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01 May 05 - 01:40 PM (#1475822) Subject: Lyr Req: the last chance - rosselson From: GUEST,ray leon rosselson - the last chance: anyone have the lyrics to this? had it years ago on tape and lost it in a move. I just remember that it had incredible power and I want to know if it is as relevant today as it was when I first heard it twenty years ago or so... |
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01 May 05 - 01:47 PM (#1475829) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: the last chance - rosselson From: Joe Offer It's in the songbook called Bringing the News from Nowhere, but it's four pages long. I won't have time to post it until late Monday, because I'm on my way out the door for a 4-hour drive. Maybe somebody will beat me to it. If I forget to post it, remind me. -Joe Offer- joe@mudcat.org |
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01 May 05 - 01:56 PM (#1475839) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: the last chance - rosselson From: GUEST,ray thanks joe - I'll look out for it. This is the first time I've used your site. Years ago, was given a mix cassette of his songs. They were all great. lost them. It wasn't labelled and I didn't even know his name. Spent this afternoon racking my brain for key lyrics to google and track him down. Suddenly the words 'fish finger'...'invented'..and 'transmogrify' came to me. Found LR then your site. Sometime the internet is just amazing. Thanks for your help and your so quick reply. Have a good trip. |
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01 May 05 - 03:14 PM (#1475898) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: the last chance - rosselson From: GUEST The Last Chance is on a 4-song CD about Israel/Palestine available directly from Leon Rosselson here. Joe's right, it's a very long song. |
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01 May 05 - 03:15 PM (#1475899) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: the last chance - rosselson From: GUEST,cookieless countess richard Oops, that was me. |
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01 May 05 - 09:57 PM (#1476137) Subject: Lyr Add: WHOEVER INVENTED FISH FINGERS (Rosselson) From: Susanne (skw) Ray, is this the one you're looking for? I've always known it as WHOEVER INVENTED FISH FINGERS (Leon Rosselson) Whoever invented fish fingers ought to be crucified Skinned, mashed and boxed into uniform blocks Then covered with breadcrumbs from collar to socks Then frozen and finally fried For who would do that to a fish finning its way through the sea Colours in harmony, perfectly poised, riding his flying trapeze Progress is all very well But not when it chops up our dreams And it's hard to feel at ease in a world Where nothing is quite what it seems Whoever invented BILD-Zeitung ought to be cut down to size Pulped, then reduced to a horrible juice And flattened and dried until ready for use Then covered with newsprint - and lies For who would do that to a tree lifting its head to the skies Rooted in centuries, telling tall tales and breathing a green lullaby Progress is all very well But not when it chops down our dreams And it's hard to feel at ease in a world Where nothing is quite what it seems Whoever invented South African policemen ought to be licked into shape Toughened and trained till the body's a cane Till the arms are a chain, till the nerves feel no pain Till obedience rules and encircles the brain With walls - so he'll never escape For who would do that to a child jumping with joy and desire Floating in fantasy, drowning in dreams, brimming with fun and with fire Progress is all very well But not when it locks up our dreams And it's hard to feel at ease in a world Where nothing is quite what it seems What it seems Where nothing is quite what it seems Iain MacKintosh used to sing this version (but never recorded it), so the lyrics are probably not quite what LR sings himself. 'BILD-Zeitung' is a German 'red-top' newspaper comparable to The Sun. Hope this helps. Any other bits and pieces you can remember from that tape? We might still work out which one it was! |
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02 May 05 - 02:27 AM (#1476254) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: the last chance - rosselson From: The Borchester Echo The Last Chance begins: It was the last chance It was a nightclub in the desert Called The Last Chance A cluttered dive of stones and wheels It was a refuge for the rootless of the world Washed up like driftwood in the sand And we were there. There follows a succession of verses and narrative lasting more than 11 minutes centring on two patrons representing polarised opinion on the state of Israel and anecdote (possibly historical or not) chronicling the unresolved conflict. I've seen Leon Rosselson perform it in a shabby pub on an out-of-tune piano which rendered it all the more authentic. The audience was mesmerised, "remembering" vividly along with him "the day the Bedouin came to town" and how "the lost, the broken and the mad...they came from nowhere". |
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02 May 05 - 04:22 AM (#1476291) Subject: Lyr Add: THE LAST CHANCE (Leon Rosselson) From: Joe Offer The Last Chance (Leon Rosselson)
It was a night club in the desert called The Last Chance, A cluttered dive of stones and wheels, It was a refuge for the rootless of the world Washed up like driftwood on the sand, And we were there. It seems so long ago. They came from nowhere, The lost, the broken and the mad, as if from nowhere, They blundered in like blind invaders, While Mahalia boomed a gospel song And candles blurred the gloom, They drank and argued till the dawn Had drained the night away. (Spoken) Among the seekers after oil or truth or a home, Among the businessmen, the pickpockets and whores, Among the soldiers and the tourists, Some had names And histories. Meier with his stone-ball head, built like a butcher, Which he was. He made his money dealing in pork, Though not on the Sabbath. They said his parents were killed in Belsen, They said he saw his sister raped, But no-one really knew. Stories swirled about like dust on the desert wind. You never knew what was true. And in the end it didnt really matter. There he was. And Sam with his mournful expression And his mobile face like crumpled leather, There he was, A dancer- light, light on his feet. Theirs was a needle match, each trying to outscore the other, Sam out of mischief, Meier out of a desire for victory. So they came out of opposite corners of the ring in every argument. Everything was an argument. Like the Sinai campaign. For Meier that was a time of glory. That was when we found out we were strong, he said. Strong shrugged Sam. Who needs it? So Meier pinned his arm behind his back and forced him to his knees. You do, Jew, he said. The general opinion was that Meier won that round.
