'The Wages of Sin', Unplugged

‘The Wages of Sin’, Unplugged

(Live at The Wheatsheaf, 03/02/18)

 

Good evening everyone. My name is John Wilks and back in the 1970s I used to be a member of a rock band called ‘The Wages of Sin’.

It was said by one of the previous performers that poetry began as song. Part of what we’re going to explore tonight is whether song lyrics qualify as poetry.

‘The Wages of Sin’ were never hugely successful, but we did have a cult following. Our first album was called ‘Bomb Doubt’ and you may remember we had a minor hit with the title track.

“My love is like a neutron bomb,
The buildings stand, but you are gone.”

No? Oh well. Then you probably won’t remember this album track either.

There is something in your eyes
Not light – somehow
When you look at my face
Try to read the map
And find your way out of this place

Your eyes conceal a world
A world of countenance
Oh, your eyes
I thought they were green, romantic
But reality was traitor

Burn it all
Burn it all and we’ll disappear

Clouds in an iron sky
Clouds in an iron sky
Remind me of you
You and your beauty
All those past emotions

Understand, please understand
Understand and reciprocate my words
Understand – reciprocate – words...

Alone and lonely in London
With a guitar I’m unable to play
I moon through the streets and the buildings
Like a ghost with nothing to say

You know, this is really quite corny
There’s a million more, just like me
So I don’t expect tears or compassion
But I would like a bit... of your money

Life’s not a joke, unless you’re laughing
Life’s not a game, unless you’re playing
And I’ve played the best I could
With the hand that I’ve been dealt
And I’ve laughed at every truth
You felt you’d found

If you want to believe in someone
Believe in...
What is your name, anyway...?

Oh, help me
I’m building up hate
That’s all I create for you
Come on, follow the devil
He’s an angel too
I said, come on
Follow the devil
He’s an angel too
He’s an angel too

Back when we first started out, I suppose what we were playing could be described as Prog Metal. At that time, our band name was ‘The Rock Baroque’.

I should remind you that this was the 1970s and I was a teenager, so our song lyrics were not – shall we say – politically correct.

[Unfolds a sheet of A4 notepaper which looks yellow and battered.]

This is one of my original lyric sheets. It was 40 years ago, so it’s a test of my memory to recall all the words.

It’s going on Ebay straight afterwards.

Black, black hate
I’m really evil, make no mistake
I’ll bring you down
I’ll turn you off
But I know what to do
‘Cos I’ve been trying to do it to you

Black doom, come soon
I need to rhyme you with: ‘Moon, June, Croon, Spoon’
My thoughts are negative
Can’t you see?
I know what to do
‘Cos I’ve been trying to do it to me

Take me or break me
But don’t you dare to leave me alone
I said try me or deny me
But no-one’s ever gonna buy me
Please believe me, you don’t have to release me
I really need your vicious love
You can hit me, baby whip me
I can take it
Abuse me, yeah bruise me
I’ll come back for a few kind words
You can lick me then kick me
Just so long as I don’t get bored
Despise me, chastise me
But don’t ever  take me for granted
I said suck me
But don’t chuck me away

You’re my fix, you’re my speed
You’re my craving, all I need

Compulsion, a pine-angled fate
That mangles my words, then devours them
You destroy me, you poetic ghoul
Cut and blown dry
Show me your pink public hair
Crazy face, kiss my whip
You know, you’re no fun any more
Adoration, a hand full of sweat
That boils up my brain and then rots me away
My head is blown, you’re too blue
But your eyes are so very green
I love your cherry gloss lips
They’re so sticky, honey jelly
You know, you turn me on with your needlepoint, girl

You’re my fix, you’re my speed
You’re my craving, all I need... is you

One thing that people tend to forget is how violent it used to get at gigs.

[Member of audience mentions things getting thrown at stage.]

Yes, there was one night we played when a bottle came out of the crowd and hit me on the side of the face. (I probably deserved it after that song.) You can’t see it now because it healed years ago, but it left a jagged scar across my cheek. It meant we had to cancel the tour and it was a long time before I was prepared to play in public again.

It stopped our career in its tracks. When we did start playing again, it was to crowds smaller than this one.

However, I turned it around later. You might remember the cover for our ‘New Erotic’ album. I used some fluorescent green makeup to highlight my scar so that it looked like the blip on a heart monitor. My profile is one of the iconic images from that time.

Anyway. Again, no apologies for lyrical content.

Got a staple in my navel
Got a fold in my tummy too
Centre page spread lust
Ejaculating all over you

Pose me pouting
You know I don’t believe in a thing
You’re a child
You think possession is nine-tenths of true love
And there’s still a father figure up above

‘Timeless turpitude’ is a very nice phrase to use
I’m a superman and I’ve got the whole world to lose

Moody moody, gonna tear the city down
Moody moody, gonna turn your silly smile into a frown

I need your back seat love, I need your back seat love
I need you back, need your back seat love
And I need your straitjacket love, I need your straitjacket love
I need you straight, need your straitjacket love

Blue faced bombers, slouching in the city
What you gonna do with your brains?
I could love you, if you lived longer
And didn’t slither down the drain

Do do do, go out and touch them
Any other move would be lame
Here’s a suggestion, ask them this question:
Will you like me when I’m sane?

