About the album

Shag Tobacco was produced by Bomb the Bass’s techno-wizard Tim Simenon who had worked with Gavin on the In The Name Of The Father soundtrack. Q Magazine called its 21st century neon cabaret “a remarkable piece of work ” and the song Angel prominently featured in Baz Luhrmann’s film Romeo + Juliet and on its hugely succesful soundtrack.

Shag Tobacco was reissued on iTunes on October 24, 2011.

From the 1995 press release:

Gavin Friday begins 1995 with one of the most startling and inspired albums you will hear all year, Shag Tobacco. Friday has created, with partner Maurice Seezer and producer Tim Simenon, a 21st century neon cabaret, where spirits of Leonard Cohen, Marc Bolan, Jacques Brel and Scott Walker collide in a vision of thirties Berlin decadence transposed to a Las Vegas of the future.

The unusual characters that inhabit this album are both real and imaginary: Mr. Pussy, the glamorous drag queen hostess, the living “Dolls” of New York’s nightlife, and glittering, androgynous “The Slider” (resurrected from the T-Rex back catalogue), meet the housewives from suburban hell and the star-crossed lovers of the title track.

“As we come to the end of the century, everything’s going ballistic,” notes Mr. Friday, “and a lot of stuff is being cleared out from under the carpet. When I went to work on this album, I had this thing of being obsessed with the Twenties, Thirties, and Forties, the fascinating, between-the-Wars era when decadence was tempered with darkness, and transporting that into the Nineties.

Mr Pussy who appears in person on the track written in his honor, is a major celebrity in Dublin A former friend of Judy Garland and Johnny Ray, Mr. Pussy was the hostess of Gavin’s own now-defunct cabaret cafe, the celebrated Mr. Pussy’s Cafe Deluxe a place where passing glitterati ate egg and chips and played bingo at three in the morning. “The cafe was very much a wedding banquet on acid vibe,” enthuses Friday, “It’s like a cross between a brothel and your granny’s bedroom. Really mad trannies went there, ones who looked like your da in drag; farmers in stilettos, mingling with your clubbers, your nighthawks and your down and out drunks.” But it’s not just the glamorous to whom Gavin turns his attentions on Shag Tobacco – real people also fill his music with their passions and their pain.

“Kitchen Sink Drama” documents the decline of a suburban housewife, who is “anaesthetized by mundanity, has given everything up for her husband and family and whose only companion is the ‘Angel’ Valium,” the author explains. “In the end she can’t cope, and the last line has her going out to “the sweet smell of butane.” And “The Last Song I’ll Ever Sing” is a tender but defiant paen to a friend who died of AIDS; “The biggest way you can get fucked over in love is to die of AIDS,” Friday points out. “The song is a tribute to the divas and crooners who have nothing to give except for the everything that they put into the last song they ever sing, and about the light that burns twice as brightly, burning half as long.” The album’s closing track, “Le Roi D’Amour,” meaning “The King Of Love,” is for Gavin, “like the grand finale, the curtain going up and the credits rolling.”

Not surprisingly, the singular Mr. Friday is dismissive of the moribund musical climate into which Shag Tobacco is being released. “Music is not a business,” he states, “it’s a way of life. The Virgin Prunes were me growing up in public, they were fueled by a lot of anger and frustration and I suppose I’m still an angry man – happily angry. Real music is when you don’t really know what you’re doing – it’s just your instincts at work. I love that. I love going in at the deep end and struggling and fighting and hopefully coming out… into the light.”

• More Gavin Friday albums

Related news

• Album: Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves
• Album: Adam ‘n’ Eve
• Album – Shag Tobacco – reviews

Pat McCabe

In fact, if anything, it looked like Dodge City after the Hole-In-The-Wall gang had shot it up, or maybe Atlanta in the aftermath of the fire – with its own share of smooth-talking sharp-suited amoralists, our very own homegrown carpetbaggers, who were already in the process of slyly rezoning enormous swathes of it, these smug wolves, these ballad-singing ‘common-touch’ men of the people.

About whom enough already – we know where they led us, and we also know where we followed them, with our faces stuffed with burgers and ice cream and with not so much as a moral backbone to be found about the place, no more than you’d be likely to locate between the head and the tail of a pantechnicon-flattened iguana.

The first time I saw Gavin he was standing outside Burgerland on O’Connell Street – that blazing emporium where Radio Nova (“Broadcasting in the Bay Area”, no less) chewed incessantly on its Wrigley’s, snapping its fingers, urging everybody to say goodbye to Paddy, his wellingtons and the bog.

As I made my way past yet another new outlet, Baskin-Robbins’s ice-cream parlour (150 flavours!), along the Avenue of the Three Adulterers, as the main thoroughfare was christened by James Joyce’s father, I remember I was carrying a teacher’s briefcase and, at 25, with the burden of responsibility for which I was ill-prepared and to which I was ill-suited, was already feeling superfluous – superannuated. “All the hippies are dead,” a friend had only recently said to me, “our time is over.”

