The Time Being | Steve Kilbey

spirit photograph

in the afternoon of the tea garden

the royal blue skies above the towns and villages

the water bearer describes an unbearable arc in the eastern sky

between whispering pine and silent ash

a forest full of  loveliest creatures

fawn faun for nevermore

a pale woman in a carriage

a little crimson man on her lap

oh her hounds are laying low

an hour elapses

hazy distant sun is disappearing

morning suddenly so old

afternoon already mocking its promises

the water in the river is cold

no one could survive in there  that long

manikin in doldrums

the voices of the drowned entangled in the reeds

royal swan arrives

and spring unfolded like a pageant

thieves in their dens full of honour

the mercenaries who linger to strip the dead

vanishing pointlessly like the violet evening

daughters of avalon

the nephilim come masked as mere men

the future drifts in like fog on a still lake

take what you want no one is watching

black cat that sat on the path

my ladys mirror buckles under her beauty

her eyes an elusive blue

her memory of me long ago worn away

a starlike grace impossible to fight

someone should consult the native guide

the road has just ended in this field of flowers

my judgement may be wrong thats all

perhaps its all still left to come

a merchant of darkness

purveyor of doom

the poor widow waiting patiently outside in the rain

the graveyards yawned and in the earth their residents churned

my hands stained in paintings of martyrs

st steven pierced by nasty arrows

bleeding wine and crying elysian tears

neither cross nor hook nor strangling knot

moment of clarity comes and goes

hidden justice in the wild

a child by the wayside fading

no spell of yours will bind his soul to this plane

unfortunate mother of orphan

even farther than before

snorting beasts decked out in wars finery

we have been crushed by our own weight

the angel epsilon opposing the dragon set

but neither can win

good evil

evil good

no immaculate conception

could have conceived of someone like you

one day it may be easier

one day the fish will be catching us

i hurt inside someone elses pain

lay down your weariness lay down your cares

there is no way to get back home

something changed when you werent alone

the long night of sideshow magic throws strange shadows

a world returned to dark ages

the men in the taverns drunken and stupidly arguing

the laws turn away from the poor and infirm

the women in the asylum have escaped with the answer

the crooked beak of your italian spur

the fractured glass of the boys skull

maybe we underestimated the enemy

perhaps we trusted fickle friends

the evidence of my god behind this plague is compelling

i wonder why i see you when i die

and i wish for nothing

i can trust

lotus elan position

in 1993 living in surry hills on albion st

a 3 story terrace house complete with recording studio

a doctor on the gear

a dominatrix

and an assorted cast of musicians , junkies , flunkies n fools

grant mclennan and i reassembled jacques frost as he called it

lowdown mean n dirty ok alright

i had a huge habit n grantley wasnt all that far behind

actually some days he abstained and went thru that torment

occasionally we couldnt get any n we both played on thru the suffering

fucking gives ya an edge i tell ya going thru opiate withdrawals

life is right there in yer face right there !

other times i stumbled over to jason n rhondas place

what a fucking rigmarole

you could never just turn up

you had to make an appointment in code

telling em what you wanted

monday meant a fifty

tuesday meant a hundred

wednesday was a half

and the weekend was a gram

the good weekend! the junky doctor used to say to em down the phone

they took ages solemnly weighing up this ridiculous powder

i mean have you ever seen how much ya get for 300 bucks?

like half a teaspoonful or something

anyway a load of other famous actors n singers n dancers frequented the joint

jason n rhonda were such philistines

they didnt realise  that skinny guy with all the black hair was a goth god

they didnt realise that boyish geeza was one of our top actors

anyway im digressing

grant and i were obsessed by the gear n all its many rituals

the whole fucking box n dice

i had more money at the time than grant

and sometimes oh i was so kind laying it on him gratis

othertimes i was a right fuckin’ bastard

i dole him out a tiny little bit

and then get loaded myself outrageously

we had a stupid jokes

we had our stupid codes

heroin was our girlfriend our only girlfriend

we bitched about her we praised her

we despaired of her

and when i saw more of her than grant

he got fucking very jealous

the record was engineered by my brother russell

and tim powles played on it quite brilliantly

grant n i watched a doco on the mamas n papas

we both fell in love with michelle phillips

and we both determined to get some of their interweaving harmonies

listen to running from the body

a complex typical grant story about a murder

“what about them bones in the orchard wall”

