Ribs & Blues Review from Blues Magazine

Blues Magazine:
Text: Jeroen Bakker / Photos: Filip Heidinga and Markus Hagner, Markus Hagner Photography

Is a good thing because on the Delta stage has been BROTHER DEGE after some delay during the soundcheck still underway. We had heard somewhere that there would be a fire-breathing Dobro on stage and when Tarantino select your music in support of his latest movie here must surely be something going on. This fire-breathing Dobro is omitted but "Too Old To Die Young 'we heard live in the film Django Unchained some teeth violent than this soundtrack. Raw roots sounds in which the spirit of Blind Willy Johnson sounds but in which Sonic Youth seems to have been affected. Singer / guitarist Dege has quite some way from that diabolical Tom Araya from Slayer and occasionally he manages to just put down such a merciless guitar part as the metal icon. Let's have a moment to emphasize that it is here today have played with a semi-acoustic guitar. Whit Monday? According to Brother Dege is the 'Judgement Day'. The men from Louisiana impress in Raalte.



We wrapped up this tour
In Toul, France
After slamming through
The last set 
In what felt like a cavernous 
Airplane hangar
And then crashing out 
In a 200 year old French manor
After the show. 
Everybody did good,
Played well. 
Nobody died
Or had any meltdowns. 
Or freak outs. 
This is good. 
Each tour is like a little novella. 
It sits on your memory shelf
And stays there
Until you go back 
And pick it up again. 
And look at it. 
I like memories. 
And meeting people. 
And traveling. 
It's not easy. 
I talk to a lot of touring bands
On reputable indies
And most have the same issues 
As we do. 
"It's brutal out there."
Sometimes people show up. 
Sometimes they don't. 
Sometimes you make enough money
To live for a month when you 
Return home. 
Sometimes you don't. 
The process of simply 
Alerting people to the fact
That you are playing in their town,
Is a challenge of its own. 
The rule I've learned is:
If you aren't promoting 
The gig or a record yourself,
You are PAYING
Someone else to do it. 
That would include 
Your record label
If you have one.  
Case closed. 
But we were lucky
On this tour. 
It all worked out. 
It was a bit sketch, 
From the start. 
From borrowed cars
To hopping ferries 
To smuggling gear
To hitching rides in UK
With a dude we'd never met 
(Turned out to be Class A dude) 
To sending Greg out to Holland
(Separate from us) 
To wrangle gear & van 
To rendezvousing 
With the whole band in Paris
To wrangling Lucas (videographer)
To sleeping all kinds of wacky places. 
It was a good run. 
Like they all are in some way
(Good & bad),
But I'm mildly shocked 
Nothing went to shit on this one
Given all the lower-rent 
Moving parts that were in action. 
But once again,
it's about the journey. 
The experiences. 
I don't know how long 
It will last. 
But I remind myself everyday 
To just enjoy it
For what it is...
And not what I think 
It needs to be. 
Because that'll bum you out fast. 
So you just take it
For what it is. 
Push forward,
Explore the creativity,
And try to learn something new 
In the process. 
Much thanks to everyone 
Who came out 
And shot for the light 
With us. 
And much gratitude 
To my guys
For fighting the good fight. 



In England, 
The official designation 
For state parks & nature preserves 
Is "AONB's" or 
"Area's of outstanding natural beauty." 
Oddly long winded,
But the English 
Have such a beautiful command 
Of the language,
You can't fault them for it. 
Fuck, they invented it. 
All the the street names 
And districts have an effortless 
poetic lilt. 
Stokes Croft
Ladbroke Grove 
I love that. 
It's as if poets named 
All the streets. 
In other news,
Van Morrison must be
An unpleasant human. 
Every time I mention his name
In conversation,
The locals immediately reply
With something along the lines of 
"Oh, what a miserable sod."
These observations seems 
To come first hand. 
In other news,
My new country name
Is Rhinesack Nutstone. 
No one can take this away. 

