Sedition

by The Sedatives

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about

The Sedatives' second album for the second half of life.
More death...less love.

credits

released September 22, 2016

Music performed by The Sedatives:

- Bjørn Frengstad plays bass, piano, guitar and sings backing vocals
- Dave Banks sings vocals, plays guitar and the less professional bits of bass

David Ian Jones arranged “I Want”, and performed it with Dave as “Me and Mr Jones”
Jenny Banks sings backing vocals on Tracks 9 and 12, and plays cajon on 9 and 14

Recorded and pre-mixed by the Sedatives in Chesterfield, Derbyshire, UK, except:
- Track 8 - recorded and arranged at Greenbank Studio, Chesterfield by David Ian Jones
- Track 4 - piano recorded at Brygga Studio, Trondheim

Mixed by Jonny Cole at The Mill Studio, Norfolk, UK
Mastered by Eric James at Philosopher's Barn, Norfolk, UK

Released by Trousers! recordings (Cat. No. Tro-005)

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about

The Sedatives Chesterfield, UK

The Sedatives are Bjørn Frengstad and Dave Banks.

They first sung together as members of the mythical "Groundwater Boys" in Trondheim, Norway, and continued to write and play following Dave's return to Chesterfield, UK, in 1998.

They have toured their music throughout western Siberia and selected pubs in the eastern Peak District of Derbyshire.
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Track Name: Engels without Marx
There's method in my madness; Nostalgia in my sadness;
A glimpse of death-wish in my gladness. I'm torn between indifference and rage.
Not young, not old, but obsolescent;
A lot of hot air but not effervescent;
A geriatric spotty adolescent.
I'm just at that difficult age.
A would-be hero without a spine,
A would-be villain without a crime,
A surplus syllable in a line of modern poetry.

I want to be an expert, want to be a sinner, want to be a sage,
What’s that noise ? It’s just me rattling the bars of this goddam gilded cage;
Don’t look at me like I’m a pustule, or some kind of bacteriophage
Don’t turn away, don’t ignore me, please, I'm just at that difficult age.

I want to claim the love I feel is due me; The social interest that should accrue to me;
but women just look right through me, and not just them but taxi drivers too.
I feel a whitening of my knuckles
as a peal of female chuckles
ring out as I walk luckless past
in my clothes from another age.
I'm a grand master who's run out of time;
A whitewasher who's clean out of lime;
A Dylan who can't find the right rhyme for a protest song.

I'm anally retentive; conversationally uninventive
and chronically inattentive when you're talking to me.
I've got emotional constipation
and my only form of recreation
is the solitary gratification
of the sexual urge.
I'm a prophet without a burning coal;
A Motown singer without a soul;
An Alan Shearer who's just missed the goal on a penalty shot.

I'm Osiris without Isis. This thing about a mid-life crisis
is that it unfailingly entices one to write self-pitying songs.
But tough luck, 'cos I'm gonna be sharing these songs with you, and I'm gonna be baring
my soul and I'm thinking of wearing my heart right out on my sleeve.
A repulsive sight, it's true,
but I suspect no worse than you.
Can't you see I'm just trying to break through
your mirror shades.
I'm Engels without Marx;
I’m Bertie Wooster without the spiffing larks;
I’m one of those drunken old farts who don't know it's closing time.

I want to be an expert, want to be a sinner, want to be a sage,
What’s that noise ? It’s just me rattling the bars of this goddam gilded cage;
Don’t look at me like I’m a pustule, or some kind of bacteriophage
Don’t turn away, don’t ignore me, please, I'm just at that difficult age.
Track Name: Waiting for the Rain
Summer season - should enjoy; Heat and hair - girl meets boy.
Cotton clouds - no shade of grey. Bees and birds - caraway.
Summer season - time and truth; woodland path - lasting youth.
Lawn and border - tray of tea. Hedge and hawthorn - rosemary.

But sitting on the edge of the party, I can feel the coming storm.
Waiting for the rain, waiting for the rain, waiting for the rain to fall.

