery and rhyming. Still, we all have to start somewhere.

This song was a little further down the line in my development as a lyricist, but still with some way to go. It was at least one of the first times that I started tackling better wordplay, running with the sound of it as opposed to the actual meaning. A song can sound fantastic musically, but if the lyrics don't cut it, the song's let down. Words can sound just as musical as a guitar line or a drum break.

Many writers will use their craft to mend a broken heart, and I'm sure there's a little exorcising an ex in here somewhere. I also tried to tackle that existential question about whether suffering for one's art makes one a better artist. It may help with inspiration and in England at least, there's the perception that the suffering artist is somehow more credible. It's a drag to live that way though and sometimes you just have to have the bread on your table, man.

The line about being cast for a film happened, but I did get the part (the male lead in a young filmmaker's show reel; my character ending up slitting his wrists in the bath, so a bleak ending to my film acting debut!).

A very rough acoustic demo of the song was issued on the collection of early recordings I put out under the Quagga moniker.

Bad Hair Day

I saw you crying in the neon afterglow
Of another broken summer painted fallout shades of red
I heard you trying on another Christ for size
Just to see what suited best what lay inside your head

I don’t want to wake up on a bad hair day
I just want to wake up another way

I thought of you as I turned over in my grave
Couldn’t find another way to announce my death
I know that you can’t ever forgive yourself
For not being the one wearing my wooden suit instead

I don’t want to wake up on a bad hair day
I just want to wake up another way

You said an artist should always starve for his art
But even great outsiders need to feed their head sometimes
You cast me for the film then tell me I’ve lost the part
So it’s about time for me to claim what’s mine

I don’t want to wake up on a bad hair day
I just want to wake up another way

You promised me the moon, the stars, and all that lay below
But you still can’t even think of me as someone with a name
I’d shave my head for you although I don’t know why
I’m getting kind of tired of playing your silly games

I don’t want to wake up on a bad hair day
I just want to wake up another way

Tried deep sea fishing in those caverns in your mind
Only to find a twisted line and nothing to bring home

POETRY // Ueno Melancholia (2004)

This poem was writtten in early spring, after trekking around Tokyo's Ueno Zoo in the rain. The cherry blossoms that sweep across Japan in a front were beginning to burst forth and I was feeling distinctly melancholic; being so far away from home and having just walked around the zoo with only an umbrella for company.

The animals were sodden and looked sad in their enclosures. I felt their sadness and the weight of my own distance, yet was also pleased with myself for having made it so far and managed to stay in a country and culture so different from where I'd grown up. After leaving the zoo, I sat at a cafe outside, ordered a coffee and a couple of slices of pizza and was compelled to write a poem about the experience.

Ueno Melancholia

There's a certain sadness to zoos in the rain,
A feeling that's hard to pin down.
Perhaps the weather reminds me of England,
And only serves to enforce the distance.

The prime attractions were placed at the front,
Like sweets in a supermarket display.
Their coats monochromal extremes, no blending,
Yet containment just muddies the poles.

A Tokyo boy and his prospective mate,
A female from Mexico City.
Will they get it on like so many wish for?
Pandas step to a whole different rhythm.

The lions inside displayed their majesty,
Despite the truth of their captivity.
They slipped in the mud as they gambolled around,
Either fighting or playing, yet through instinct.

Elephants were hidden from public display,
A fact of their current reconstruction.
And speakers in trees played out 'Auld Lang Syne',
As I was bowed at and escorted to exits.

The melancholy hangs like a force overhead,
Or the boughs that are laden with blossom,
Yet spring is arriving, with sunshine and laughter,
No more sadness, like zoos in the rain.