Seduction

by The Sedatives

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about

The Sedatives' difficult first album.....

credits

released December 24, 2015

Music performed by The Sedatives:

- Bjørn Frengstad on acoustic bass, guitar, vocals/backing vocals
- David Banks on guitars, acoustic bass, vocals/backing vocals
- and featuring Jenny Banks on backing vocals on tracks 3 and 13

Recorded and pre-mixed by the Sedatives in Chesterfield, Derbyshire, UK
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-001)

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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: Lot's Wife
Lot’s Wife

Don’t look too closely at this glow between our eyes
or the whole damn thing goes up in smoke.
Don’t watch my hands as they stretch towards your side
or you’ll be forced to pass it of as my little joke.
Keep your eyes on the wineglass as you raise it to your lips.
Keep your eyes on the kitchen’s Denby-ware.
Keep your eyes on the cover of the simmering soup-tureen.
Keep your eyes from my maniacal stare.

Don’t look...don’t ask...don’t examine what could be.
Keep up the illusion, this alkaloidal trance,
this pretence of a normal summer eve.

Try not to see the love that’s lying on the table,
else the veil that protects it rends in two.
Pretend that we’re adult, responsible and stable;
a pair of suburb-met good friends, and you
should keep your eyes on the clock that’s ticking slowly.
Watch the slightly chipped varnish of your nails.
Stare through the window at the shadowed linden tree.
Keep breathing steady...breathe... exhale.

Don’t talk....don’t think... don’t ask if what we’re doing’s somehow wrong.
Just act out the part, this distal courtly dance,
and listen for allusions in a song.

And when I walk away I won’t take a glance behind
or let the sweet smell of your breath cause me to halt.
Lest the Merlot in my gut should acquire a bitter taste
of juniper and quinine and of salt.
Keep close to your breast the coal forbidden to take flame,
If your eye cause you to sin just wear dark glasses.
And I’ll deny the lust that dare not speak its name,
such sentimental passion always passes.

Music and lyric © David Banks 1999
Track Name: Short Eyes
Short Eyes

Some people say I've got short eyes,
because I hang around the school gates at three.
In this I feel misjudged because, of course,
I just like
chatting up
the mothers.

© David Banks 1999
Track Name: Asymmetry of Love
Asymmetry of Love

I didn't have you down for a February weekend
I didn't have you down as an April Fool
I didn't have you down as basement fridge/freezer
So why are you acting so cool?
So why is my telephone suddenly so silent?
And why does the bell above my door never ring?
And why does it echo so empty when I sing....?
It's all part....
It's all part....
of the terrible asymmetry of love.

I didn't have you down as a dinner party hostess
and I didn't have you down as a socialite.
I didn't have you down as a moral crusader.
How come you're being so polite?
So why is it that your smile is so frozen?
And why is it that your invitation's so strained?
Can't you see that I can tell when I'm being framed?

I always used to be a straightforward geezer,
and I always thought my heart was firmly down from the trees
I always thought love was a conscious decision
so how come I'm down here on my knees?
Why is it that my guts feel like they're caught in a G-clamp?
Why is it that my conscience contorts with the strain?
Why is that I'm out here walking in the rain?....

I see your lonely eyes staring at me from the window
Hear your sullen goodbye as I walk out the door,
the dishes unwashed and the bed never slept in,
but I'm hypnotised by the light from the Koh-i-Noor.....
diamond, whose face shines bright in the moonlight:
but hard as a scalpel's cutting blade.
And locked away in a gilded velvet cage.



Music and lyrics © David Banks 2001
Track Name: The Soft Underbelly
The Soft Underbelly (of the Russian State)

I
They don't believe we're just good friends.
In fact, they say I love you;
that I've deep-laid plans to lead you astray.
Ha !
Laughable !
Outrageous !
II
The hairs that lay dark on your forearm
now glow like gold down in the bus-window glare.
The hairs on my neck stand straight to attention:
Hup...
Two....
Present....arms.
III
I like the roundness below your belly -
it could mean new life, unpaid leave.
Or maybe those lesser joys: bad posture
and one
potato
too many.


© David Banks 1999
Track Name: The Awayday Rover
The Awayday Rover

I was riding the bus, it was number 20
from Holymoor down to the Cemetery Junction.
It was empty when I got on but it filled up by the school
and there was only one seat left when we reached the swimming pool-- next to me.
"One single, please, to the Cemetery", said I
to the jocund but roving conductor's eye.
"Can't you find some fair maid who will sit beside me - for this ride".

