Two Or Three Spectres - Peter Hammill

«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