Well, I used to share an apartment
With a friend of Claire de Lune
But I had to leave for Vega
Because there wasn’t any room for me

Will you like me when I’m sane?

I’m slowly getting better
I’ll be coming home quite soon
But you’ll have to keep me hidden
From the radiance of the moon

Will you like me when I’m sane?
Will you like me when I’m sane?
Will you like me...?

Our next album was a change of direction and was the one that finally broke us. You might remember the title track from ‘Disintegration of a Falling Star’.

“When it gets too much to take
We will just disintegrate.”

No? Still Nothing?

We were never huge, but we did have an influence on a lot of bands that came later. With our short, punchy songs, we were a punk band before there was any such thing as punk.

Must be a chasm in my skull at least ten miles wide
Where they’re pushing a motorway through
The city’s in my soul – towerblock lust
I would smash all the windows for you

Towerblock tart – that’s what they call her
Towerblock tart – but it’s a total misnomer

In this vertical slum, I see a flash of green
It’s just the broken glass on top of the walls
Nothing seems to matter too much
When every move I make it false
I said – nothing seems to matter too much
When everything I say is balls

Towerblock tart – that’s what they call her
Towerblock tart – but it’s a total misnomer
Towerblock tart – she don’t care

This next song would have been our first Number 1 record, if it hadn’t been for David Cassidy.

[Looks up and shakes fist at ceiling.]

Well, David. I finally got the last laugh on you.

This was probably our finest moment. Please feel free to join in with the chorus.

Gene rebel
Your mind is no devil
You should burn all that haters
And strangle the debaters
And rape the masturbators
And mug the mindless ravers
And laugh at your godhead
And pluck the ripe cherries
And London’s an H-bomb
And nobody cares
As we resurrect Grendel

Gene rebel, hates to attack
Gene rebel, loving he lacks
He’s outmoded, but fashion is dead
Gene rebel, blood’s running red

You roar in the bedroom
Your laugh is ecstatic
I loved you, then I lost you
Phased out on some kind of star kick
Life should end with a kiss
Not a blank tape hiss
And I know it’s superfluous
Muttering ‘pentacle black curse’
But entropy’s coming
And we’re all of us fumbling
As we resurrect Grendel

Gene rebel, hates to attack
Gene rebel, loving he lacks
He’s outmoded, but fashion is dead
Gene rebel, blood’s running red

You think you’re heroic
But can’t carve a brain oak
You live transcendental
Emote non essential
Will you forgive?
Oh please, let me live

Gene rebel, hates to attack
Gene rebel, loving he lacks
He’s outmoded, but fashion is dead
Gene rebel, blood’s running red – red!

[Steps back from microphone and mimes air guitar.]

There should be a long guitar solo here and a change of costume.

This was when we got a bit full of ourselves and it all started to go wrong.

I remember appearing on, I think it was Emperor Rosko’s Round Table – some of you might remember it – on a Friday evening. I was asked what ‘Gene Rebel’ was all about.

“We should rebel against our genes,” I said. “Oppose the petty dictatorship of our chromosomes.”

[Pauses to let fuckwittery sink in with audience.]

Anyway, for whatever reason – and it seemed to make sense at the time – we decamped to Europe and started to listen to a lot of bland Europop. We became a sort of punk ABBA.

He stands at the street corner
Eyes closed against the sun
While at home she is sleeping
Hibernating, hiding from love

Le petit mort
Je ne regrette rien
Mon coeur et moi
Nous sommes etrangers

He displays no sign of passion
He makes no move
But when she said that she would leave him
He left her first
Left her sleeping
Hibernating, hiding from love

Le petit mort
Je ne regrette rien
Mais je ne comprend rien
Mon coeur et moi
Nous sommes etrangers

And when the lights go down
He remains in silence
Eyes like stone
She dreams
But does not remember
Eyes like stone

Some people have asked why we didn’t play at Live Aid. Well, we were there on the day. You won’t see it on the DVD release, but if you watched it live on the telly, I’m told, you could just see us at the edge of the stage, arguing with a BBC type in tweed suit, smoking a pipe.

Apparently, Bob wanted to swear at the audience a bit longer, so we got bumped off the set list. Instead, Elvis Costello came on and did some karaoke instead.

[Notices compere tapping his watch, stage right.]

Which reminds me, one of our songs was going to feature in the 2012 Olympics opening ceremony.

We were at the Brit Awards. We were up for the ‘Fucking Hell, They’re Still Alive’ Award, I think it was called. Until I bumped into Danny backstage, in the bogs. I won’t go into details about what happened. Bit of a misunderstanding that buggered our chances.

Anyway, this is the final track I’m doing. It comes from our last album, before we broke up and all got proper jobs. It’s a bit prophetic about what I’d be doing for the next 40 years.

[Makes a few false starts after muffing the opening lines.]

John Unicorn
Composed a poem in his head
Forgot it on the train home
John Unicorn
Wish that you had never been born

John Unicorn
Returned to his semi-detached
Reclined on the G-plan
John Unicorn
No better than a sycophant

John Unicorn
Retired early to bed
Set the alarm clock
John Unicorn
The door is locked
The key is lost

John Unicorn
Dreams...

Thank you, London. Good night.