Gavin’s hands were nearly as big as his hair, I noticed, and he tended to wave them about, gesturing effusively.

As I passed him by, I couldn’t help overhearing him discussing the Beatles’ Taxman. He was comparing it to a current release by Paul Weller and The Jam. Which I thought was impressive – his knowing about it, I mean – for he seemed to me much younger than I was. Five years can mean a lot at that age – as I say, I was 25.

I spotted him about here and there after that – I had seen his band the Virgin Prunes a couple of times. Back in those abortion-obsessed days of the Eighties when Ireland seemed to have little to do but argue itself blue in the face about ectopic pregnancies as its infrastructure fell to bits around it.

An image returns, hysterically burlesque and simultaneously heartbreaking in its maddening innocence. As a punter whistles while upending a hopelessly buckled telephone-kiosk door, clambering in under it as if it were then most natural thing in the world, with sophisticated insouciance proceeding to make his call. Before crawling back out again like a squirrel and taking time to dust down his suit.

But there were good things too – Jim and Peter Sheridan’s Dark Space at the Project theatre – where U2 and the Prunes had played. Gavin’s screeching of The Walls of Jericho was good, as were the stage antics, much of which he’d learned from immersing himself in the performance art of Agnes Bernelle and Nigel Rolfe in the Project.

I didn’t see him for a long time after that – in the Nineties when I was living in London, in fact when he was recording In the Name of the Father.

We started to spend some time together – a lot of time, actually. That he liked disco music I was pleasantly surprised to hear – and his Behanesque combination of sensitivity and pugnaciousness was something to which I found I willingly responded – in the same way as I would, later on, to Shane MacGowan’s Pogues – delighting in their appropriation of the builder’s labourer’s dark Sunday suit as a garb of defiance.

I met a lot of his friends – and it was refreshing to observer that, no matter what the company, his views and attitude were rarely seen to change.

I approached himself and Maurice Seezer, his collaborator, about creating a tone-poem series for RTE. It was a blast. Based on my book Emerald Germs of Ireland, a quirky parody of old-time Irish music books which was a total and utter critical and commercial failure -we delivered what, I think, was an extraordinary work, a 10-part radio series, produced by the great Anne Walsh, and repeated three times by RTE at the time.

We used to like eating in the Alpha Café off Grafton Street – for ‘Mammy’ food as Gavin likes to call it. We wandered all around Dublin acting the maggot. One night I heard him experimenting with a riff, practically talking in tongues, and began to understand the instinctive source of his art. Irish folk and traditional were now entering the mix, with Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill attracting his attention.

"like Laurence Harvey in space"

I wrote some words too for his album Shag Tobacco, which I thought great then and think even better now. On it he looks like Laurence Harvey in space, louchely and mischievously smoking cigarettes.

It’s a defiant and humorous album, full of love and not yet middle-aged zest. catholic is different. Mature is not a word I like, and I certainly wouldn’t want to wish maturity on this artist.

But I suppose in the Eighties our parents were alive. The fight seemed worth it, there was someone to blame – and in Ireland the Catholic church has always been an easy target. The problem is even Irish atheists tend to betray small hints of their Catholicism. Ah for Jesus’s sake, how could God exist? It’s not the same in the UK. “What are you all fighting about over there?” the Cockney taximan routinely says – or used to.

For Friday it was a war between restraint and excess – Rococo in the ring belting it out with Protestant continence. Growing up on the border, I have always been intrigued by this particular set of tensions. It is no accident that Guggi and Bono, fellow musicians and long-time associates, are both non-Catholics.

But I never disowned my DNA – Catholic, Irish, Gaelic, call it what you will. And neither did Friday.

We were as Irish as anybody except we didn’t play Gaelic football and didn’t feel the need to be ashamed of saying it either. Aside from this anyway, its cultural wealth was there at our disposal and we wanted it.

With the result that anyone expecting all the usual Pavlovian responses to Irish Catholicism will be deeply disappointed with this newly compiled work over which there hangs the evocative fragrance of incense swirling throughout the ages. If we could mix up the epochs and recruit James Joyce and John McCormack for a session, I’d have O’Riada call up the Pope – then we could perform this opera in the Sistine Chapel. I don’t know what to say about catholic.

If Shag Tobacco wasn’t 100 per cent a masterpiece, it might have been because Gavin was too young to surrender. This time that tendency has come full circle and the ghosts of James Joyce’s short story Grace, these lay theologians who are so much a part of this Dubliner’s inheritance, have become more defined. Debating ethics and the secrets of consciousness, through yellow-brick streets carrying leather-bound missals and copies of Thomas a Kempis’s Imitation of Christ, emerging like blinking hermits out of the shadows of history, as they part the curtain of a grey Liffeyside fog. Forming a small hunted knot of the devout, swinging a censer by the gates of Glasnevin Cemetery.