we let our guitars rip

grant n i wandered about permanently strapped up

because inspiration was striking us at all hours

on hot city nights we’d hang on the steps outside

me smokin’ dope with opium

grant smokin’ peter stuyvos

we’d strike up conversations with passers by

or i’d try n embarrass him if any females went by

we were on a pretty busy street albion street

a mecca at the time for intellectuals, prostitutes, drug dealers, gays, winos, punks

adolf hitler woulda hated the places to smithereens

i’d sing streets of your town to passing bints

grant’d protest oh steven steven no no stop …

back in the house i had a 24 track n all the latest stuff

i had a big leather lounge just like the pros

i had a glass bit between the control n recording rooms

i had a piano n a load of guitars

i had loads of gadgets n i didnt even know what they all did

grant and i would chuck on guitars and plug in n start up

we were raw we were visceral

the songs on this album are disturbing

they are sad songs songs of despair and triumphant hopelessnesses

grant played bass sometimes and i played lead guitar

together we overdubbed loads of other guitars

we always had an idea for some more guitars

i bash away on the piano

tim pounds the drums

its a brutal sound in some places

sometimes grant would drink a bottle of red wine

i might even have a slurp

our muses collided and lurched all over the place

we knocked the stuff out effortlessly

hell i wasnt even trying

you can tell that thats for sure

jesus tho its pretty good

like 2 crazy songwriters on drugs doing whatever they liked

grant surprisingly liked to rock out with a guitar

theres plenty of rocking out

polinski gave it a good mix

tim does some mixing too

it says i produced it

this was my idea of a brilliant production move

hey russell how long is that piece of tape?

its got 2 minutes one second on it

ok lets do a song that lasts 2 minutes one second and let the tape run out

you can hear it on shakedown

the picture inside is me nodded off

ooh i’m lovely when i’m comatose

grants got sunglasses on he looks quite macho

meanwhile the record is angry passionate disillusioned

grants great faith in love seems to have failed him here

i’m in there playing a lot of the instruments

some of the tracks i played everything

i was kinda on a roll too

i was making music constantly

except when i was asleep on the couch

or waiting for the white holden commodore

one of my other dealers

yeah i’d be standing out front waiting for that car

unlike grant i couldnt really play if i was junk-sick

oh god if youve never felt it

like a terrible anguishing aching painful absence

the worst fucking feeling you could never imagine till you felt it

when the endorphins had been shut down n the opiates turned off

you were burning you were freezing you were so down you hurt so bad

sweating shaking sleepless miserable time elongated out to centuries

a nightmare oh you would not believe

dont ever try heroin youll wish you never been born

so there i am spending hundreds of bucks a day to feel normal

i never overdosed once

i lived on custard and sweet soft milky types of things

i had all these silk shirts i bought in thailand

all the same but a different colour

i swapped the very last one with merrick one day in stockholm

he had an amazing shirt i coverted

grant smoked n drank took drugs n rocknrolled

i mean we were such a cliche pair

squabbling over the white lady

n then laying back strumming keith-like riffs

me with a spliff

grant with cig

tim sitting there trying to figure out

which lunatic was supposed to be in charge

it was not pretty n i was not proud of it

we argued over money n drugs

and we fell in n out with each other

i was a panicky when i had run out

i was blase when i was on it

grant was no angel n he was often rude to everyone else

tho usually he was not rude to me

he destroyed me with clever quick quips which might quote me him or dylan

grant n i both loved dylan but i deferred to grant who claimed to love him more

we loved to play dylan songs

we were always doing that bit

“they say i shot a man named gray n took his wife to italy”

we loved to imitate dylan

we dissected his songs

we conspired to secretly rip him off (even more)

all the lyrics are snatches of lives

hard lives sad lives good lives gone wrong

i just wanna know

how long you gonna keep me locked out of your empire?

we were interested in production too

n fooling round with stuff

theres some sophisticated bits amongst the brutality too

wow they were strange times

what was i thinking?

