The Triumph of Hope Over Experience

See below for track list, and lyrics of the The Triumph of Hope Over Experience album which was released in 2002

Supporting Chumawamba

There’s all this empty space & me & this & acoustic guitar,
What passes for an audience is deep in what passes for conversation at the bar,
I think: subtle fingerpicking ain’t going to work at all,
Supporting Chumbawamba at Whitehaven Civic Hall.

I decide to go pro-active, & give them post-punk, thrash-metal acoustic guitar,
What passes for audience is still deep in what passes for conversation at the bar,
The applause starts out indifferent, then rises to bugger all,
Supporting Chumbawamba at Whitehaven Civic Hall.

Is it all that radiation or inbreeding that goes on around here?
Or a steady diet of crap tribute bands & £1.80 a pint for crap keg beer?
I do the funny song.  I do the swearing song, nothing works at all,
Supporting Chumbawamba at Whitehaven Civic Hall.

They’ve expended all their wit, marshmallows & underpants on the previous band,
So all I get’s this one lone nutter shouting his head off at the foot on the microphone stand.
Even I don’t want an encore, but the weirdest thing of all is someone buys a song book.
Supporting Chumbawamba at Whitehaven Civic Hall.

I get knocked down, but I get up again… that just about says it all,
Supporting Chumbawamba at Whitehaven Civic Hall.

London On Sea

The sea waits at the end of each street, a grey dog to snap at your heels,
The squares still talk of their better days, the gents & gentility, lamenting virginities lost
On a dirty weekend, with Pinkie & Rose, back when life was a sin,
But now everyone knows it’s a packet of three & you don’t feel a thing now
In London On Sea.

Up on the Downs with their airs & graces new fake elizabethans put on their brave faces,
& pretend not to notice the dog & its beggars haunting the pavements outside their theatres,
While I’m lost on this ghost-train of thought, all of these years they’ve been selling us short,
At the end of the pier, nothing’s for free, or worth what it costs you
In London on Sea

But these streets they’re the map of my life, each corner I turn keeps bringing me back,
Where everything changes except for the sea & the boy throwing stones who used to be me,
He’s still lost for words, the West Pier at sunset, the language of waves,
I’m lost for words, you get your best poetry
In London On Sea.

The sea waits at the end of each street for the drunk & the sober, the gay & the straight,
The sea waits at the end of each street for the aging aquarian, punk vegetarian
Widows of Hove & the Kemptown old lags, the bungalow Colonels, the nags, the shags,
Old-age travellers, new-age pensioners, Adam & Steve & the gardeners of Kensington,
Students of love & the lovers of students & skateboards & needles & tearoomes & Seagulls
& Princes & levellers, Gorse & or course, you & me
In London On Sea.

This Song Is A Rose 

Miranda & Tim are getting married, we arrive behind the bride before the rain, 
Miranda has her hair up, she looks lovely, & Tim won’t ever look this good again.  
Afterwards the kids run round the gravestones with all their crumbling promises of God, 
It’s a triumph of hope over experience, 
These promises we make each other against the odds. 

& the flowers will fade in the finest bouquets,
But this song is a rose for you, that never fades for you, 
This song is a rose for you always

The vicar says it’s just like Thomas Hardy, & I wonder if he’s read Jude, The Obscure?
Though nowadays Tess doesn’t do so badly, with her lonely bed ‘n’ breakfast & pushchair.
& yeah, I still believe that it’s your body, but I’m glad I won’t be doing love again, 
& to those I’ve loved all I can say is “sorry”, 
But I thank you for the sunlight in amongst the rain.   

Miranda & Tim are getting married, the rain holds off until we’re safe inside, 
then the kids rush out & splash through all the puddles, 
& the gravestones bow their heads before the bridegroom & the bride, 
& the light turns gold across the Latin Quarter, where you wait for me
outside Shakespeare & Co’s, 
It’s a triumph of hope over experience, 
& I bring to you, my one true love
This everlasting rose.   

* “The Triumph of Hope Over Experience” – Oscar Wilde

Hope Street, Tomorrow Afternoon

We signed the peace agreement, we danced between the lines, 
We found the cure for poverty, the governments all resigned, 
We found the guilty, guilty, we gave their suits the sack, 
Refused to fit their uniforms & sent their medals back,
It was better late than never, it was not a day too soon, it was Hope Street, tomorrow afternoon.

We lifted all the curses every zealot’s ever laid,
Rescinded every fatwa & abolished all crusades, 
We took back all the money, that they made from making bombs
& we turned it into ploughshares for the kids they stole it from, 
We took the toys away from the boys, all they blow up now’s balloons, 
On Hope Street, tomorrow afternoon.  