“Catholic,” they croak, wreathed in sin and shame and glory, redolent of blood, elevation and suffering.

catholic. With a small ‘c’. Reverently, on its knees, this new album has released an inner Monteverdi, and along with it a tidal wave of emotional complexity.

Ave.

–

About Pat McCabe

The author Patrick McCabe was born in 1955 in Clones, County Monaghan, Ireland. He is the author of several novels including The Butcher Boy (1992), which won the Irish Times Irish Literature Prize for Fiction; The Dead School (1995), and Breakfast on Pluto (1998), the disturbing tale of a transvestite prostitute who becomes involved with Republican terrorists. The Butcher Boy and Breakfast on Pluto (which McCabe dedicated to Gavin Friday) were both shortlisted for the Booker Prize for Fiction and made into films by director Neil Jordan. His latest novels are The Holy City (2008) and The Stray Sod Country (2010).

Further Reading:

• Nigel Rolfe
• Agnes Bernelle
• Emerald Germs of Ireland
• James Joyce – Grace
• Thomas a Kempis – Imitation of Christ

Related news

• catholic
• Watch the new video for Gavin Friday’s ‘Able’
• Unique one-day event: ‘catholic’ – An Exposition

Shag Tobacco

I have ordinary addictions
I’ve outgrown the ways of the street and the nightshade
hey! goodnight ladies… ladies bye bye.
I work odd hours, get home late most nights
she’s upstairs, I’m downstairs,
drinking coffee in the kitchen
spoon in the sugar, knife in the butter… i want you.

do you love me? say you do, i’d like to see you undress
let the light shimmer down, I’ve ordinary addictions
whisper soft into my ear, secret words heaven sent ….
so you can read my mind
hush dear….the night is always young
there’s no day here, tomorrow never comes
let colours fly, we’re safe from harm
see orange glow, let our love flow

no romeo no juliet,
what we got is deeper than that
lets stay in bed, watch t.v. and shag tobacco
i want you, i want you….
you’re my amphetamine you’re my lover….
and there’s no other…. ….there’s no other…. there’s no other

Caruso

no, i’m not myself today.
je suis salome…. i am romantic
je suis apollo…. i am gigantic
hey! stronzo,
i’m standing next to you in the supermarket
yeah! you are obvious. i am oblivious

salome, apollo, in technicolour
i walked on the moon to touch the stars,
a legend in my lifetime.
oh momma! my rosa! from an early age
i was used and abused, no more those bad reviews
take me back to ’72 my coo ca choo,
oh! ignorance was bliss,
spunk-a-flow, to the joy of my first kiss

i’m not me…. i’m not me…. i’m not me…. not me….
non sono io!

oh mi lord, i’m so bored, what’s on the t.v.?
do we really need these pissy pop stars
when there’s not enough of me!
oh dada, my dali, un chen de lou lou….
i am the art in your party,
not a twist cap sniffing bore.
it’s tough in the queue, it’s as unto a platform shoe,
oh! trampled underfoot,
i’m fred astaire, i face the music and dance.

i’m not me…. i’m not me…. i’m not me…. not me….
no i’m not myself….today

oh glorioso deliver us not into frustration

salome, apollo, in technicolour,
i walked on the moon to touch the stars.
hey stronzo…. ancora!

i’m not me…. i’m not me…. i’m not me…. not me….
non sono io!
heave ho…. heave ho….

leonardo! marlon brando! machiavelli!
and bertolt’s belly!
a millionaire with curly hair, i’m your burning empire.

greta garbo! andy warhol! and his jam-roll!
nero plays his violin, seezer his accordian

i’m sitting in the bathtub watching the dirty water
swirl down the plughole…. and on my stereo….
….is caruso.

Angel

angel…. hold on to me, love is all around me
angel…. hold on to me
oh come…. closer to me…. don’t go, don’t leave me
angel…. hold on to me, love is all around me
so silent your love, like the stars above
so silent your love…. hold on…. hold on…. to me
angel…. hold on to me, i call, call out to you
its paradise, you take me to
’cause my love for you love will always be

Little black dress

here she comes like a child with a gun
she makes you feel like you’re the only one
she smiles and it’s dangerous…. in a little black dress
superman and the filthy rich
get in the queue to scratch her itch
sticky fingers pulling at the hem
of her little black dress

baby don’t mind
she can leave it behind.
she don’t want anything
baby’s a star, she’s got to keep on shining

she moves like an animal
the women sigh “it’s political”
you could get arrested around here
for that little black dress
not so simple, it’s complicated….
all this being loved and hated
i wanna know what else she’s hiding
in that little black dress

baby don’t mind
she can leave it behind.
she don’t want anything
baby’s a star, she’s got to keep on shining

don’t pay no mind, you’re gonna leave me behind
i don’t want anything, baby you’re a star
i wanna hear you sing

The slider

I could never understand
the wind at all
was like a ball of love

i could never never see
the cosmic sea
was like a bumble bee

and when i’m sad…
i slide

i have never kissed
a car before
it’s like a door

i have always always
grown my own before
all schools are strange

and when i’m sad…
i slide

i have never never
nailed a nose before
that’s how the garden grows

i could never understand
the wind at all
was like a ball of love

and when i’m sad…
i slide

watch now
i’m gonna slide
i slide….

have you ever seen a woman coming out of
new york city with a frog in her hand?