i was reading books by angela carter

oh she is so up my alley

and then i found out she’d been dead awhile…i hadnt realised

grant n i knocked out this song for her

she lives in her own world …we sing optimistically

theres some nice chord progressions

grant n i were across that stuff too

jacks of all trades

we bickered n squabbled n giggled n stormed off

we created we got loaded we felt withdrawals nasty fangs

its all here

its all on this record snow job

grant hated the cover

thought it was too sexy or something

he was a bit of an old fashioned gent when it came to that kinda thing

very courtly romantic sort of sentimental bloke

its in the lyrics too

he cries out against the fickleness of the female

the white lady

the girl hes kinda might be “seeing”

he really wanted to believe in “love”

whatever that means grant was all for it

except these modern girls hadnt read those 19th century books

the ones grant musta had for breakfast during his country days

so he was often telling some faithless loveless woman off or something

boy he could get hurt n jealous of a certain old flame of his too

any mention of her latest news would get him writing a thousand songs

its all there

its all here still in these grooves

i have unearthed the final cache of these cds

about 20 or 30 left in this universe and thats it

send me 25 bucks on paypal (mention snow job) n i’ll send ya one

including postage i guess

yep hes hawking his stuff on his blog folks

shame shame shame

each one will be fabulously auto-graphed by me

(or with a dedication should you desire)

anyway if you wanna own this record

its definitely your last chance

also definitely coming soon

premium sk ; first release DAVID NEIL THE WILDERNESS YEARS

goodnight

http://www.reverbnation.com/thechurchbandofficial

the church is now on ReverbNation giving you streaming music and a selection of videos to watch.  At the moment we have 22 songs uploaded and 12 videos links to view from the main page. The song player can be shared via Facebook and this site is also synched with MySpace and Twitter for updates. Enjoy listening!

Newsletter 7th April 2011

Newsletter 17th April 2011 – Copy

plummet in some seamless night

my hand dealt by your hand

queen of clubs goes on the king of dope

the jack of all trades goes on the red car pet

the knave of rolex between the suits

my brain stuffed full of memory

someone write down the score

ok ok i’m jus’ warming up

the words will flow

you cant force the process you know

its easter sunday surely the day itself is in hearts

i’m steve kilbey in spades

the kitten is the two of clubs

and scarlet kilbey is some red queen

the game of life starts by all players being dealt out their hands

oh man you gotta play the hand thats dealt ya

ok no one is agreeing on the game either

i thought after a foul i got 2 free goes

or could jump to a square n get crowned n be a king in tyrus

just for the night

crowned in crown street

downed in the high street

i move through diagonals i think unseen

i glimpse at your cards

oh no i am not afraid to cheat

oh i’d like to move your pieces

oh i’d like to see your 6s and 7s

oh i’d like to know where yer knights gonna go

i get all mixed up

secretly the queen of spades gets passed back n forth between the players

its the maximum penalty

she is a lethal lady

she is anathema to a real player

thanks you bastard says some unlucky sod as i slip him black queen

i’m sorry man …i begin

yeah yeah says the player…you dont look fuckin’ sorry

i smirk behind my sunglasses then

black queen goes straight for ace of diamonds

you bastard says another player as black queen comes out

she lays on the table looking up at you

go on she says goading you on

kinda hard to tell her age

go on she says

if youre man enough

fuck this i rifle through my hand

the joker screams at me from behind the 9 of wands

the other players have responded with their big guns

unable to contain my triumph i lay down joker with a small scream

fuck you where’d ya get that from ? says one of the players

‘e’s gotta fuckin’ mortgage on the fuckin’ joker! says another angrily

black queen goes thru em like dominos going down

but you played your one n only joker now what…?

the other players have upped the ante

the bets are obscene

one folds like a deck chair

another jumps over men in an L shape

its simple he says

no dealer no drama

i shuffle i huff

i suddenly in on a bluff

i play rough

i never feel i got enough

zeitgeist? tough!

yeah its all froth n bits o’fluff

until the hard stuff

creampuff

blow

the truth aint out there somewhere

sitting like a continent waiting to be dis-covered

the truth is so elusive

appearing in is myriad disguises

at funerals at bars at the going down of the sun

why do you do the things that you do ? says someone

someone in another room

who am i? i turn to say

i was hoping you could tell me

until i meet up with someone so sweetly complete

perhaps this reflection i see will belong to me

my blood throbs in my chest

my thoughts course thru my brain

part beast part star part stupid oaf

we are series of reactions to external stimulii

resolving contradictions

i am destined to believe only in chance

love from life to life

life from star to star

beast star oaf

is zero sacred?

