Can't post as intended this Friday as I'm moon based on the 19th/20th July.
Her delivery of the lyrics simply kills me.
K
Her delivery of the lyrics simply kills me.
K
Vinyl Friday
- Thread starter Klenchblaize
- Start date
K
Another 70's one hit wonder....proper toe tapping track from my youth....oh the key board player 
Tim.243
Tim.243
Another 70's one hit wonder....proper toe tapping track from my youth....oh the key board player
Tim.243
Ahh Girl to her left
Takes me back to my velvet loons.....
S
Last edited:
Donnachaidh
Well-Known Member
Apologies if this has been done before, but one of my favourites.
Last edited:
reloader54
Well-Known Member
reloader54
Well-Known Member
Vodka intimate, an affair with isolation in a Blackheath cell
Extinguishing the fires in a private hell
Provoking the heartache to renew the licence
Of a bleeding heart poet in a fragile capsule
Propping up the crust of the glitter conscience
Wrapped in the christening shawl of a hangover
Baptised in the tears from the real
Drowning in the liquid seize on the Piccadilly line, rat race
Scuttling through the damp electric labyrinth
Caress Ophelia's hand with breathstroke ambition
An albatross in the marrytime tradition
Sheathed within the Walkman wear the halo of distortion
Aural contraceptive aborting pregnant conversation
She turned the harpoon and it pierced my heart
She hung herself around my neck
From the Time-Life-Guardians in their conscience bubbles
Safe and dry in my sea of troubles
Nine to five with suitable ties
Cast adrift as their side-show, peepshow, stereo hero
Becalm bestill, bewitch, drowning in the real
The thief of Baghdad hides in Islington now
Praying deportation for his sacred cow
A legacy of romance from a twilight world
The dowry of a relative mystery girl
A Vietnamese flower, a Dockland union
A mistress of release from a magazine's thighs
Magdalenes contracts more than favours
The feeding hands of western promise hold her by the throat
A son of a swastika of '45 parading a peroxide standard
Graffiti conjure disciples testaments of hatred
Aerosol wands whisper where the searchlights trim the barbed wire hedges
This is Brixton chess
A knight for Embankment folds his newspaper castle
A creature of habit, begs the boatman's coin
He'll fade with old soldiers in the grease stained roll call
And linger with the heartburn of Good Friday's last supper
Son watches father scan obituary columns in search of absent school friends
While his generation digests high fibre ignorance
Cowering behind curtains and the taped up painted windows
Decriminalised genocide, provided door to door Belsens
Pandora's box of holocausts gracefully cruising satellite infested heavens
Waiting, the season of the button, the penultimate migration
Radioactive perfumes, for the fashionably, for the terminally insane, insane
Do you realise? Do you realise?
Do you realise, this world is totally fugazi
Where are the prophets, where are the visionaries, where are the poets
To breach the dawn of the sentimental mercenary
Extinguishing the fires in a private hell
Provoking the heartache to renew the licence
Of a bleeding heart poet in a fragile capsule
Propping up the crust of the glitter conscience
Wrapped in the christening shawl of a hangover
Baptised in the tears from the real
Drowning in the liquid seize on the Piccadilly line, rat race
Scuttling through the damp electric labyrinth
Caress Ophelia's hand with breathstroke ambition
An albatross in the marrytime tradition
Sheathed within the Walkman wear the halo of distortion
Aural contraceptive aborting pregnant conversation
She turned the harpoon and it pierced my heart
She hung herself around my neck
From the Time-Life-Guardians in their conscience bubbles
Safe and dry in my sea of troubles
Nine to five with suitable ties
Cast adrift as their side-show, peepshow, stereo hero
Becalm bestill, bewitch, drowning in the real
The thief of Baghdad hides in Islington now
Praying deportation for his sacred cow
A legacy of romance from a twilight world
The dowry of a relative mystery girl
A Vietnamese flower, a Dockland union
A mistress of release from a magazine's thighs
Magdalenes contracts more than favours
The feeding hands of western promise hold her by the throat
A son of a swastika of '45 parading a peroxide standard
Graffiti conjure disciples testaments of hatred
Aerosol wands whisper where the searchlights trim the barbed wire hedges
This is Brixton chess
A knight for Embankment folds his newspaper castle
A creature of habit, begs the boatman's coin
He'll fade with old soldiers in the grease stained roll call
And linger with the heartburn of Good Friday's last supper
Son watches father scan obituary columns in search of absent school friends
While his generation digests high fibre ignorance
Cowering behind curtains and the taped up painted windows
Decriminalised genocide, provided door to door Belsens
Pandora's box of holocausts gracefully cruising satellite infested heavens
Waiting, the season of the button, the penultimate migration
Radioactive perfumes, for the fashionably, for the terminally insane, insane
Do you realise? Do you realise?
Do you realise, this world is totally fugazi
Where are the prophets, where are the visionaries, where are the poets
To breach the dawn of the sentimental mercenary
Bob Dylan Just like a Woman
Bob Marley No woman no cry
Bob Marley No woman no cry
Let's have more of it from our politicians:
K
K
John Gryphon
Well-Known Member
Kevvy wrote some good ones.
John Gryphon
Well-Known Member
Nice tale of love and a rippin` song imo. Lyrics are thoughtfully well written.