Dolls

on the darkest of streets, at around eleven
the lights shine brightest, on avenue seven
from ‘noho’ to ‘soho’ they congregate
gladrags and handbags we anticipate
boom! boom! cha-cha! and cock becomes vagina

no guys here – dolls! no guys here – just dolls!

mother fisting friends, say romance is cheap
so it’s time for eve to put adam to sleep
lovely, lovely, love me
with dreams with drugs, with lipstick and la rouge

no guys here – dolls! no guys here – just dolls!

with feather boa, like lotte lenya,
high heels and a vicious tongue,
jesus, ‘fantasia’ tu est tres fantastique
so kinky gerlinky, so much fun

no guys here – dolls! no guys here – just dolls!

cock incognito! vag incognita!

knock, knock, who’s there?
oh! here they come, the belligerent scum,
as your immorality would say “all men are queer”
how civilised that you’re despised
knock, knock, who’s there?
dorothy that’s who, she’ll make a man of you!
a man of you! a man of you!

ich bin eine puppe, eine puppe mit scheide!
ich bin ein mann, ein mann mit schwanz
geweg! geweg! lab mich allein! lab mich allein!
das kleine ja! ja! das grobe nein! nein! das kleine ja! ja!
sie macht einen mann aus dir,
eine puppe mit schwanz!, ein mann mit mose!

Mr. pussy

in ’67, his debut year, a pussy cat did appear
in soho bars rather shady,
a most discerning, misleading lady

he knew marlene, judy was a friend
hey! johnny ray, all those that bend

a legend born, on a london stage
when ginger beers, were outrage!

mr. pussy. mr. pussy.

nante! no nante! nante parlare
vada omi! you silly cow!

come see a star shine,
come see him laughing through a mask of tears
he should have been in the movies….
you know those movies that make you cry

“oh! immortalise me! oh! immortalise me!
write a song, write a sad song,
make it 25 years a long…. oh!”
….says mr. pussy…. mmmh…. mr. pussy.

You, me and world war three

Throw your arms around me,
there’s no time to be blue,
it’s the end of the world,
let’s talk deep and meaningful things,
it’s up to you and down to me…. what’s going on?
it’s you, me and world war three.

you and me, me and you,
we hurt each other ’cause we gotta get through

we’re ‘a to b’ and back again,
a sort of funky electrocution,
trigger happy and shoot to kill,
what a honeymoon in hell!
our world is spinning helplessly…. what’s going on?
it’s you, me and world war three

you and me, me and you,
we hurt each other ’cause we gotta get through
we hurt each other…. we gotta get through
we’re out there orbiting the planet blue….

i shout you scream, it’s all so illogical
you bite my tongue…. i blow up in your face
in hateful times…. it’s time for loving
let’s start to dance…. it’s ‘true romance’

you me and world war three
you me and world war three

put on that dress you know your
throwing yourself out the window dress,
i’ll wear my suit, my wedding ring
and together we will sing, “la la la la la la….”

you and me, me and you,
we hurt each other ’cause we gotta get through,
you and me, me and you,
we’re out there orbiting the planet blue….
….orbiting the planet blue

Kitchen sink drama

Good morning america, you’re my favorite t. v. show
slow down now, i’ve a headache,
sometimes it’s hard to think,
the phone rings how are you? oh! i’m not up to much
you don’t say, oh really! it’ll end…. end in tears

here i go again,
all i have is what i might have been
where’s my long lost friends?
somewhere over the rainbow

when the dark clouds come,
the angel valium will call
to take me far away,
to a place where i don’t have to feel

i’m happy as i hoover, it’s one o’clock, time for lunch
marshmallows with coffee,
can’t forget my slimfast drink,
the garden’s depressing, i think i need a hair-do
a gin and a tonic, ah! that should do the trick

here i go again,
all i have is what i might have been
where’s my long lost friends?
somewhere over the rainbow

when the dark clouds come,
the angel valium will call
to take me far away,
to a place where i don’t have to feel

it’s monday afternoon, the kids are off at school
sunset boulevard, the channel four matinee
sit down, relax with a nice cup of tea….
…. oh! the sweet smell of butane…. and humdrum.
…. gloria swanson…. from here to eternity….