Traveled by taxi,
Train, van, & foot
From London to Paris today
To rendezvous with Greg (drums) in Belgium 
Who picked up the gear & van
In Holland. 
For 14 hr travel day,
With a multitude of stops
And pickups 
And other necessities 
Things surprisingly 
Did not go wrong.  
From Belgium 
We made the drive 
To Paris. 
Played an incredibly exhausting  
Barnburner show. 
This was the first time 
In Paris 
With the band. 
Paris did not disappoint. 
Every show I've played there
Has been a blast. 
This was the fourth. 
Sometimes big cities 
Are too cool for school. 
Not Paris in my experience. 
They just get it. 
Woke next day
And drove to Sterrbeck, Belgium
To play another completely exhausting insane show.
And stayed out too late afterward
With the locals. 
Woke with scratchy voice. 
That's always a sign 
I talked, drank, & smoked too much. 
So for the rest of the
Day I have to shut 
And be quiet,
Which is hard for me. 
We drive to Amsterdam 
And play another crazy show 
In a venue outside of a festival,
Which made the load-in 
Approx 4x as difficult. 
Inside the venue,
The festival crowd danced 
To euro dance music
And other stuff. 
And were very oblivious to us,
Except for one 
55 year old, shaved head 
aging soccer-looking hooligan guy. 
He yelled at us 
In drunken euro speak 
that we were too loud 
as we sound checked.
We'll call him Bronco. 
Bronco bitched and moaned 
As we line checked,
Interrupting the club music,
Agonizing with his hands on his head
As if we we're defiling 
The baby Jesus. 
I played a minute of the 
Jimi's Star Spangled Banner 
And told him to buzz off. 
Oh, he loved THAT. 
Actually not. 
He threw his hands up
And walked away. 
30 min later we play 
And bang out 
An unhinged set 
Full of fuck ups 
And all the rest 
But it translates. 
It's not always about 
The notes and the perfect execution,
But about the ENERGY
You translate 
When you replicate 
Your songs live.  
It's never perfect. 
At least it's never perfect 
In my world. 
It's just energy.
Maybe good. 
Maybe bad. 
Maybe boring. 
Maybe transcendent. 
Next show. 
Raalte, Netherlands. 
Ribs & Blues Festival. 
We drive there 
Get lost 
Jump on our phones 
Circle back 
And finally 
We stop 
And ask a lesbian biker
For directions. 
She obliges in broken English,
For which we are very thankful. 
You have to ditch the fucking 
Informational Matrix 
And go face to face 
With the people 
Like Humans
Have done for the last 
9 billion years. 
We make it to the festival. 
Park Van (always a pain in the ass). 
We hurriedly line check 
And then bang out a 60 min set
With encore. 
The crowd liked & understood it,
I think. 
It was a "Blues festival"
Which comes with its own baggage. 
I don't claim to be a "blues musician."
I really don't know 
What it is. 
What I do has elements of blues
With the slide 
And the darker hued content,
But otherwise 
I feel as if I have nothing 
In common with most 
Modern blues musicians,
Including whatever array 
Of "garage rock" inspired blues music
Is out there. 
I really don't pay attention to it. 
I just like music with soul. 
Whatever genre. 
That's it. 
I don't give a shit about hype music 
Or whatever is being pushed
Down one's throat.
It makes me like it less. 
The music industry is so desperate
To stay alive 
To sell shit to people 
That the spinning wheel 
Just keeps on turning 
Regardless of the quality. 
And I know 
There is always great music 
Out there. 
Most of it unheard
By the masses. 
Maybe that's how it should be. 
I don't know. 
I just do what I do. 
And try to steer my energy 
Whether positive or negative 
Toward creative pursuits. 
Everything else 
That is of a petty origin 
Is mostly a total waste of time. 
While you're bitching & moaning,
Someone else is down 
In the sweat shack
Doing it 
Creating it
Out in the backwoods 
Of the imagination,
Teaming with the spirit code
And quantum gospel,
Past the miles of bullshit
That undoubtedly will consume you.
But maybe that is
As it should be as well. 