Autumn season - stiller now. Mist on field - field and cow.
Leaves and gold - golden sun. Terracotta - tarragon.
Indian summer - when to end? Coming quickly - round the bend?
Open window - music spun. All burnt umber - cinnamon.

But standing by the whitewashed pavilion, I can feel the coming chill.
Waiting for the rain, waiting for the rain, waiting for the rain to spill.
Waiting for the reaper to find me, his last unharvested sheaf.
Waiting for the blade, waiting for the rain, waiting for the blade to fall.

Faster now - the falling leaves. Chill of winter - dreary eves.
Whistle hopeful - pretend fun. Leaf in gutter - skeleton.
Waiting for the lightening to strike me. For the pain and loss of love.
I am waiting for the rain, waiting for the rain, waiting for the rain from above.
Track Name: On the Road to Kukës
Two men travelled the Kukës road
in the migrants' spring of '99.
Assault rifles level, a band appears
of informally uniformed men.
Mehmet offers a round thirty grand
to save his skin, but dies.
Habib has but 20 marks to give.
He escapes
(with only a small beating around the head).
Thanks God, that life is so cheap.
Track Name: Saturday Evening, One Eastertide
She had raven hair. She had speedwell eyes.
She pierced my heart. Maybe she could analyse
what just happened to me.

She had speedwell eyes. She had raven hair.
Her smile lit her face like a kerosene flare
on a smoking summer eve.

Three days one summer. Three days of time
in eccentric orbit and walking and rhyme.
She told me how it seemed to bide in the dark
on Saturday evening of Eastertide
How the world holds its breath at the shock of God’s death
and how we all are redeemed.
Surprisingly forgiven, for, truly
Christ is risen.

She had corvine hair and forget-me-not eyes
and nonchalantly waved her hand and swept away the flies
from my mind and her plate of fruit.
Track Name: Bosniak
If you'll die this night by the snipers' sure fire.
If you'll blaze in the Allied bombs' shocking burst.
If you're lynched on the street as you're asked for the time.
Don't skulk, insomniac, in the basement;
sleep snug with sweet dreams in your own double bed.
Track Name: Snow White # Ultra Violet
Fluorescent light-strip on the wall,
Who is the fairest of them all?
You show up my pimples and open pores,
and highlight the craters of old acne scars
and my beer-belly’s sensual curve.

Fluorescent light-strip on the wall:
fifty hertz strobing insect free-fall
catching mothy glide and mosquito beat.
Bold deceiver; light without heat.
Imitation wavelengths of the sun.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
who is the fairest one of all ?
Well please excuse my lack of tact –
it sure ain’t you, guv’, and that’s a fact.
with your crooked nose and balding pate
and smile of silver amalgamate.
Look behind you, me old playmate,
at that fluorescent woman: fluorescent strip-light show.

Fluorescent strip above the bar;
bar-flies slump onto the floor.
Starter motor; argon glare,
conjure an image of fairer than fair,
but cold as vodka and vice.

UV flytrap on the wall,
who has the deadliest charge of all ?
Fatal attraction; purple glare;
catch the gloss of your night-time hair
and draw me to your high-tension cage.

UV flytrap on the wall
courts high-flying lovers ere they fall,
your former suitors, at your feet:
burnt-out husks: Garibaldi defeat.
Ground crackling with shattered carapace.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
who is the fairest one of all?
Look behind you, me old playmate,
at that fluorescent woman: fluorescent strip-light show.

Five times the life of any common bulb !
Track Name: Kingfisher
Here... by a ditch..., by the fields...,
...lies the city of Old Kandahar,
whose streets once hummed to the stench of cattle and pest,
when the Prophet's Hejira was but distant news from the west
and the mud walls rang to the chatter of daily bazaar...

Here... flanked by mountains which formed mujahed's retreat
and absorbed bold Katjusha's thirty-throated siren song,
sung to the chop of twin rotors, alien throb,
where turbanned snipers shot till dust danced to a devilish beat......

Here... where quadrennial summer shrinks soil to dust … parches well,
pyres of somnifer poppy and almond trees won't grow;
where Taleb's blue veil and stricture strangle joy
and make music outlawed, I turn as I hear a yell

(YEE-HAR!)

and glimpse a streak of vibrant blue swoop low over former canal.