My twentieth century

I woke up this morning,
dreading the thoughts of another, dull and boring day
hey! woe is me.
i go out on the streets, northside of the city
i see the steel, the fading rust
and the fields i used to play in….
my friends are famous and all my foes live happy
loved by lycra, fooled by velcro
and fucked by what they need….

but who am i to criticise? my pointing finger backfires
i hang my head down low.

i once believed in jesus,
now i can’t believe in rock ‘n’ roll
from baptism to alcohol, in a land suffocatingly green
hey! the myth is magic, do you know what i mean?
the politics of sin and of sex
suffer the fools, pawn our jewels, will it ever change?

but who am i to criticise? i’ve made my bed, i lie on it
and hold my head up high

my disbelief. my fake redemption.
my twentieth century.
my holy war. my self indulgence.
my twentieth century.
my human flesh. my sad dependence.
my twentieth century.
my apathy. my big decision.
my twentieth century.

The last song i’ll ever sing

I’m inviting you to my vaudeville
“oui encore” you say, “and on with the show”
ladies, gentlemen, before i sing to you
the light that shines twice as bright,
burns half as long.

come let me entertain you all
leave all your troubles big and small
life’s a ball, life’s a ball.
hitch a ride on my crooked merry-go-round
hear the clinking-clanking sound
of the song that i bring

take my song, take my hand, never let me down,
like love let me down, like love pushed me around

so long, goodbye, i lost, did try
this is the last song i’ll ever sing
the last song i’ll sing

i played in the cabaret of love
i wore heart, fist and glove.
push and shove, push and shove….
and all for love

take my song, take my hand, never let me down,
like love let me down, like love pushed me around

so long, goodbye, i lost, did try
this is the last song i’ll ever sing
the last song i’ll sing
this is the last song i’ll ever sing
the last song i’ll sing

here, with words that can’t be said
we take songs to our bed
sing – a – long, sing – a – long…. to my last song.

All titles written & arranged by Gavin Friday & Maurice Seezer except The Slider which was written by Marc Bolan. All songs published by Blue Mountain Music except for The Slider which is published by Wizard (Bahamas) Ltd.

Related news

• Album – Lyrics – Shag Tobacco
• Video: Gavin Friday – Angel
• Time Enough for Tears

Related news

• The Harry Smith Project boxed set and DVD
• Shag Tobacco showcase
• Shag Tobacco released in the UK

An audience is very often the best clue to understanding a performer. Forget, however, the poster-clutching teenage mutant maniacs at a Take That concert or the droves of Michael Jackson fans dressed almost uniformly in opportunistic merchandise. Loyalty can be much more subtle.

At the one-night spectacular last week, Gavin Friday succeeded in bringing together a decidedly motley crew from a sprinkling of Goths and punks to the fashionably bald and those sporting Levi jean jackets and check shirts. Of course this should come as no surprise. Friday’s career stretches back to 1978 and the inception of the raucous and much-loved Virgin Prunes, specialising in mayhem and magic on a grand scale.

Now a solo performer, he brings a particular style and verve to what some observers might call modern cabaret. Friday knows a good deal about seduction. The set was a vital part of his act, featuring crimson drapes, bunches of flowers, candles and a dry-ice blowing contraption, beneath which was partially hidden a black-and-white television. Friday presented himself with tough and ironic verve – spiky hair, a buttoned-up shiny charcoal suit with a string vest just visible. On his feet were crepe- soled beetle-crushers. He looked cute and dangerous at the same time. He danced with himself, strutted like Jagger, nursed a glass of wine and often flickered his tongue like a viper. No reluctant showman this.

Most of the songs performed feature on Friday’s unusually sensitive and strident album Shag Tobacco and he took his audience from 1930s Berlin to a suburban housewife’s nightmare, on the way passing by real-life characters such as Mr Pussy, a celebrated transvestite, and his ultimate hero, Caruso. Portraits of both appeared in gilt frames on set. One had the distinct impression that here was Friday’s unashamed autobiography in 3-D.

Friday needs to be completely involved in the essence of each song. He needs to change, chameleon-like, from the bedsit late-night worker fantasising about his neighbour upstairs to the unashamedly and near falsetto “Angel” – a sensual experience of floating in pink marshmallow. A total musical mix, classical instruments combined with more unusual electric woodwind, all played skilfully by only three other members of the group who manage to sound like a small orchestra.

To mark definite sections within the set, Friday told stories, cracked the odd joke and spoke through a bejewelled megaphone – whatever it took to remain ringmaster. And this is solely the point. For him to be able to control our emotions so precisely, he needed to be in absolute control. We smiled at the camp bonhomie and bitchery of Mr Pussy, but were genuinely moved by “the last song I’ll ever sing” – a tribute to a dead friend. Breaking the mood lest we knew what to expect came a most original and stormy version of T-Rex’s “The Slider” which Marc Bolan would have loved. Towards the end, he walked among his delighted audience, singing, crooning and making love with his eyes – to everyone. Seduction as ever is nine points of success.