So we stood there as good as naked & we said so this is it, 
This little bag of bones & dreams & wind & piss & shit, 
With nothing half so beautiful, each smile beyond compare, 
Well maybe I won’t make it, but one day we’ll be there,
& we’ll share the bread & roses, it’s not asking for the moon, 
On Hope Street, tomorrow afternoon. 

You & This City

Heartbeat, liver, libido, biro – check.  

You’re all curves, shoulders, thighs, 
Curled up in last night’s heat, 
Black hair, black underwear, 
Half shell of white sheets.
In this mediterranean light
Sun coming up with – 

Outside, it’s all right angles, 
A regular ocean, rooftop, chimney pot, 
However many windows in however many walls
With however many stories, untold, unfolding, 
In this mediterranean light, 
This mediterranean light, 
Sun coming up with – 
You & this city, you & this city, 
Who could ask for more?

It’s all dream, deep blue sea, 
Everything you touch, everything you see, 
Surface – velvet, PVC –
Places where some dreams come true, temporarily,
In this mediterranean light,
This mediterranean light 
Sun coming up with – 
You & this city, you & this city,
Who could ask for more?

Sunlight & Snow

 A circle of friends, a circle of light, 
Guitars & champagne somewhere in the night, 
Who’d have believed that we’d all be here? 
Here’s to the snow & the next 50 years, 
& the years come & go like sunlight & snow.  

There’s a casualty list, names that we knew, 
Lips that we kissed that left scars & tattoos, 
But the winter sun’s touch makes everything shine, 
I don’t miss you that much, I just drink too much wine, 
& the years come & go like sunlight & snow.  

We spent most of the day in these cafes & bars, 
Till the last post was played & they switched off the stars, 
What can I say?  It was over too soon, 
But at the end of the day, there was the moon,
& the years come & go like sunlight & snow.  

Back Story to the song, Peanuts

It’s five past Friday evening, the town of Greiz is cold & grey, & I’m down the Bahnhofstrasse in the Peanuts Bar Café. In the shadows in one corner, a well-dressed business man is drinking the café’s most expensive wine & working on a laptop. In the shadows of the other corner, two teenage boys, pale faced, hooded, are muttering & whispering about how the Auslaenders all get televisions & computers the moment they arrive. A small, slightly shabby man with round glasses drinking beer unnoticed at the bar, sighs, & thinks about how he’s heard this all before. He has his guitar in its case, & a packed suitcase discreetly at his feet. His cigar burns steadily in an ashtray. The door opens & a tall, smartly dressed stranger carrying a guitar & suitcase, hat pulled down over his face, walks in. He moves through the bar the way a cat moves when its trying to pretend it’s invisible. The boys stop whispering when they realise his skin is black. He sits down at the bar, orders a beer & puts a cigarette in his mouth. His fingers slide into his jacket pockets looking for matches. The man with the glasses pushes his lighter over to him.

“Thank you, mister,” says the man with the hat, quietly, politely.

The boys start their whispering again. 

“Bertolt Brecht, ” says the man with the glasses, holding out his hand.

“Robert Johnson,” replies the man with the hat. He carefully puts the lighter into Brecht’s open hand. Brecht nods, impressed. Johnson looks at Brecht’s guitar.

“Are you a player too, mister?”

Brecht shakes his head. “No, not like you. I’m more of a writer. But then…you are too, aren’t you?”

“You heard my stuff?”

Brecht nods. “Oh yes. Poetry, Mr Johnson. ‘Love in Vain’…. Poetry.”

“Do I know your stuff, mister?”

Brecht thinks for a minute. “No, probably not. Maybe… Do you know ‘Mack The Knife’?”

It’s Johnson’s turn to look impressed. “Yeah… good song. Didn’t you do that ‘Pirate Jenny’ thing too?”

Brecht nods, trying not to look too pleased with himself.

“Man, that is a song. What’s that all about, man? She’s black, right, that woman, she’s got to be black.”

Brecht looks surprised. “I don’t know… possibly. I hadn’t thought about it…Yes, very possibly. Possibly, nowadays, maybe she thinks of herself as muslim, rather than working class, but, yes, she could very well still also be black. Unfortunately.”

By now, the Café is starting to fill up with customers. A father & son come in with the unthinking confidence of routine, seat themselves at their accustomed table & wait for the barman to bring them their accustomed beers. They share an affectionate, fond & comfortable silence, & Brecht & Johnson watch as modest smiles creep across their faces.

“You have children?” asks Brecht.

“All over, I guess…” Johnson’s smirk turns into a wry grimace. He shrugs.

“But nothing … permanent?”

“No, nothing… permanent, mister. Just passing through. Gotta keep moving…”

“Blues falling down like hail, eh?”