Well, I saw her before the bus even slowed down,
her skin black as earth and her eyes deep and brown as the Rother.
Her legs were bare and her dress was white
And the bus pulled over and I saw her stride all aboard.
"One single, please, to the town hall", she said,
(and sweat beads appeared on the conductor's forehead),
"For I've got to work Saturday at the borough revenue archive".

She walked along the aisle, her eyes flashed side to side,
and she saw the leather seat vacant beside me.
But she climbed up to the landing to survey the upper deck,
and she decided on the spot, simply to stay standing far from me.
"I'm single, I'm free", my inner voice lied
to the dark and doubting spirit in my heart's nether side.
But my outward composure was as blasé as could be - a regular awayday rover.

"What's wrong with me, that you won't join me today ?
Is my fly unzipped or my beard in disarray on my face.
Have I an odour problem or is my gut too weighty
or are you just put off by my clothes from nineteen-eighty five ?"
"Oh no", she lied, "I can see by your eyes
that you're a desperate soul and I fear you.
Your psychotic grin and the saliva on your chin and your age tell me not to come near you."

Soon I heard the bell ring and she walked down the aisle,
her dress of white and beautiful smile receding;
and with a zephyr of scent, she upped and went
and stepped off into the Derbyshire weather left me staring at the slits in the leather.
One return, please, to my home on Holymoor,
for I've been tested in fire and you've let me know the score
and I'm feeling kind of tired and I won't ride no more - till I'm older


Music and lyrics © David Banks 1998
Track Name: Sierra Kilo Base
Sierra Kilo Base

Diving down from the hillside, the potholes kissing my wheels.
Stunted oaks in yellow suits: the air around me feels
like it’s buzzing with an EM pulse. My whiskers stand on end.
My heart’s antenna skips a beat. I'm clear to receive, please send.
Put one hand on your heart and the other on the mike
of your transceiver. You don’t know me, but I like
the sound of your voice on the Balkan ether
Miss Jean Brodie in a broadcasting fever.
Sierra Kilo Base - I haven’t even seen your face.
I need to put a trace on you.. Before you break up.

Ten channels of chaos, all full of soldier boys.
Romeo seeks Juliet in a haze of white noise.
I’ll take you out on the town tonight. I’ll take you out to dance.
A Tango or a quick Foxtrot and a spot of radio romance.
I take one hand from the wheel and I reach towards the set.
Do I dare to contact you although we’ve never met ?
While half the world is listening, from India to Quebec ?
Do I have the mettle - brazen cheek and brass neck ?
Sierra Kilo Base - I haven’t even seen your face.
I need to put a heat-seeking trace on your location...

She's picking up an unknown station ! Who’s this deviant guy
Who wants her to wilco his request ? She's sorry but she can’t comply.
"Please keep away from the airwaves with your intermission
and I’ll try to disregard the irregular nature of your transmission."
Soldier boys are on parade.
Soldier boys all laugh at my escapade.
Victor and Charlie and Oscar and Mike
Soldier boys don’t understand the things I like.

Music and lyrics © David Banks 2000
Track Name: Søndagsfrokost (Sunday breakfast)
Søndagsfrokost (Sunday breakfast)

Jeg sitter her med hjertet mitt fylt av tomhet.
Jeg sitter her med følelser uten navn.
Kanskje er det innbildning og kanskje bare dumhet;
men langt inni sjela mi så har jeg et savn.
Lørdagskveldssola den går snart ned.
Kanskje fins det noen der ute et sted
som jeg kan dele min søndagsfrokost med.

Jeg har mer enn nok av venner og kjente.
Det fins så mange menn'sker som gjør meg glad.
Verden er full av ålreite jenter.
Det er plenty opp av sjanser jeg kunne ta.
Du finner alltids noen på et sjekkested
Som er like desperate – og vel så det (hvis det kun var et spørsmål om å dra buksa ned)
Men jeg trenger ei som jeg kan spise søndagsfrokost med.

Det finns så mange som jeg kunne køye med
Og ha det ganske gøy i sengetøyet med
Men jeg er'kke fornøyd. Jeg vil ha mer enn det.
Jeg vil ha ei som jeg kan spise søndagsfrokost med.
Jeg har det helt fint, men jeg får ikke fred.
Det står et ubebodd rom inni hjertet et sted
Og jeg trenger ei som jeg kan spise søndagsfrokost med.

Music and lyrics © Bjørn Frengstad
Track Name: Bethl'em Born
Bethl’em Born

Baby Jesu, Bethl’em born
breathes breath of cow with crumpled horn
and broken donkey ridden down
by Joseph’s cargo town to town
of pregnant virgin’s troubled frown
on furrowed fields of dusty morn.

Baby Jesu, Bethl’em born
lies in trough of straw and corn
still damp with spit from cattle’s tongue
of fire; fierce; denouncing wrong
in temple filled with whitewashed throng
of magi marching from the dawn.