nothing would look good on you

you understand it effortlessly

good beyond good somehow you remain quite bad

bad to the bone apart

in a fickle world you remain mercurial

in good fridays happinesses and sadnesses

the day they murdered such a gentle man

the hammer the nail the splint’ring wood

the screams of man

this part i still dont understand

humanity torturing itself

oh and i hope margot has met jesus by now

i hope shes talking his reddish-blond lovely curls off

i hope shes made a few suggestions about some more bottle shops up there

and sought out some famous dead guitarists and demanded a chord progression

i hope shes just like our margot but without the pain without the fear

i hope shes just like our margot with strange gorgeous words escaping her lips

i hope shes just like our margot walking and talking with jesus

next day margot deep in the forest round vrindavan

she hears krsnas flute drifting from the hidden lake

oh margot i can see you

your eyes filled with delight

you so pale in your sari

you so glowing in your sartori

and margot sings along to the divine music of india

her voice fills the glades in its mellifluous wordless singing sigh

so i leave her there among the swans

i leave her there amongst the lotuses and her companions

far from the crematorium at the edge of the eastern suburbs

far from the coffin and the flowers

little sister we did all love you

your poor family, little singer

could they understand your torments and obsessions

i turn angrily to my jesus who stands here on good friday

my jesus that i painted with the gold guitar back in the imperial avenue days

my jesus with the groovy hair and beard of  stars

my jesus with tears in his eyes maybe i see

yeah i loved margot smith too he says in his most beautiful voice

i love all of em he says nibbling on a cadburys hollow chocolate egg

whats with all the rabbits n eggs ?  i ask him

symbolism he smiles and sighs …kinda obfuscated things a little

i always felt rotten having a holiday the day they nailed ya up…..!

confusing isnt it……jesus and his beatific smile

suffer the little children …did margot ever sing that?

it was a lovely day for margots goodbye

goodbye goodbye goodbye

sunny but with a cool wind

out here in this windswept southern coast

far from england far from ireland

margot no more DTs no more morphine patches

no more assaults when you were using the bathroom

margot no more hospitals no more disappointments

margot fly away from this earth now

oh you are free beyond freedom

oh your songs now fill the future and your words are winged like birds

yet i feel your presence in this room

bereavement on multiple fronts

i grieve for nazareth for venice and vienna

i mourn my babylon i mourn my mornings in distant melbourne

in an english garden crying like a phantom in the sun

in america the new world bargaining a million acres for a mirror

a rich roman widow sobbing amidst her vines

you are lost my reader lost in this tangle of inklings

so you switch on your new sat-nav machine

you have a choice of voices but you choose the one marked SK

the machine come on with cough that clears a throat

how are ya ? says the voice

refuckingcalculating says the voice

oh boy youre really lost arent ya? says the voice

its good friday too says the voice

and i dont quite frankly fuckin’ know where you are says the voice

left or right its all the same to me says the voice

it good friday and the tourists are pouring into bondi says the voice

wanna avoid the future its undergoing repairs

wanna avoid the past…theres been an accident ….

take the present until you reach the end

the end aint the end i’m sure says the voice

then you go on n on n on n on

you will change

you will grow

you will encounter unbearable pain n pleasure

until……says the voice

until……

until what ?! you angrily ask

until….fuck i dont know…..! says the voice

but by then youve turned into the drive

and youre safely home

and youre just a tiny tiny child

so safe in the familys bosom

and good friday

lingers dreamlike seconds slowed down

something you will always remember

just let them try to stitch that shadow back that i stole from you

its one of those white days

suddenly a sweet aching deep sadness sweeps down around us

so many of these white days

walking round a sandbar lagoon with karin in 1986

up near my mothers old place

an endless white day we felt lonely together then

the rocks the gulls the absence of wind or temperature

eventually a fine mist filled the air

i talked my head off about nothing as usual

she said very little at all

there was no one else for miles

i was still quite young then accelerating towards now

the years disappear….well what else could they fucking do….?