“Yeah, blues falling down like hail…”

A group of stereotypically beautiful girls tumbles like laughter into the café. They too head for an accustomed table. Unconsciously, both Brecht & Johnson sit up a little straighter; Brecht adjusts his glasses & Johnson tilts his hat. The girls ignore them. Again, unconsciously, their shoulders, & bellies, relax & sag a little as they return their attention to their beer.

“What do you call an artist without a girlfriend?” asks Brecht.

“Homeless,” replies Johnson.

Neither of them laugh. Brecht looks at the ash on his cigar, & Johnson lights another cigarette from the stub of his old one. Brecht looks in admiration at Johnson’s fingers. They are long, elegant, wicked, spatulate, & move like they have a life of their own, sliding like snakes, fluttering like birds. They look like they will never be at ease unless they are caressing a guitar.

“So….did you really sell your soul to the devil?” asks Brecht, never taking his eyes from Johnson’s fingers.

Johnson closes his eyes, tilts his head, like he’s listening for something he isn’t ever going to hear. He smiles, opens his eyes & looks directly at Brecht. “Did you?” he asks.

“Well…” Brecht frowns. “As a good socialist, I of course don’t believe in the devil except as a useful metaphorical shorthand…”

“So how come you got that theatre in Berlin I seen one time when I was passing through?”

Brecht grimaces. “Compromises. The only way to keep going. You make the best deal with the …the most progressive devils you can find.”

“Is that right?”

Brecht finds himself feeling unconvinced.

“In retrospect….looking back now…It’s all very well being an anarchist. All you have to do is complain about everything & everybody all the time. & it’s all very well being a revisionist, saying ‘oh in retrospect…’ But at the time…You make choices.” He frowns. “I don’t know. An artist without a … girlfriend…You know?”

He looks up into Johnson’s face & raises his eyebrows. It’s his turn to shrug now.

Johnson nods. “You do what you have to. To keep going. Who wants to be a hero anyway, huh? Most people, just takes all they got just to keep going, get to the end of the working week, before the next one starts up again. Most people I play for, they just want a good Friday night out. They don’t want no po-litics. They don’t care about how many hellhounds you got on your trail. You pick guitar, or you pick cotton.” Johnson sighs & looks his splayed fingers. Brecht wonders if it’s just the candle light that makes them look like they are trembling slightly. Johnson steals a backward glance at the shadows over his shoulder & quickly turns his head back again. “I chose the guitar, Mister Brecht. I plays whatever they wants to hear, so’s they can dance for however long they wants to dance.”

“Yes… indeed. Unhappy the land that has need of heroes… though we did used to have an awful lot of statues in the old days. Perhaps that was the problem.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“No statues,” Brecht raises his glass.

“No statues,” agrees Johnson, raising his glass.

They drink their beers.

“Tell me,” asks Brecht, “doesn’t it bother you the millions other people have made out of your music?”

“Well… when I started playing, just not picking cotton & nothing else everyday was good enough for me. To get out of Mississippi, see that moon of Alabama, yeah? Get me to that next whisky bar…” Johnson looks sideways at Brecht & they both laugh. “That’s all I ever wanted. & here I am. It was a good deal.” Johnson’s face suddenly looks like it’s turned to stone. “At the time. A real good deal.”

“Hmn,” grunts Brecht, “so was the theatre. At the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

They finish their beers.

“Another?”

Johnson shakes his head. “Gotta keep moving.” He picks up his guitar. “You staying?”
Brecht nods. “Nowhere else to go. Besides… I quite like it here. In spite of everything.”

“That’s because you’re white, man.”

“No, I think it’s because I’m red, actually.”

They laugh. Johnson holds out his hand.

“Take care, man.”

“Go well, comrade.”

They shake hands.

As Johnson passes by on his way out into the darkness, the businessman looks up from his laptop & calls out softly “See you later, boy,” then nods to the two pale hooded faces in the corner. They get up & walk towards the door.

Outside, a golden moon in a black silk sky smiles down on a cold grey town. Behind every window, it feels like there is a TV in almost every room now, & every room is spilling over with reality shows, game shows, celebrity shows, pumped full of advertisement & numb with the latest news of the latest war. Elsewhere on the planet, Mother Courage hauls her monstrous wagon from checkpoint to checkpoint through the ruined streets of Baghdad, as the jet fighters howl over her head. Meanwhile, Robert Johnson, darkness shadowing every step, whistles softly to himself as he heads towards his next Hauptbahnhof, “Gotta keep moving, blues falling down like hail…”

Inside, Brecht orders a black coffee & takes out his biro. He looks around at the largely unemployed & officially no longer necessary working people of Greiz as they smile, & laugh, & drink their way through the candle light towards the end of this particular tired old working week. He notices one woman wears pretty pink shoes. Pink shoes…He smiles to himself. The ash on his cigar trembles, & he begins to write.

“We all work for peanuts…”