Related news

• Rogue’s Gallery: A smattering of highlights
• Album – Shag Tobacco – reviews
• ‘Friday gave an inspired performance’

do you love me? say you do, i’d like to see you undress
let the light shimmer down, I’ve ordinary addictions
whisper soft into my ear, secret words heaven sent ….
so you can read my mind
hush dear….the night is always young
there’s no day here, tomorrow never comes
let colours fly, we’re safe from harm
see orange glow, let our love flow

no romeo no juliet,
what we got is deeper than that
lets stay in bed, watch t.v. and shag tobacco
i want you, i want you….
you’re my amphetamine you’re my lover….
and there’s no other…. ….there’s no other…. there’s no other

caruso
no, i’m not myself today.
je suis salome…. i am romantic
je suis apollo…. i am gigantic
hey! stronzo,
i’m standing next to you in the supermarket
yeah! you are obvious. i am oblivious

salome, apollo, in technicolour
i walked on the moon to touch the stars,
a legend in my lifetime.
oh momma! my rosa! from an early age
i was used and abused, no more those bad reviews
take me back to ’72 my coo ca choo,
oh! ignorance was bliss,
spunk-a-flow, to the joy of my first kiss

i’m not me…. i’m not me…. i’m not me…. not me….
non sono io!

oh mi lord, i’m so bored, what’s on the t.v.?
do we really need these pissy pop stars
when there’s not enough of me!
oh dada, my dali, un chen de lou lou….
i am the art in your party,
not a twist cap sniffing bore.
it’s tough in the queue, it’s as unto a platform shoe,
oh! trampled underfoot,
i’m fred astaire, i face the music and dance.

i’m not me…. i’m not me…. i’m not me…. not me….
no i’m not myself….today

oh glorioso deliver us not into frustration

salome, apollo, in technicolour,
i walked on the moon to touch the stars.
hey stronzo…. ancora!

i’m not me…. i’m not me…. i’m not me…. not me….
non sono io!
heave ho…. heave ho….

leonardo! marlon brando! machiavelli!
and bertolt’s belly!
a millionaire with curly hair, i’m your burning empire.

greta garbo! andy warhol! and his jam-roll!
nero plays his violin, seezer his accordian

i’m sitting in the bathtub watching the dirty water
swirl down the plughole…. and on my stereo….
….is caruso.

angel
angel…. hold on to me, love is all around me
angel…. hold on to me
oh come…. closer to me…. don’t go, don’t leave me
angel…. hold on to me, love is all around me
so silent your love, like the stars above
so silent your love…. hold on…. hold on…. to me
angel…. hold on to me, i call, call out to you
its paradise, you take me to
’cause my love for you love will always be

little black dress
here she comes like a child with a gun
she makes you feel like you’re the only one
she smiles and it’s dangerous…. in a little black dress
superman and the filthy rich
get in the queue to scratch her itch
sticky fingers pulling at the hem
of her little black dress

baby don’t mind
she can leave it behind.
she don’t want anything
baby’s a star, she’s got to keep on shining

she moves like an animal
the women sigh “it’s political”
you could get arrested around here
for that little black dress
not so simple, it’s complicated….
all this being loved and hated
i wanna know what else she’s hiding
in that little black dress

baby don’t mind
she can leave it behind.
she don’t want anything
baby’s a star, she’s got to keep on shining

don’t pay no mind, you’re gonna leave me behind
i don’t want anything, baby you’re a star
i wanna hear you sing

the slider
i could never understand
the wind at all
was like a ball of love

i could never never see
the cosmic sea
was like a bumble bee

and when i’m sad…
i slide

i have never kissed
a car before
it’s like a door

i have always always
grown my own before
all schools are strange

and when i’m sad…
i slide

i have never never
nailed a nose before
that’s how the garden grows

i could never understand
the wind at all
was like a ball of love

and when i’m sad…
i slide

watch now
i’m gonna slide
i slide….

have you ever seen a woman coming out of
new york city with a frog in her hand?

dolls
on the darkest of streets, at around eleven
the lights shine brightest, on avenue seven
from ‘noho’ to ‘soho’ they congregate
gladrags and handbags we anticipate
boom! boom! cha-cha! and cock becomes vagina

no guys here – dolls! no guys here – just dolls!

mother fisting friends, say romance is cheap
so it’s time for eve to put adam to sleep
lovely, lovely, love me
with dreams with drugs, with lipstick and la rouge

no guys here – dolls! no guys here – just dolls!

with feather boa, like lotte lenya,
high heels and a vicious tongue,
jesus, ‘fantasia’ tu est tres fantastique
so kinky gerlinky, so much fun

no guys here – dolls! no guys here – just dolls!

cock incognito! vag incognita!

knock, knock, who’s there?
oh! here they come, the belligerent scum,
as your immorality would say “all men are queer”
how civilised that you’re despised
knock, knock, who’s there?
dorothy that’s who, she’ll make a man of you!
a man of you! a man of you!