I catch my flight ATL>Dublin. 
As usual on overseas flights to Europe,
The plane is packed. 
I get a window seat.
Seat 41-J
In a two seat row
Sitting next to me is guy from Georgia. 
Name: Jamal. 
Both of us have long legs 
So we're a little cramped. 
We exchange inflight-appropriate pleasantries
But really don't talk any more than that,
Which is good.
Because overly extended 
inflight talk is so boring
And you have to expend a lot of energy 
On mom & pop-like politeness. 
As we taxi down the runway,
Jamal notices the two seats behind us
Are empty. 
He looks at me.
"Go for it," I say. 
He immediately grabs his stuff 
And occupies the two empty seats. 
This is an excellent turn of events. 
Now he and I have our own space. 
This is nirvana in flight terms. 
No elbow wrestling. 
No odd, accidental dude-to-dude 
Hetero/homo strangeness. 
No useless yakking. 
No piss break jockeying. 
We're home free. 
And we each have two seats
Worth of airplane real estate 
To sleep on. 
Fucking fantastic. 
Plane takes off.
Everybody's happy. 
I settle in with my book,
A Dave Van Ronk bio:
The Mayor of MacDougal Street. 
It's not bad. 
Right before the inflight meal comes,
About 2 hr into the 6.5 hr flight 
I pop a sleeping pill. 
My plan is to time it perfectly 
So that I get sleepy and zonk out
Right as my meal is digesting. 
It'll help me adjust to EuroTime. 
As I eat my meal (some fake chicken shit)
I notice a powerful foot odor radiating 
In our area of the cabin. 
This happens sometimes. 
People sweat a lot,
kick off their shoes,
Go to sleep.
It's not horribly bad. 
But it's definitely noticeable. 
It kind of dances around the upper lip 
Every 7-10 min 
Then disappears
Like a little stinky ghost. 
I ignore it.  
I'm used being around stinky dudes. 
Hell, I'm one of them sometimes. 
But not THIS time, comrade. 
I even checked my shoes & socks
After the meal to confirm 
That it was not me. 
Not this cowboy. 
Judging from the direction 
Of the stank waft,
I suspect the culprit
Is an overweight man 
In the seat in front of me.  
But I'm not sure 
And am really not that concerned 
About it. 
Humans stink.  
Fuck off. 
You can forgiven them. 
So I lay down across both seats, 
Stuff the ear plugs in,
And throw on the blind fold. 
Lay there. 
45 min passes. 
No sleep. 
Got a problem: the Advil PM
Does NOT work. 
Fuck it, I pop a half a Xanax 
I have stashed. 
I was gonna save it 
for a bad mood day. 
But Fuck it. 
20 min later, I'm out.
Sprawled across both seats
Kind of like I'm doing a cannon ball
Into a swimming pool
And landing on my back. 
Feet toward the window. 
It works. 
I fall asleep. 
I sleep for approx two hours.
I feel my seats violently shaking
Like a gorilla playing bongo drums
On them. 
At first,
I thinks it is violent 
Air turbulence. 
What the fuck?!
Then think the plane's going DOWN. 
I realize
Someone is leaning over the seat 
And yelling at me.
Anybody that knows me well
Knows I'm a freaky sleeper. 
I sleepwalk, sleep talk,