A little girl; dress of lapis,
legs bare, swings on a rope.
Track Name: I Want
I want to go to San Francisco in '68, with my hair all full of flowers.
I want to break the news about Watergate, I want to shoot down Gary Powers.
I want to see The Smiths play their first concert date and stuff daffodils down my trousers.
I want....
I want....
I want to be a folk-rock star. I want to be a boffin.
I want to be an egomaniac. I want something for nothing.
I want to smoke dope and get high on E,
but I think I'll just stay in and watch some TV.

I want to drink the finest whiskey & the roughest potcheen & to visit all the joints in Soho.
I want to dress up in frocks, be a bit of a queen; I'd like to do some stuff with my mojo.
I want to be absurd and I want to be obscene, I want to rock the earth down to the Moho.
I want to try out a bit of S & M - beat me and I'll grovel.
but I think I'll stay in by the fire and read a nice detective novel.

I want to cover my guitar in lighter fuel and send the feedback screaming.
I want to find and break the golden rule, I want to live for sense and feeling.
I want to do Morris dancing, look like a fool and send Northumberland reeling.
I want to shoot myself up with some snowy white,
but I think I'll just stay in and have an early night.

I want to go to Irkutsk on a Russian train on the trans-Siberian railroad.
I want to do good works and become a saint; canonised and be-haloed.
I want to throw a wobbler, want to go insane, have two crates short of a payload.
I want to ride a black Vincent opened up at full throttle,
but I think I'll go to bed with a nice hot water bottle.
Track Name: Game of Two Halves
Two-nil down at the half-time whistle
in a match more important than Partick Thistle
v. Heart of Midlothian. "You've got to move quicker",
says the coach, but I take a short shot of liquor
and suck on a lemon and take a quick piss. I'll
try harder from now,
but my hairline's receding
and my waist's getting thicker.

Here we go ! Here we go !
Treading down the primrose path
to extra time or an early bath.
Since no man has aught of what he leaves,
what is it to leave betimes ? Let be.

They say it's a game comprising two halves:
three score years and ten should be good for a laugh.
Two score less five years we've got left to play,
but the sun's in my eyes no matter which way
I run down the wing on that well-trodden path;
dazzled by trophies and medals
league tables and cups
that are worth sweet F.A.

Alas, Archie Gemmill, I remember him: crowned
the hero of Derby at the Baseball Ground.
Balding of head and knobbly of knee.
Characteristics reminiscent of me.
Since no man has aught of what he leaves,
what is it to leave betimes ? Let be.

Two score years less five and the game is resuming;
my passion to win has become all-consuming,
but my chances grow slimmer and my slackening pace
suggests I'll be lucky to make second place.
It begins to be clear, when the last blast is looming,
that winning means nothing
what gives death its savour
is losing with grace.

The last minutes remain, but the public departs.
After all, who wants to watch decrepit old farts
chase inflated pigs' bladders round four corners of earth ?
Where your gambols, your songs, your chants of great mirth ?
Your Mexican Waves, your souls and your hearts ?
Gone from this darkened vale
to find a new crew
to seek out fresh turf.

Waiting for the whistle. Waiting for.... God,
oh, I know not, ....extra time ? penalty shots ?
This former star player of infinite jest,
of excellent fancy, of fortune so blest,
is dead and turned to clay, to turf, to sod.
In a bubblegum-card album,
with Hurst and Toshack
and Jardine and Best.

If it be now, 'tis not to come.
If it be not to come, it will be now.
If it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all.
Since no man has aught of what he leaves,
what is it to leave betimes ? Let be.
Track Name: Evening Prayer
Thank you, God, that I have it so good;
for water to drink and a spot of food;
Vichy Nouveau and salmon filet
accompanied by a glass of Chardonnay

Thank you, God, for all that I've got;
for my detached house in a secluded lot;
for my double glazing and my mobile-phone
and for the generous terms of my building society loan.