Baby Jesu, Bethl’em born
seeks out friends in lost and lorn
in ass and dreamer, ox and whore,
taxman, retard, fisher, bore
carried safe from sea to shore
the soul that aches, the mind that’s worn.

Baby Jesu, Bethl’em born
in swaddling linen freshly torn
like fragrant grave-laid winding sheet:
clothes of death with life replete.
Watch that bundle wail and greet
as mother Mary quells a yawn.

Baby Jesu, Bethl’em born
surveys the upright freshly sawn
and cross-beam under new-built roof
the inn’s safe stable, strong and proof
where infant hands grasp out to truth,
to leaking nipple, crown of thorn.

GLORY Jesu, Naz’reth’s son
GLORY GLORY teenage mum
GLORY that we all are able
to seek solace in this fine-spun fable
break bread with friends at every table
GLORY humble
GLORY loser
god bless us, ev’ry one.

© David Banks 2010
Track Name: Colour of Your Love
Colour of Your Love

I've seen the writing on the wall,
the magazines under your bed.
I've heard you on your mobile phone.
I've heard the voices in your head.

I've heard the rumour of your ways;
your tightness and your lofty grin;
control-freak at a rodeo.
You'll not surrender, not give in.

Scarlet, yellow, mordant thee - your social value so cocksure.
Fire, soil, hot air and sea - your elemental miscomposure.
Bile, blood, melancholy - your humour writ by stars above.
So - take your poisoned hands off me - I know the colour of your love.

I've seen you when you've drunk too much.
I've seen the way you treat your wife.
I've seen the man behind your eyes.
I've rubbed the texture of your life.

I've eavesdropped on your late-night calls,
your Internet activity.
Your Visa statement still appals -
"Services Rendered", "Pay TV".

I've seen you scheme behind my back.
With your innocent smile and wounded tones,
you subvert my tranquil home and hearth
with your posture as a chaperone.

With silver fork borne in your mouth;
friendly seemed your burnished tongue,
which wrapped its snake-like coils round me
to persuade me that I did no wrong.

I'd loved your pleasant company.
Your facile banter - empty chat.
And, buoyed up by your wandering eyes
I beached on your ego's Ararat.

I've scratched your sweaty spineless back.
I've touched your pock-marked facial skin.
Disapproved of your deodorant
which fails to mask the stench of sin.

Music and lyrics © David Banks 2000
Track Name: The Scent of a Man
The Scent of a Man

There’s an unpleasant odour of “man” in the air:
of potting shed, porno and brilliantined hair,
of slugs and of snails and masculine hunk
and bravado and bullshit and a slight hint of spunk
and tobacco, brown velvet, malingering shame
and sweat from playing the one-up-manship game.

So let’s distil and bottle and aerosolise
and praise this perfume of man to the skies
and to make it attractive to every dame
we’ll give this essence a rough and tough name like “Brute”
No, you can’t do that - it’s already been done:
and besides...it’s aggressive. Here, I’ve got one......
How about “Boor”

There’s a pungent stink of masculine pride
and arrogance rising like scum on a tide
and oil and swarf and bricks and mortar
and fear and regret for the things that they ought to
have done for their parents and children and kin
but were too busy working to even begin

So let’s distil and bottle and aerosolise
and praise this perfume of man to the skies
and to make it attractive to every dame
we’ll give this essence an erotic name like “Obsession”
No, you can’t do that - it’s already been used:
and it sounds a bit creepy. No, I’m enthused by......
maybe “Control”

Slugs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails
Sighs and leers and crocodile tears
Pitch and tar and pig-tail and scar
Pipeclay and drill, the foeman to kill
Pipe and smoke and collars that choke
Slippers that flop and a bald-headed top*
Songs that are witty - or just full of self pity.
That’s what real men are made of

To make it attractive to every dame
we’ll give this essence a cutting edge name like “Axe”
No, you can’t do that - it’s already been taken:
and you shouldn’t keep associating maleness with weapons of combat.
No. if I’m not mistaken......
something like “Cock” should do the trick.
And if not “Cock” then, maybe, “Rooster”

So, like or abhor it, Hate or adore it
The scent of a man: you just can’t ignore it.
Breathe and inhale it. Praise or bewail it,
it’s coming to a store near you....


© David Banks 2015
Stanzas marked * are from a traditional rhyme, published by Robert Southey (1774-1843)
Track Name: Channel No. 5
Channel No. 5

Putting on my dark glasses, I'm going down the Bay of Pigs,
To view the local talent all stretched out on the strand.
Putting on my dark glasses, I wade out into the water,
'cos I get a better view from the sea than from the land.
Putting on my dark glasses, the ones with mirror shades,
You can't see into my soul, you can't see that I'm alive.
Switching on the Pay TV; I'm one for the ladies -
the ones you see on late night Danish Channel No. 5.