ich bin eine puppe, eine puppe mit scheide!
ich bin ein mann, ein mann mit schwanz
geweg! geweg! lab mich allein! lab mich allein!
das kleine ja! ja! das grobe nein! nein! das kleine ja! ja!
sie macht einen mann aus dir,
eine puppe mit schwanz!, ein mann mit mose!

mr. pussy
in ’67, his debut year, a pussy cat did appear
in soho bars rather shady,
a most discerning, misleading lady

he knew marlene, judy was a friend
hey! johnny ray, all those that bend

a legend born, on a london stage
when ginger beers, were outrage!

mr. pussy. mr. pussy.

nante! no nante! nante parlare
vada omi! you silly cow!

come see a star shine,
come see him laughing through a mask of tears
he should have been in the movies….
you know those movies that make you cry

“oh! immortalise me! oh! immortalise me!
write a song, write a sad song,
make it 25 years a long…. oh!”
….says mr. pussy…. mmmh…. mr. pussy.

you, me and world war three
throw your arms around me,
there’s no time to be blue,
it’s the end of the world,
let’s talk deep and meaningful things,
it’s up to you and down to me…. what’s going on?
it’s you, me and world war three.

you and me, me and you,
we hurt each other ’cause we gotta get through

we’re ‘a to b’ and back again,
a sort of funky electrocution,
trigger happy and shoot to kill,
what a honeymoon in hell!
our world is spinning helplessly…. what’s going on?
it’s you, me and world war three

you and me, me and you,
we hurt each other ’cause we gotta get through
we hurt each other…. we gotta get through
we’re out there orbiting the planet blue….

i shout you scream, it’s all so illogical
you bite my tongue…. i blow up in your face
in hateful times…. it’s time for loving
let’s start to dance…. it’s ‘true romance’

you me and world war three
you me and world war three

put on that dress you know your
throwing yourself out the window dress,
i’ll wear my suit, my wedding ring
and together we will sing, “la la la la la la….”

you and me, me and you,
we hurt each other ’cause we gotta get through,
you and me, me and you,
we’re out there orbiting the planet blue….
….orbiting the planet blue

kitchen sink drama
good morning america, you’re my favorite t. v. show
slow down now, i’ve a headache,
sometimes it’s hard to think,
the phone rings how are you? oh! i’m not up to much
you don’t say, oh really! it’ll end…. end in tears

here i go again,
all i have is what i might have been
where’s my long lost friends?
somewhere over the rainbow

when the dark clouds come,
the angel valium will call
to take me far away,
to a place where i don’t have to feel

i’m happy as i hoover, it’s one o’clock, time for lunch
marshmallows with coffee,
can’t forget my slimfast drink,
the garden’s depressing, i think i need a hair-do
a gin and a tonic, ah! that should do the trick

here i go again,
all i have is what i might have been
where’s my long lost friends?
somewhere over the rainbow

when the dark clouds come,
the angel valium will call
to take me far away,
to a place where i don’t have to feel

it’s monday afternoon, the kids are off at school
sunset boulevard, the channel four matinee
sit down, relax with a nice cup of tea….
…. oh! the sweet smell of butane…. and humdrum.
…. gloria swanson…. from here to eternity….

my twentieth century
i woke up this morning,
dreading the thoughts of another, dull and boring day
hey! woe is me.
i go out on the streets, northside of the city
i see the steel, the fading rust
and the fields i used to play in….
my friends are famous and all my foes live happy
loved by lycra, fooled by velcro
and fucked by what they need….

but who am i to criticise? my pointing finger backfires
i hang my head down low.

i once believed in jesus,
now i can’t believe in rock ‘n’ roll
from baptism to alcohol, in a land suffocatingly green
hey! the myth is magic, do you know what i mean?
the politics of sin and of sex
suffer the fools, pawn our jewels, will it ever change?

but who am i to criticise? i’ve made my bed, i lie on it
and hold my head up high

my disbelief. my fake redemption.
my twentieth century.
my holy war. my self indulgence.
my twentieth century.
my human flesh. my sad dependence.
my twentieth century.
my apathy. my big decision.
my twentieth century.

the last song i’ll ever sing
i’m inviting you to my vaudeville
“oui encore” you say, “and on with the show”
ladies, gentlemen, before i sing to you
the light that shines twice as bright,
burns half as long.

come let me entertain you all
leave all your troubles big and small
life’s a ball, life’s a ball.
hitch a ride on my crooked merry-go-round
hear the clinking-clanking sound
of the song that i bring

take my song, take my hand, never let me down,
like love let me down, like love pushed me around

so long, goodbye, i lost, did try
this is the last song i’ll ever sing
the last song i’ll sing

i played in the cabaret of love
i wore heart, fist and glove.
push and shove, push and shove….
and all for love

take my song, take my hand, never let me down,
like love let me down, like love pushed me around

so long, goodbye, i lost, did try
this is the last song i’ll ever sing
the last song i’ll sing
this is the last song i’ll ever sing
the last song i’ll sing

here, with words that can’t be said
we take songs to our bed
sing – a – long, sing – a – long…. to my last song.