Thank you, Lord, for a loving wife.
Please keep us from all emotion and strife.
And thank you, Lord, for the cosy illusion
of a family locked in safe nuclear fusion.

Thank you, God, for my wonderful kids;
for their Barbie dolls and their Tamagochi pets.
Thank you for their strict parental rule
and the above-average examination results of the local school.

It says in your Good Book, "Eat and drink for tomorrow you may die".
But I never understood that, Lord, and I'd like to ask you, why
you in your infinite wisdom and your transcendental dimension
never gave us any advice on how to plan for an adequate pension.

Thank you, Jesus, for our neighbourhood
and its total absence of ethnic take-away food,
and for the slide and the swings in the local park
and the police who chase away the glue-sniffers after dark.

And thank you, God, for our welfare state
and for making me so generous as to donate
a few percent tax to the poor and needy.
Oh, and thank you for our oil-rich national economy.

It says in Jesus' gospel, "He who would gain his life must lose it",
but though I read the Bible, though I study and peruse it,
I fail to find any wisdoms-word about police and law-enforcement
or how to examine a contract for personal health insurance.

You've been so good to me, God, that I'm really not sure
if I need to ask you for anything more.
Oh - a few good friends might be useful, Lord;
and an answer to the question, "Why am I so fucking bored ?"
Track Name: Happy as Could Be
Bluebottle in my honey, as I sat down to tea.
He may look like he's in trouble, but he's just doing what comes naturally.
Now you might feel like you want to save him from his sweet, sweet destiny.
It may look like he's drowning
but he's in the lap of luxury.

Our hearts turn to granite, granite turns to clay;
I asked you in to lunch today but you talked a lot and then went away.
How to persuade you to tarry and spend a while with me ?
It may look like I'm drowning
but it's all going swimmingly.

The clock is ticking slowly and my heart is beating fast.
Don't want to have to start to live upon just memories of the past.
I've started singing sentimental songs and laughing nervously.
It may look like I'm drowning, but I'm as happy as could be.

Can't you hear the breakers tonight, rolling into shore.
I lay on my back and watched the stars and then I watched some more
and then I wade into the water and let the tide find my buoyancy.
It may look like I'm drowning
but I'm just floating out to sea.
Track Name: Dinner Party
Who the hell designed the acoustics in my head ?
All your laughter echoes hollow in my brain.
And Kieran’s glancing at his pocket watch again;
he’s sorry but he really should be getting home to bed
or to watch a late-night video.

Eva’s dressed to kill again, but she used to be so kind;
her skirt unbuttoned to her thigh.
But behind her coal-black pupils and the whites of her eye
the shutters are all down: open body / closed mind.
A negative image of the girl I used to know.

And if you’re going to leave the party, just get up and go, my friend;
but if you stay, please stay with me to the end.

Former New Years’ resolutions; the mental strength to choose.
Got to get a job; to get a girl.
But this year marks a turning point; white flag of surrender unfurled.
Gonna smoke more fags, gonna screw around, gonna hit some serious booze
and lose my o’er-vaulting ambition.

This isn’t so much fun now as it was ten years ago.
Your charming optimism is beginning to sound strained.
And the definition of friendship’s undergone a subtle change
from open-file access to strictly need-to-know.
You scratch my back and I’ll laugh behind yours.

And if you’re going to leave the party, just get up and go, my friend;
but if you stay, please stay with me to the end.

If you’re going to leave the party, your coat is on the bed
in the corner of the spare room next to mine.
We’ll see you this time next year but please call round any time,
and when you leave please let your thank-yous go unsaid.
Just throw the switch and turn out all the lights.

And if you’re going to leave the party, just get up and go, my friend;
but if you stay, please stay with me to the end.
Track Name: The Human Touch
All our yesterdays,
strung out like amber jewels on the necklace of the Fates' feckless delight.
Pools of sodium vapour light on the high-road of our lifelong journey into night.

Beneath the streetlight the infant lies in a cardboard box
kicking and crying for a mother's breast. He sucks
his hand and screams for the warmth and comfort of the human touch.

All our yesterdays,
strung out like amber grains on a Baltic beach washed by time and tide.
Pools of sodium vapour light on the high-road of our lifelong journey into night.

