(and then it gets strange)

As the summer draws to and end and such braw pots as detailed above are the order of the day; as the nights draw in and the year's Dandy-Beano and The Broons & Oor Wullie retrospectives hit the shelves (bought mine in Waterstones in Preston on Saturday for a fiver a throw; better still, turned up originals of the 1955 & 1961 Dandy Book and a 1962 Beano Book for £3.99 a pop at Oxfam); when one delights in a 1954 edition of the King Penguin book of Misericords - Medieval Life in English Woodcarving (which is worth seeking on-line otherwise you could pay up to £25 from an antiquarian bookseller); when one digs into the darker corners of one's ballad repertoire at singarounds; when, for daily listening, one roots out one's original vinyl copy of The Clemencic Consort's landmark recording of Le Roman de Fauvel featuring what might regarded as the definitive performance by Rene Zosso (the perfect musical accompaniment, incidentally, for the perusing of the aforementioned Misericords - Medieval Life in English Woodcarving); when one waits with baited breath for the publication of the full facsimile of the recently unearthed masterpiece of medieval English art that is The Macclesfield Psalter... then one might also, in those all-too quiet moments when inner-reflection threatens to consume one in a maelstrom of self-doubt and melancholy at a life thus wasted in dedication to folk song and other such anachronisms, find comfort (as one has been doing now since it's release in 1982) in Hex Enduction Hour by The Fall - who, in taking their name from Camus, will forever synonymous with Autumn. I have in my keeping a bootleg recorded in Newcastle in October 1981; a fine night in The Bierkeller (I was there) where they featured a lot of what would later turn up on Hex, including, of course, Jawbone and the Air Rifle, introduced by Mark E. Smith in a cod Scots accent as a wee tale from the Anthrax Island.

I've often tried to figure out a way of singing it in folk clubs; one day I might even nail it. Meanwhile, in the spirit of true Engishness, 5000 Morris Dancers, 700 Elves, the oncoming autumn and pure poetic excellence, here it is in full...   

JAWBONE AND THE AIR-RIFLE

The rabbit killer left his home for the clough
And said goodbye to his infertile spouse
Carried air rifle and firm stock of wood
Carried night-site telescope light

A cemetery overlooked clough valley of mud
And the grave-keeper was out on his rounds
Yellow-white shirt buried in duffle coat hood
Keeping edges out with mosaic color stones

Jawbone and the air rifle
Who would think they would bring harm?
Jawbone and the air rifle
One is cursed and one is borne

The air rifle lets out a mis-placed shot
It smashed a chip off a valued tomb
Grave-keeper tending wreath-roots said
"Explain, move into the light of the moon"

"I thought you were rabbit prey, or a loose sex criminal"

Rifleman he say "Y'see I get no kicks anymore
From wife or children four
There's been no war for forty years
And getting drunk fills me with guilt
So after eight, I prowl the hills
Eleven o'clock, I'm tired to fuck
Y'see I've been laid off work"

The grave-keeper said
"You're out of luck
And here is a jawbone caked in muck
Carries the germ of a curse
Of the Broken Brothers Pentacle Church
Formed on a Scotch island
To make you a bit of a man"

Jawbone and the air rifle
Who would think they would bring harm?
Jawbone and the air rifle
One is cursed and one is warm

The rabbit killer did not eat for a week
And no way he can look at meat
No bottle has he anymore
It could be his mangled teeth
He sees jawbones on the street
Advertisements become carnivores
And roadworkers turn into jawbones
And he has visions of islands, heavily covered in slime
The villagers dance round pre-fabs
And laugh through twisted mouths
Don't eat
It's disallowed
Suck on marrowbones and energy from the mainland

Jawbone and the air rifle
Who would think they would bring harm?
Jawbone and the air rifle
One is cursed and one is gone