All titles written & arranged by Gavin Friday & Maurice Seezer except The Slider which was written by Marc Bolan. All songs published by Blue Mountain Music except for The Slider which is published by Wizard (Bahamas) Ltd.

• Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves lyrics
• Adam ‘n’ Eve lyrics

Related news

• Shag Tobacco – Lyrics
• Album: Shag Tobacco
• Album – Shag Tobacco – reviews

Melody Maker (September 2, 1995)
…he effortlessly straddles the line between barfly poet and 21st century Las Vegas headliner….SHAG TOBACCO is a night out on the tiles that takes in pre-war Berlin, Lou Reed’s dazzling transvestite New York, Marc Bolan’s epochal `The Slider’ and Dublin’s late night transients…

Q (January 11, 1996)
3 Stars (out of 5) – …a remarkable piece of work. At least three or four tracks–the sublime, drifting dreamscape of `Angel,’ for instance–could have made Friday a household name….perhaps his over-reliance on…theatrical flourishes…has prevented him being taken to the contemporary breast…

Musician (January 4, 1996)
…still as dramatic and angst-ridden as ever, but this time the songs…are awash in samples and beats, primed for the dancefloor…

The Independent, Andy Gill (August 11, 1995)
On Shag Tobacco, Gavin Friday charts a demi-monde whose physical locale may be Dublin, but whose imagination takes in a wider, more European aspect. James Joyce would understand, I’m sure.

Couched in musical terms of cabaret and late-night cafe, the album traces both strict hetero sensibilities (the lusty “Little Black Dress”) and more polymorphously perverse attitudes, as in the transsexual chanson “Dolls”, wherein “it’s time for Eve to put Adam to sleep”. Friday’s long- time colleague Maurice Seezer adds a little dockside decadence to the latter with a gentle wheeze of accordion, while Bono and Edge buff up the harmonies of the former; elsewhere, a clarinet brings a touch of mannered sleaze to the queenly “Mr Pussy”.

The range of music is certainly impressive, but it’s Friday’s lyrical apprehension of himself that comes across most strongly. In “Caruso”, he uses a scattershot series of cultural references to illustrate the song’s contention that “I’m not myself today”: this is a life lived through vicarious images, populated by fictions and infatuations which, he subsequently realises (in “My 20th Century”), have betrayed him, most notably the great myths of rock’n'roll. Despite this realisation, he opts to continue on his chosen route: clearly, destiny cannot be denied.

AllMusic – Ned Raggett
Friday’s third solo effort, as always with Seezer as his main collaborator, provided another development in his musical approach with the choice of Bomb the Bass mainman Tim Simenon as producer. Further continuing the initial experiments the two did on Adam ‘n’ Eve, Simenon helped create a dance-influenced album that ranges from industrial slams to clean, elegant breaks, in many ways serving as the model for his following work with Depeche Mode on Ultra. There’s more than a few hints of where Massive Attack would end up on Mezzanine as well, as the low pulses and sudden guitar/drum hits on the title track show — and the fact that the lead single from Shag Tobacco was named “Angel.” Friday himself is still the sharp-tongued ruined romantic of the previous albums, as apt to swoon as wittily shred and breathlessly gasp, while Seezer again provides the music and core work on keyboards and accordion (check out “Dolls”) to back him perfectly. The obvious glam inspirations the two have always had get full confirmation via a great cover of T. Rex’s “The Slider,” but rather than trying to recreate that song’s exact atmosphere, Simenon helps whip up a clattering, stop-start performance that still keeps all the sex. As for the rest of Shag Tobacco, it’s one lush, playful plunge after another into just enough decadence. “Angel” sounds rather like an extension of the striking Adam ‘n’ Eve closer “Eden,” similarly mixing wonderful falsetto from Friday with steady yet soaring music, including great fuzz bass from Erik Sanko. With its outrageous title, “Mr. Pussy” gets credit for being named after a legendary transvestite from Dublin, who provides the brief spoken word conclusion and shows he has as much style as Friday himself. Best song title of the bunch: “You, Me and World War Three.”

Related news

• Album: Shag Tobacco
• Album – Lyrics – Shag Tobacco
• Album – Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves – reviews

Related news

• Shag Tobacco showcase
• Shag Tobacco release postponed
• Shag Tobacco promo box fetches 256 dollars

Related news

• Planet Rock Profile (Dave Fanning)
• Out of Ireland – The Hit Songs & Artists of Irish Music
• From Lipton Village to Carnegie Hall

Related news

• Shag Tobacco released in the UK
• Shag Tobacco release postponed
• Shag Tobacco promo box fetches 256 dollars