Beneath the streetlight a couple lean and grope and snog.
Salvia flows while a mangy battered dog
pisses against the lamppost, and longs for the stroking human touch.

All our yesterdays,
strung out like amber drops of Lagavulin that run down your neck so white.
Pools of sodium vapour light on the high-road of our lifelong journey into night.

Beneath the streetlight, a woman lifts her skirt and shows her wares
to curb crawling drivers' long and leering stares.
Legs too fat ? She asks too much ? This brutal business of the human touch.

All our yesterdays,
strung out like amber jewels on the necklace of the Fates' feckless delight.
Pools of sodium vapour light on the high-road of our lifelong journey into night.

Beneath the streetlight, an old man lives in a cardboard box,
seeking his roots. He chews his false teeth and sucks
in his breath. Stretches his hand for coppers and for the human touch.

All our yesterdays.
The Fates break their home-spun thread, the amber jewels fall & glitter & flash.
The sodium lights go out and leave us foolish, groping, turning to dust and ash.
Track Name: Dying in the Hallway
Just leave me dying in the hallway; just leave me crying in my bed.
I don't really mind the company you're keeping.
Just leave me lying in the hallway; just leave me pissing in my bed.
Just try not to disturb my deathbed's sleeping.

The front door opens, "Come in my friends, take off your coats and ditch your shoes.
Don't mind the old man as you walk on through, he's almost yesterday's news.
I guess he doesn't understand that much you say, just nod and pass on by.
He'll be passing on soon himself, I think, to the Lord of Earth and Sky."

Just leave me dying in the hallway, just leave me choking on my bed.
Please don't even try to talk to me; some things are better left unsaid.
Don't feel you have to say hello, just walk on and avert your eyes,
but listen carefully and you might hear the sound of this old man's last sighs.

1 2 3 4: I'm sinking down slowly to St. Peter's door.
1 2 3 4 5: But he wants me to come to him dead, not alive.
1 2 3 4 5 6: You better hope you get old before you get sick.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7: This is a real slow train to heaven.

If I listen carefully I hear the sounds of the party next door.
Toasts to health and happiness and the speeches of some old boor.
Don't let my coughing disturb you; it's just the nature of the beast.
Don't let me be the ghost of Banquo at your fortieth birthday feast.

Just leave me dying in the hallway; just leave me crying in my bed.
I don't really mind the company you're keeping.
Just leave me lying in the hallway; just leave me pissing in my bed.
Just try not to disturb my deathbed's sleeping.

From kitchen to parlour the food now flows past me stacked high on porcelain plate.
Please don't mind my funny smells, my diet makes me flatulate.
And please don't try to tell me you've not seen an old man naked before.
Pretend I'm just a pile of dirty linen tucked away behind the door.

And if you hear the sound of clogs a-popping or mortal coils shuffled off onto the floor,
or if the clang of bucket being kicked by me makes the bread-roll stick in your craw,
then bow your heads to the salad bowl and say a prayer for us who are gone before;
but till then you can just forget me and leave me dying in the hall.

1 2 3 4: Pass the morphine, I need some more.
1 2 3 4 5: I'm three quarters gone but I'm still alive.
1 2 3 4 5 6: You better hope you get old before you get sick.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7: This is a slow train taking me down to heaven.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8: I got to hurry along now if I want to be late....
..... meaning, as Douglas Adams said,
not delayed, but dead.
Track Name: Slow Burning Fire
We are a slow-burning fire
Carbon in...and hot air out
Keeps an inner soul aflame
to ask wherefore? and whatabout?

We are a slow-burning fire
Consuming all before our path
Destroy to keep our hearts alive
Afterglow and aftermath.

We are a slow-burning fire
Creeping line of smoke and ash
Hades scorch-mark on the earth
Rowan-oak and thunder-flash.

We are a slow-burning fire
Fuel of meat and blood and wood
and coke and benzedrine and oil
to stoke whynot? and ificould.

We are a slow-burning fire
Embers low in iron grate
A cage against the chill of night
of howsoold? and whysolate?