Putting on my dark glasses, I'm going international;
looking at the peaches on the Côte d'Azure.
Putting on my dark glasses. It's surprising how much pleasure
you can get by booking a place on a SunVing package tour.
Putting on my dark glasses, the ones with mirror shades,
I can peer down your cleavage I can gaze between your thighs.
Switching on the Pay TV; I'm one for the ladies -
the ones you see on late night Danish Channel No. 5.

Putting on my dark glasses, in a vodka bar in Riga;
nylon-stockinged legs all wrapped around the chairs.
I've got on my dark glasses, watching money changing hands,
watching fat German businessmen conduct their night affairs.
Putting on my dark glasses, the ones with mirror shades,
You can't see into my soul, you can't see into my eyes.
Got on my dark glasses; I shun contact with real women -
they want to cut my bollocks off, to cut me down to size.


Music and lyrics © David Banks 1997
Track Name: Lurv
Lurv

I'm damned impatient and not very kind.
I struggle against the ties that bind.
Look into my soul and you will find
that I'm sometimes jealous, conceited and proud;
it gives me a buzz to stand out from the crowd.
I listen too little and I talk too loud.
So let me tell you this, you loverboy Paul,
You former Young Turk, you Tarsan Saul;
You seem to have been blinded by a bolt from above,
so don't try to give me this shit about.....lurv.

Ill mannered ! Who, me ? Well, pardon my farting !
My behaviour's too passé ? Man, I'm only just starting !
Selfish ! No way ! I'm always imparting
my version of truth to all who will listen.
And I need to be grumpy - it gives life some frisson.
You should try it some time, you don't know what you're missin'.
So you listen to me, you Corinthian epistler,
you born-again naïf, you penumbran whistler.
You may have been inspired by a hand from above,
but please don't recite me your poems about......lurv.

My record of wrongs is as long as my arm,
from the Romanov empire down to Margaret's farm;
from the Bay City Rollers to Michael Bolton's false smarm.
Am I happy with evil or am I happy with truth ?
You think I'm gonna answer that one ? Strewth !
Give me hard facts each time, Bob, but I insist on some proof.
So, tell me now, Paul, you Mediterranean tourist,
a down-to-earth question to a spiritual purist:
you must have met women; did their bodily curve
and their feminine charms teach you nothing about.....lurv ?

Love never gives up ? Well, excuse you for bragging !
After ten minutes' foreplay, my libido is flagging.
Do you maybe take ginseng to keep your todger a-wagging ?
Love is eternal ! You take away my breath !
Are you serious, man ? Have you not read "Macbeth" ?
Love lights the way for fools to a dusty death.
You spent too much time, Paul, in Italian lands,
with their talk of hope and faith and romance.
Otherwise you'd have learned from the Teutonic clans
that these three remain:
Schadenfreude
Weltschmerz
und Angst.



Music and lyrics © David Banks 1998
Track Name: Education and Additives
Education and Additives

Hey.....Mr. M Can Gail come out to play?
Yeah, I know you haven’t seen me for some time...but I’ve been away.
I’ve been out there chasing fame and fortune and it kept me ill for a while,
but I think I’m getting better now and I’d love to see her smile
and cry and run around and graze her knees on the ground.

Hey.....Mr. M Can Gail come out to play?
Yeah, I know she’ll soon be turning thirty-eight on her next birthday.
But she always liked a game of footy in the park and swinging on the gate
and if we don’t start living soon it’s going to be too late
and we’ll have to go inside instead and crawl upstairs to bed..

Hey.....Mr. M Can Gail come out to play?
Yeah, I know that you invited us to dinner next Thursday - and we love your tofu roulé.
But it isn’t quite the same to chat in refined company;
she’ll be busy playing hostess and tending the family tree
and talking education and additives instead of sand and sea.

Hey.....Mr. M Can Gail come out to play?
I know she’s got a new life now and new commitments, but don’t they get in the way ?
You’ve kept her in playing docs and nurses and mums and dads and school,
and dressing up in power suits and acting kind of cool,
which is fine in its place, its no disgrace to act a grown-up fool.

Hey.....Mr. M Where’s your sense of liberty?
You’ve been shut up there for thirteen years in your three-bed semi -
committing vile adultery.
Send her out to play with me and I’ll bring her back by two
and we can hang around the bike-sheds and maybe sniff some glue
and dream about those golden days of rosemary and rue.

Music and lyrics © David Banks 1999