Speak alien gibberish, 
And throw random punches,
elbows, & kicks 
Into the air 
At devilish ghosts u seen
That's just the way 
It's always been. 
My mom, sisters,
And bandmates
Can verify this. 
I tear off the blind fold,
Yank out the earplugs,
And throw a few 
Nightmarish judo chops 
Into the cabin air above
To fend off whatever
Is trying to kill me. 
When my eye focus,
I realize the guy yelling at me
Is Jamal,
The dude that was sitting beside me,
Now sitting behind me. 
He's beating on my the back
On my seats 
And yelling,
What the fuck?!!!
I don't know about anyone else,
But when someone comes at me crazy
(Especially if I'm sleeping)
The "street" side of me comes out hard
And a crazy switch 
In my head flips. 
I yell back him 
Through the darkened cabin 
Of sleeping people,
"Sit your motherfucking ass 
Back down!
That ain't my feet stinking up this 
Place up!
You dumbass!
I smell it, too! 
Sit the fuck down!"
I was in a delirium.
Jamal's head slowly sank 
Out of view 
And he sat back down. 
Which is good
Because it could've ended bad
For BOTH of us. 
I ain't a NAVY SEAL,
But I was about to go 
Volunteer Air Marshall
On his stanky foot smelling ass. 
I lay back down. 
Now I'm jacked up. 
Wide awake. 
I lie there 
And try to reclaim my sleep
But I'm so pissed off 
I just keep talking shit
At him. 
Into the air. 
Why don't you go CSI 
Around the whole plane 
And find out 
Whose stinky feet it is?!
Wake my ass up again!
See what happens!
God, I was mad. 
I don't even know
What I would really do. 
I guess the yokels in the plane 
Politely ignored us. 
I really thought the plane 
Was going down. 
And this MFer
Talking about stinky feet?!
Get the fuck out of here!
I finally faded off to sleep. 
But it was a restless 
And agitated slumber. 
Next thing I know 
It's morning 
I hear the captain 
Announce our landing 
In Dublin. 
Light is raining into the Windows. 
Stewards are serving coffee. 
Passengers are awake. 
And I'm all half Xanax'd out,
Raw, and surly. 
Details from the gorilla seat bongo jam
Foot stink episode 
Trickle into my brain. 
I shake my head. 
I even check my socks 
And shoes again
To make sure 
It wasn't me 
That was stinking 
Up the cabin. 
It wasn't. 
My shit smells like roses. 
Well, not really roses.
But they didn't stink. 
I'm still pissed. 
I make a decision. 
When it's time to disembark 
From the plane 
I'm going to mad-dog Jamal
And let him know 
That shit wasn't cool. 
Just as a parting shot. 
But when they open the cabin doors
Jamal stands,
grabs his shit fast,
And rolls out of there. 
He won't even look at me. 
He's got his back to me 
The whole time we're waiting 
And doing the waiting thing 
Where passengers are all standing 
Waiting for them to open the doors. 
Would. Not. Even. Look. At. Me. 
Later, dude. 
I grabbed my shit.
Blew out of there. 
And tried to forget 
The whole the whole thing
So as not to ruin 
My day in Dublin. 
I don't know what the moral 
To the story is.
But maybe it's:


Brother Dege Spring European Tour Dates

Brother Dege Spring European Tour

05/05/16 The Spirit Store, Dundalk, Ireland
06/05/16 Brewery Corner, Kilkenny, Ireland
07/05/16 Levis Corner House, Ballydehob, Ireland
08/05/16 Crane Lane Theatre, Cork, Ireland
09/05/16 Frog and Fiddle, Cheltenham, UK
10/05/16 The Gillimaufry, Bristol, UK
11/05/16 Nambucca, London, UK
13/05/16 Espace B, Paris, France
14/05/16 Tonzent Live, Sterrebeek, Belgium
15/05/16 Pacific Live, Amsterdam, Holland
16/05/16 Raalte, Ribs & Blues Festival, Holland
20/05/16 Cafe Rocks, Enshede, Holland
21/05/16 Salle de l'Arsenal, Toul, France


BAINBRIDGE ISLAND Gig Confirmed at The Treehouse Cafe

Performances that come from the heart and soul | Kitsap Weekly
April 7, 2016 · 2:21 PM

Brother Dege is considered one of the best-kept secrets of the Deep South. / MIKE BUCK PHOTOGRAPHY

Bainbridge Island Review

BAINBRIDGE ISLAND — Arnie Sturham is a tough cookie.

Normally, the Treehouse Café owner lives by two criteria for booking a gig: name recognition and a built-in following. The Bainbridge crowd can be picky — “discriminating,” is the kinder word Sturham uses on his website — and the Treehouse Café receives dozens of inquiries every day, so he takes his time curating a line-up.

He can’t just breeze through his iPod and let his personal preferences dictate (although James McMurtry did grace his stage in both 2011 and 2013). Nor can he sell local musicians.

“That took us about a year and a half to figure out and [we] beat our heads against the wall,” Sturham said. “I can’t even give away a $5 ticket.”

He added, “People appreciate seeing bands that they would normally be on the fence about going to the city for.”

Often, that boils down to Americana.

“We get a lot of bands from Austin, Texas and Nashville that come through, and that seems to be what is probably the most well-received, but that doesn’t mean that’s all we’re doing.”

In the case of Sam Baker, who performs at the Treehouse on April 10, it was the crazy story that lured Sturham in.

In 1986, Baker — at the time a whitewater river guide — was on his way to Machu Picchu, traveling by train. He had barely snagged his seat when a bomb placed on a luggage rack exploded above his head. Seven passengers died, including a 19-year-old German boy sitting next to him.

Baker’s lungs collapsed, his ear drums had blown in and an artery had been cut. He was bracing himself for death, trailing a muffled voice down a smoky-gray tunnel that broke into liquid light, when a station worker hauled him out. Baker woke up and the voice spoke again, said, “You are here to do something.”

And that’s where the music began.

Healing took forever — Baker would undergo 17 reconstructive surgeries — and in the quiet, un-physical slog and years of no mobility, he wrote songs. Songs about tragedy, songs about empathy, songs based on old hymns and characters he’d see.

“He’s unique,” Sturham said. “No doubt a quality musician.”

Other upcoming acts may not be new to Treehouse regulars.

Seattle’s own Ian McFeron — who’s been compared to John Lennon, Tom Petty and Ryan Adams — will bring his band back to the pizza parlor April 30. Also returning is Marley’s Ghost, with a potpourri of Appalachian folk songs, reggae and honky tonk; and Ron Artis II and his brother Thunderstorm, who deliver rapid-fire rap and funk acoustic straight from Hawaii.

The last time Artis performed, as an opener for LeRoy Bell, Sturham said he almost got his butt kicked.

“LeRoy looked at me like ‘You’re an ass. You booked this kid that’s stealing the crowd before I’m even out there.’ ” (LeRoy, by the way, is coming back in August.)

May 22, Treehouse will host a farewell concert for Hans Araki, a former resident who is taking his penny-whistle and Irish flute to Portland, Maine. He’s accompanied by traditional singer Colleen Raney and Cary Novotny on guitar.

The following week, Ashleigh Flynn will have her second go-round.

“She reminds me of Lucinda Williams a little bit,” Sturham said. “She writes complex songs and she has a fantastic voice.”

But the show that Sturham is most excited for is the one he just booked: Brother Dege, whose song, “Too Old to Die Young” was featured on the soundtrack for “Django Unchained.”

“Brother Dege’s a really cool, unique Southern blues dobro player,” Sturham said. “It’s just unlike anything we’ve done before. I know I’m going to have a hell of a good time.”

Tickets and info: www.treehousebainbridge.com.

At the Treehouse
— Sam Baker: 7:30 p.m. April 10.
— The Ian McFeron Band: 8 p.m. April 30.
— Marley’s Ghost: 7:30 p.m. May 15.
— Ron Artis II and Thunderstorm & Kapali Long: 8 p.m. May 21.
— Hanz Araki, Colleen Raney & Cary Novotny: 6 p.m. May 22.
— Ashleigh Flynn & Kathryn Claire: 8 p.m. May 28.
— Brother Dege & The Brethren: 8 p.m. July 14.


