SEEKINGBass Guitar, Drums, Upright bass.
I guess we are/would like to be a 'classy' band: , dramatic, even epic numbers which evolve from somewhat simple canvases for the lyrics (seen as ends in themselves - i.e. poetry) and the lead vocal into more complex arrangements. Very mellifluous. Romantic melodies. Proper singing and vocal harmonies. Playful elements lyrically and musically. The songs, like the lyrics, which often relate stories, are taken seriously as compositions: they must go places, some very mutli-parted, washing over different moods and textures with interesting interludes/'theme' sections, introductions/codas and space for solos/improvisation...Pretentious, but in the hope that there might be enough there and enough to be created to justify it. One has to pretend to something in order to push oneself further towards it.
We need: i.) a bassist (a double-bassist would be ideal though not essential).
ii.) A drummer with jazz chops but interests beyond jazz (into funk, softer rock, blues, what is called 'baroque pop').
- Screen name:
- Member since:
- Jul 05 2018
- Active over 1 month ago
- Level of commitment:
- Very Committed
- Years playing music:
- Gigs played:
- Under 10
- Tend to practice:
- 2-3 times per week
- Available to gig:
- 2-3 nights a week
- Most available:
In no particular order: Steely Dan/Van Morrison/Joni Mitchell/Nick Drake/Bill Evans/Tom Jobim/Miles Davis/Frank Sinatra/Ella Fitzgerald/Nina Simone/Stan Getz/Debussy/Rachmaninoff/Rufus Wainwright/Leonard Cohen/George Butterworth/Divine Comedy/John Martyn/Jeff Buckley/Beirut....(could go on)
- Rhythm Guitar:
- Acoustic Guitar:
- Vocalist - Baritone:
Don't tell me when Spring comes
Don't tell me when Spring comesDon’t tell me when Spring comes, I know I won’t tell myself; Because there’s a parasite inside me I pretend is someone else; Yes, there’s life in everybody, But sometimes life consumes itself; So, don’t tell me when Spring comes, I won’t notice if it does; Because I’m underneath the covers Spilling my own blood; Yes, I’m lost like all the others, A helpless, foolish, wounded cub; Yes, I’m lost like all the others, Half in love with my despair, And I’ll spend Spring under the covers, So, please don’t tell me that it’s there… (INTERLUDE) Don’t tell me when Spring comes, No, I’ll never tell myself; And I know I’m really in deep trouble Because I’ll never ask for help; There are no roots beneath the rubble, Not the smallest sign of hope, or change, Gone are the hyacinths and roses Fed by the Spring rains; Now only tears wet this bed of losses, Where they will never bloom again… Gone are the hyacinths and roses Fed by the Spring rains; So, I turn the soil of losses, And will never think of Spring again.
Dancing on the lawn
Dancing on the lawnGently interrogating, As I met her eyes She was already smiling; No more a girl, But more Girl than Woman, Much-desired ‘child of the world’, Carefree, and cosmopolitan; So I say something rude Hoping she’ll laugh at herself, But this time she won’t, and I wish I’d said something else; O, maybe she’s just too much loved And no longer needs to pretend, Or is it simply some act she (always) does, For all her brother’s friends? There will be dancing on the lawn tonight, Bodies moved by frantic music in the starlight; ‘No,’ she jokes, she won’t hear my excuses, no, But I’d much rather we go walking all alone, And talk of all we know and dance some star-lit dance all of our own. Bathed in the late sun, Summer spelled to sleep the tiresome trials Of one who dwells the most on what is gone And too much on a stranger's smile And in the evening When she came down Her hair, still wet, close-cut and brown; O, how she laughed with ease And wore her beauty so lightly, As if it were some truth but half-perceived, Though always known to me; There was dancing on the lawn that night, Bodies moved by frantic music in the starlight; Late it was when we walked out together, The air was sweet, her hand was warm, and I can still remember How the wheat stirred in the light breeze blown from the heavens; How it felt like thieving Time was beaten; And when she laughed, that all the World had been forgiven. Gently interrogating, As I met her eyes She was already smiling…
Quiet in the hills
Quiet in the hillsWhen I feel that there’s no turning back, And I’m leaving what I have behind; Yes – love was just like that: No turning back, No more familiar signs; When lights are lit but the sky is black, The houses sit upon the hill; Yes – love was just like that: Though night was black, There shone my shelter still; As from seclusion, quiet in the hills... Though life outlives all the most certain facts, I doubt that certainties won’t be replaced; Yes – love is just like that: The most certain fact Cannot outlive its fate; We live by articles of faith, Yet forget with each profession That we are only true to Change, And that love – love is no exception: I make no objection, I only say it’s strange... Though life outlives all the most certain facts, I doubt that certainties won’t be replaced; Yes – love is just like that: The most certain fact Cannot outlive its fate; When lights are lit but the sky is black, The houses sit upon the hill; Yes – love was just like that: Though night was black, There shone my shelter still As from seclusion, quiet in the hills.
Woke up in a daze
Woke up in a dazeWoke up in a daze; So mingles light with shade In the stillness of the tomb, When Morning stands guard ’side my room, And lifts the gloom, But bears me away from you. So begins another day, Which as your lingering presence fades, Will in a vacant heart resume The weary waste of love unused – O, and my dearest wish again refused, Remembering how we’d kiss and waste the afternoons, Yes! This life of longing is a life abused. You would rise while I would sleep, The watch your faithful eyes did keep Was the measure of a soul Made generous by the wisdom it holds; Tender and hopeful and whole, And so I slept, troubled not by dreams at all. Soon I would stir and meet your gaze, Where now its lingering presence fades, Back to the grave your ghost exhumed; This weary waste of love unused – O, and my dearest wish again refused, Remembering how we’d kiss and waste the afternoons, Yes! This life of longing is a life abused: This weary waste of love, of love, unused.