Archive for October, 2003

Song: “Gentle My Love”

Monday, October 13th, 2003

This song was written on Koh Samui island, Thailand, at the start of the monsoon. It’s supposed to be like a meditation to concentrate on the moment. Alison and Bruce sing vocals, Alan Wrightson wrote and played the sitar part, Bruce plays guitar. Listen to “Gentle My Love”

Gentle my love, gentle my love; tonight we’ll admit no tomorrow.
Gentle my love, gentle my love; predict or recall no more sorrow.

Gentle my love, gentle my love; like the sound of the rain as it washes and cleans.
Gentle my love, gentle my love; like the murmur of sea that claims everything;

But if we were to ride on the surge of a wave
We would never sink or drown.

Gentle my love, gentle my love; Don’t hope for, or fear, all that follows.
Gentle my love, gentle my love; tonight there will be no tomorrow.

Words / music ©Bruce Lawson

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Future Nobel Prize Winner

Friday, October 10th, 2003

.. starts full-time school.

Marina's first day at schoolMarina's first day at school

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Song: “Silka, Wearing Fancy Dress”

Friday, October 10th, 2003

So, we were both sitting there sadly having yet another end-of-romance post-mortem, and she said ‘When we were “in love”’, making little quote marks with her fingers. And that one hurt; not the
love fucked up, but the denial that it had actually been real. And what’s the point of hurt if it can’t be transmogrified into bitterness and then made into a song, hey? Silka, Wearing Fancy Dress.

Silka walks in those evenings When you feel like you’re still a virgin.
You don’t trust your feelings, Silka’s certain she’s hurting.
She is dressed in lace when she says, “Yes, yes, I will; of course I will, yes” -
But if you feel the need to believe her, remember - Silka’s in fancy dress.

Silka in black satin, her long blonde hair in rich profusion;
Something useless happens, reinforcing stupid illusions.
And after all the sinful applause and your unsatisfying taste of success
Comes the knowledge of the flaws that you hate because they’re yours,
And in walks Silka in fancy dress.

Bejewelled in a shattered promise, she’s wearing fading fraying denim.
You’re pierced by inverted commas
that have appeared round the tales she’s been telling you for so long.
She’ll decree: “Everybody loves me”, but it’s too late for you’ve already guessed
Underneath there’s nothing that’s real to see; Silka’s only fancy dress.
Really, she’s merely fancy dress.
She’s very nearly Silka, wearing fancy dress.

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