Last Show Before Europe Tour / New Olreans

This is our last USA show before we head to Europe in May. Come set it off with us and do the hang at Siberia in New Orleans.
It's a hugely packed bill with a lot of our friends.


Siberia Event: http://www.siberianola.com/event/240002

FB Event: https://www.facebook.com/events/1705300849728321/





Updated Merch Page

Life is good...at least most of the time,
But you can't pay bills with pats on the back,
So here's the updated Brother Dege Merch Page
With all the doo-dads and things we got
And where to buy them.
Mucho Thxo, people.

Merch Page:


Signed, First-Edition Brother Dege Vinyl NOW AVAILABLE at CDbaby

Get them while we got them! We're clearing out the last of the vinyl stock with these SIGNED, FIRST EDITION Brother Dege vinyl albums now available for a short time (till they run, which won't be long) at CDbaby for domestic & international shipping.

Black Vinyl http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/brotherdege8
Gold Vinyl: http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/brotherdege6

Clear Vinyl http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/brotherdege7
Black Vinyl http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/brotherdege9

$30 = signed, colored vinyl
$25 = signed, black vinyl 


American Longhair Posters Now Available $20

American Longhair Poster (24 x 36 inches)

We've got a limited supply of full-size 
Brother Dege - AMERICAN LONGHAIR posters 
AVAILABLE for purchase through Big Cartel. 
$20 + shipping
Order HERE.


This is an enlargement of the original tin-type photograph
used for the cover of Brother Dege's Folk Songs of the American Longhair album.
Shot by Bruce Shultz. A tintype photograph, also known as a melainotype or ferrotype,
is a photograph made by creating a direct positive on a thin sheet of metal
coated with a dark lacquer or enamel and used as the support
for the photographic emulsion.
Tintypes enjoyed their widest use during the 1860s and 1870s,
but lesser use of the medium persisted into the early 20th century.


Complete Lyrics to Brother Dege's Scorched Earth Policy (Deluxe)


Liner Notes: 
Produced by Tony Daigle and Dege Legg
Engineering: Tony Daigle and Dege Legg
Mastering: Tony Daigle
Recorded at Electric Comoland, Psyouthern Bunker, and various locations including a trailerpark, motel, and warehouse. All locations in Lafayette, LA
All music & lyrics: Dege Legg aka Brother Dege
Copyright 2015 / Dege Legg Music Publishing / BMI
Scorched Earth Policy (deluxe edition) is a product of Psyouthern Media / Catalog #002
Lafayette, Louisiana / BrotherDege.com
Layout & Design: Maria Viator
Release date: July 24, 2015

Dege Legg: vocals, slide, electric guitar, bass, percussion
Ian Guidroz: bass on Somewhere
Greg Travasos: drums on Pay No Mind & Somewhere
Howie Wells: guitar on Day I Was Born
Danny Devillier: drums on Yellabone, Day I Was Born, Calabasas, Darklands
Seth Rung: bass on Yellabone, Calabasas,
Stephen Gardner: drums on Tower of Babel


Got the scorched earth fever
Begging come on
White light dream in your head
Where you going?
Looking round the way
I don’t care no more this time
Got the scorched earth screaming
And begging come on
Black light dreaming
Don’t know what you want
Search light swing to me
To and fro sometimes
I leave it behind
No nickle and dime
But watch if I set it off this time
Set it off this time
Don’t even know what I want
Set it off this time

Yeah, they call me I’m the King of Krokus.
Ball of Cokus with the ring to shine
Bring the beat down low and dirty
Ain't got to pay no mind
Sometimes the low get lonely
Sometime left behind
Way back in the hills and hungry
They ain’t got to pay no mind
I was kicking with chumps of dumpsters
Pulling pervis of a whole new kind
Hold the nutsack rock steady
Ain’t got to pay no mind
Some talk the talk a’lurking
Some walk the walk in line
Flat broke in the land of plenty
But ain’t got to pay no mind