This song was originally held to be about Sophia Loren who came from an impoverished childhood. But Peter explained it was about a girl he fell in love with but later died in a hotel fire. With this information you can put together the hidden and incredible beauty of this song. The song actually begins in the refrain when he asks his girlfriend to tell him her secret desires. Peter then describes to us her dreams, starting from the first verse. Toward the end he hints at the reality, that they are just two lowly born children sharing her dreams of being the ficticious "Marie Claire", the personification of her private fantasy based on the fashion magazine of that name, and which she shares only with him. Finally, Peter posthumously proclaims to her (us) in a powerful hidden confession his deep love lost so tragically. Having now told him her secret heartfelt desires that they both share, he now knows where she goes to, because he can truly see inside her. It is perhaps one of the greatest love songs of all time, hidden in poetic license, waiting for the worthy listener to discover.
Lyrics
You talk like Marlene Dietrich
And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire
Your clothes are all made by Balmain
And there's diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are
You live in a fancy apartment
Off the Boulevard St. Michel
Where you keep your Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do
You go to the embassy parties
Where you talk in Russian and Greek
And the young men who move in your circles
They hang on every word you speak, yes they do
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed?
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do
I've seen all your qualifications
You got from the Sorbonne
And the painting you stole from Picasso
Your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does
When you go on your summer vacation
You go to Juan-les-Pins
With your carefully designed topless swimsuit
You get an even suntan on your back, and on your legs
And when the snow falls you're found in St. Moritz
With the others of the jet set
And you sip your Napoleon brandy
But you never get your lips wet, no you don't
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed?
Won't you tell me the thoughts that surround you?
I want to look inside your head, yes I do
You're in between twenty and thirty
That's a very desirable age
Your body is firm and inviting
But you live on a glittering stage, yes you do, yes you do
Your name is heard in high places
You know the Aga Khan
He sent you a race horse for Christmas
And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh, ha-ha-ha
They say that when you get married
It'll be to a millionaire
But they don't realize where you came from
And I wonder if they really care, or give a damn
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed?
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do
I remember the back streets of Naples:
Two children begging in rags
Both touched with a burning ambition
To shake off their lowly-born tags, they tried
So look into my face, Marie-Claire
And remember just who you are
Then go and forget me forever
But I know you still bear the scar, deep inside
I know where you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
I know the thoughts that surround you
Cause I can look inside your head
This song was originally held to be about Sophia Loren who came from an impoverished childhood. But Peter explained it was about a girl he fell in love with but later died in a hotel fire. With this information you can put together the hidden and incredible beauty of this song. The song actually begins in the refrain when he asks his girlfriend to tell him her secret desires. Peter then describes to us her dreams, starting from the first verse. Toward the end he hints at the reality, that they are just two lowly born children sharing her dreams of being the ficticious "Marie Claire", the personification of her private fantasy based on the fashion magazine of that name, and which she shares only with him. Finally, Peter posthumously proclaims to her (us) in a powerful hidden confession his deep love lost so tragically. Having now told him her secret heartfelt desires that they both share, he now knows where she goes to, because he can truly see inside her. It is perhaps one of the greatest love songs of all time, hidden in poetic license, waiting for the worthy listener to discover.
Lyrics
You talk like Marlene Dietrich
And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire
Your clothes are all made by Balmain
And there's diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are
You live in a fancy apartment
Off the Boulevard St. Michel
Where you keep your Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do
You go to the embassy parties
Where you talk in Russian and Greek
And the young men who move in your circles
They hang on every word you speak, yes they do
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed?
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do
I've seen all your qualifications
You got from the Sorbonne
And the painting you stole from Picasso
Your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does
When you go on your summer vacation
You go to Juan-les-Pins
With your carefully designed topless swimsuit
You get an even suntan on your back, and on your legs
And when the snow falls you're found in St. Moritz
With the others of the jet set
And you sip your Napoleon brandy
But you never get your lips wet, no you don't
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed?
Won't you tell me the thoughts that surround you?
I want to look inside your head, yes I do
You're in between twenty and thirty
That's a very desirable age
Your body is firm and inviting
But you live on a glittering stage, yes you do, yes you do
Your name is heard in high places
You know the Aga Khan
He sent you a race horse for Christmas
And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh, ha-ha-ha
They say that when you get married
It'll be to a millionaire
But they don't realize where you came from
And I wonder if they really care, or give a damn
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed?
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do
I remember the back streets of Naples:
Two children begging in rags
Both touched with a burning ambition
To shake off their lowly-born tags, they tried
So look into my face, Marie-Claire
And remember just who you are
Then go and forget me forever
But I know you still bear the scar, deep inside
I know where you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
I know the thoughts that surround you
Cause I can look inside your head
John Gryphon
Well-Known Member
I cant remember if the Kinks have made the SD but
John Gryphon
Well-Known Member
Ralphy.
John Gryphon
Well-Known Member
I have to say that in my humble opinion that it shouldn't work,but it is a real marriage of masters works.
Stunningly good and I loved the way Luciano responds to jimmys kudos with a barely modest recognition....a real LIKE.
Even if Sid or Johnny floats your boat you just wont be able to not listen to the master and his mate.
Stunningly good and I loved the way Luciano responds to jimmys kudos with a barely modest recognition....a real LIKE.
Even if Sid or Johnny floats your boat you just wont be able to not listen to the master and his mate.
John Gryphon
Well-Known Member
You cant forget Bob Cray either,his guitar has been heard on some of th e biggest albums sold.
There's only one word on the lips of whinging stalkers at the moment and it begins with H.
K
K
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