The lost, the broken and the mad, as if from nowhere, They blundered in like blind invaders, While Mahalia boomed a gospel song And candles blurred the gloom, They drank and argued till the dawn Had drained the night away. Do you remember The day the Bedouins came to town? I still remember The women waiting still as stone, Their silent shapes cocooned in black Against the whitewashed walls that echoed back the sun To blind the eyes. Ghosts from another world. (Spoken) You know what's wrong with Israel? said Meier one night. I know, said Sam, dancing in grinning. Too many Arabs. Right? Wrong, said Meier. Too many Jews. Look at them. Rabble. They don't speak Hebrew, half of them. Rabble. Take the Yemenis. Donkey riders. Never set foot in a bus before they came here. And their women - all whores. What about Rumanians? Sam threw in obligingly. All thieves, said Meier. They say all Hungarians are bald, said Sam, and raised his eyes to the heavens. Meier ignored him. We must forge one nation, he said. We must weld the youth into one nation. Why? said Sam. How? said Sam. In the fire, Meier went on. In the heat of battle, we will become one nation. Under King Solomon, Israel was a great nation Rich and powerful. One day she will be so again. Sam sighed. We are Jews, he said. Why should our children turn into Israelis? History loves a winner, said Meier. No more guilt, no more fear, no more being strangers, No more being different I like being different, said Sam, throwing his arms out. I want to be different. Meier stood up and pointed a thick finger and yelled. He thinks he's funny. This Jew thinks he's funny. No wonder they fed you into the gas ovens.
The day the Bedouins came to town? I still remember The women waiting still as stone, Their silent shapes cocooned in black Against the whitewashed walls that echoed back the sun To blind the eyes. Ghosts from another world. Across the desert The road carves southward to the Red Sea through the desert, A cratered moonscape made of sand, We saw the burning fists of rock And felt the wind that sucked us dry And heard those urging, stirring songs Always new lands to tame. Meier liked telling stories of how, In the War of Independence, he blew up Arab houses. He knew Sam would become agitated. It would turn Sam inside out. It is not true, he said. You did not do that. Why not? said Meier. Facts. Now there's nothing left for them to return to. Only stones. Let them find homes with their own kind. I want nothing to do with such facts, said Sam. Where would you be without them? sneered Meier. We made this country, he said. Before us, what was there? Marshland. Desert. The promise was to us. The desert shall blossom like a rose. There were people, said Sam. Like us. With hopes and dreams. Hopes? Dreams? Meier spat the words out. You think you can buy the future with dreams? And he took a pile of notes from his pocket and threw them on the table. There, he said. Facts. Money. Don't give me your dreams. Sam turned away and began to find a dance with his feet Like a child taking its first steps While Mahalia sang on, her voice intense With the joy and pain of believing. But Meier wasn't finished. This man is full of dreams, he taunted. Full of could-have-beens. A dancer, he could have been. A mime-artist, he could have been. It's true, said Sam, as he moved and swayed to the music. I could have been a great mime artist. And slowly, his mournful face upturned And his hands outstretched He wove a strange shuffling dance Round the pillars and the wheels and the home-made stools Round the stolen signpost indicating Ramle 45 kilometers away Round the lacquered stones and the pieces of driftwood Twisted, gnarled and desolated by the wind and the waves. Meier's stone-ball head seemed to swell with fury. Displaying himself, he said contemptuously. Where's the dignity? And he pushed aside his cognac and pulled himself to his feet And picked up a stone and gripped it in his bunched fist. And in his eyes was a peculiar sort of hatred. And suddenly the jangle of noise, the chattering, the shouting, the laughing Fell away to a whisper. Everyone turned to watch. There was only the sound of Mahalia singing And the shuffling steps of Sam's dance. Could we have guessed then how it would be? Could we have seen then in Meier's eyes Those certainties: Facts. The houses torn apart, the torture, The weeping, the children burning. The fragmentation bombs, the phosphorus bombs. Facts. The shortest distance between the past and the future. But we saw only Meier, stone in his fist, And waited in silence for what he would do. Sit down, he said in a low voice. Sit down. Then he hurled the stone with all his force Not at Sam, exactly, but still - at him. It smashed against a pillar and clattered to the floor. Sam froze, stopped dancing, A silent shape in the candle gloom, His mournful face crumpled and yellow. It seemed to us he was about to cry. Then he put his arms about his head as if to protect himself, Turning in on himself. I want to go home, he said. I want to go home.
The lost, the broken and the mad, as if from nowhere They blundered in like blind invaders, While Mahalia boomed a gospel song And candles blurred the gloom, They drank and argued till the dawn Had drained the night away. It was The Last Chance, It was a night club in the desert called The Last Chance A duttered dive of stones and wheels It was a refuge for the rootless of the world Washed up like driftwood on the sand, And we were there. It was so long ago. from Bringing the News from Nowhere, a songbook by Leon Rosselson |
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02 May 05 - 06:25 AM (#1476322) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: the last chance - rosselson From: GUEST,ray Thanks to all who have replied. Joe - that's the one. And Suzanne - the fish finger song is great - and was the one lyric I remembered from the whole of the tape - but it was 'the last chance' that I was after. Thanks again to you all - from Ray in London. |