Bury this away and come and run
Off to Louisiana to get it done
Something’s got to give
Don’t know when it’ll come
Someway, somehow, somewhere
Trying to find a way to grind it on
Sooner after later it won’t be long
Something’s got to give
Don’t know when it’ll come
Someway, somehow, somewhere
Crawling all the way from Roman lore
Broke in Alabama
Don’t know where we’re going
Search for something out there somewhere
In the nowhere beyond
Someway, somehow, somewhere

I’m a stone cold grinder that can’t change
Last of the bloodline to hold sway
The days get darker, you don’t say?
Ain’t seen the sunshine for 10 days
But you know I’m alive
Just like the saints of old
I came here to grind
Just like the day I was born
I sing to the mountain that don’t break
Over the fondling the same way
Days get darker, you don’t say?
Ain’t seen the sunshine for 10 days
Alive like the saints of old
Just like the day I was born

Tell you what
You tell me why
Stack them up break high
You always get what you want
Sometimes you say jump
How high do you want me to go?
No matter what, no matter why
It goes up, don’t deny
You always get what you want
Sometimes ain't enough
But the way you give and take
Is so rough
She goes on and on and on
Yeah, my yellabone,
You know she goes on
She goes on and on and on
Yeah, my yellabone she be the bomb
No matter what
Don't matter why
You show up
I got to follow
Before you leave me behind
To catch up
To get mine
Can I climb up
To the top of your throne

Twice the mythical
Thrice the physical
Don’t know if I live not know now
I got to find the real revolution

I said old man
Why are we sad and broken?
Where are our women and old kin?
What will you leave here to forget?
Said Old Man
Where are we from?
Where are we going?
When can I get it and know it?
Is there an end to the cold within?
We are souls of the darklands
One the same and none
So alone so many among
The zeros and ancient ones
Understand we are souls of the darklands
I said Old Man, are you sad and loaded?
Or hung-over and bloated?
You drug me here now we’re broken
Said Old Man, the Kubla Khan of the trashcan
Under the lash of your last stand
The father, son, and the back of his hand
We are souls of the darklands
So far, talking way beyond the stars
From the darkness where we part
To the dirty earth where it starts
Understand we are souls of the darklands

See no evil
Cause war is in season
Like spring or treason
All the atom bombs around the world
Strange men in a stranger world
Black night dreaming
I’m tired of thinking
Of all the meanings
All the loaded guns around the world
Aimed upon the flags unfurled
Make me see no evil at all
They want to sell your blood for oil
Make me see no evil at all
Stacking up the blood money
They got the Jones for war
See no evil
Cause greed’s in season
My TV is sleeping
In the land free
And the home of the fear
The mother of all bombs in the air
Old money dreaming
It’s stuck and scheming
Now who are you believing
The cowboy crooks or the billionaires
Victim or villain or bombardier
Stacking up the blood money
They got the Jones for war

Maria slits the dawn
I’m almost no one
No one like the unknown lamb
In the shadows of man
In forgotten holes
Where even animals
Surrender their command
This crown of thorns
This cross to the strange
Stranger than you wanted
Strange like the way of the lamb
I am powerless emotion
I am swinging from the night
The moon is on a string
I know you want it now
When the carnival of voices
Drowns the small talk and the jive
Like the way of the lamb
Can you dig the World War Zero
Like a man?
I tore the crown of thorns
From my head
It was such a drag
Now I’m free of all the bullshit
I know you’ll understand
Just like the way of the lamb
This crown of thorns
This cross to the strange
All the nameless gospels
All the faceless names
Of the lamb
Maria slits the dawn
I’m almost no one