a black cat crossed my broken mirror

yeah as i begin to pick up speed

you see i wanna have my life and live it too

at the back of my mothers old house at smiths lake

you walked down a hill said to be crawling with snakes

until you came to a little creek at the bottom

and a log to cross the creek to a sandy little lagoon beach

or a small lake fed by the tide that broke through and filled it up

and so you walked round the side of the lake

until you came to a caravan park quite empty most the year

and beyond that some abandoned equipment n empty workers cabins

then you go through a small car park into dense cool jungle

the brown roots writhe about

the sharp branches scratch your legs

suddenly youre through and youre on a windswept dune

and the green pacific ocean hammers an endless white beach

white like today is white

warm white still

the music is a distant saw or hammer and the drone of traffic

sadness grief  helplessness hopelessness

worst of all emptiness

an empty day in an empty life

it aint no bed of roses

it aint all dancing on clouds

its just a white day and then its quite quiet

you sit at the table

out one window its white

out another the white has melted in to yellow and grey shapes

i shake like an earthquake

stop must be a sugar drop

keep thinking about margot smith

i bet shes enjoying it

if anyone can margot can

leaving this white day far behind

i bet shes enjoying it

you imagine her now free spirit soaring

you see her in some happy place

and we’re young and its summer and its a white day

margot walking down the street in surry hills after recording a vocal

1991 and its fading into white

on soft nights you ride a white horse in complex dreams

starboard under green leaves it motionless

the white day of this one life

a sadness you should have healed

a brief roman candle

hotels loom and disappear

unending check-in in miami or helsinki or bologna

on a white day aslan created narnia

and he sang it all into being

but always some evil has entered the world

and the white days become cold

and winter waiting for you at the end of the line

and magic fades from the earth

on white still days at airports where you cry and cry

on white still days at appointments in the city

on white still days watching someone getting married by the harbour

on white still days with your twins in rockpools and motels

on white still days with your brothers n father in batehaven

dad buy us some chips dad buy us some fizzy drinks

dad his ice cream is bigger than mine

dad can i have a comic as well

dad can i have a yo yo

white still day

still white

still still

a grey dirty smear towards the north

i start to fear all possible futures

i start to cling to the present but god its so slippery

white still day still slipping by 3 oclock 4 oclock 5 oclock

i cant hold on the day falls headlong into afternoon and evening

it gets darker quicker

i’m lost in there somewhere

unable to explain myself or my deeds

waking up groggy missing my plane

my money i used up just writing this line

still white day

white it all out

whiter than the whitest white

crank hall

the waning moon sinks into my little poem here

gloria warm nocturne

the street is decorated like a play

all the troupes of actors jostle through the emptiness

the tents fluttering pennants heralding the crests of dragon and beast

the mountains around decked in flower and bloom

magnificent cloud flies like a slow arrow piercing the skies reality

the drum of yesterday still faint on the horizon

with everso sleepy eyes i regard oncoming darkening days

but tonight my cocoon holds me numbish warm

a light comes on

a door opens in a house

somebody stands there

my mind is pleasantly blank

except for this blurb which oozes out of my thoughts

this one broken thread derailed train of thought

i dont like the moving shadow says scarlet the human creature

outside the air has gone balmy

some bird still sings in the background

the purple glow of someones tv somewhere

a car drives off

a silvery blur on a quiet street

oh my quickening brain hastens for a feed

in the central block of darkness

yes……. a shadow moves …….

oh those white frangipanis their perfume rides the zephyr astride

my mind shivers in its box

everyone inside i hear a voice say in my heartless heart

its just an echo from a dawn

its just a dash down a wire

i shake my head

what was that?

the human creature laughs

i told you already! she says in a gurgling voice

so

i dont ask again

the church return to Australia on Sunday April 10th 2011 to perform “A Psychedelic Symphony”, a very special concert presented by International Music Concepts and held at the iconic Sydney Opera House.

The band will perform a selection of their greatest musical moments of the last 31 years alongside 67 young and vibrant players from the Sydney University Symphony Orchestra conducted by the irrepressible George Ellis. Featuring 3 talented soloists – Patti Hood on concert harp, from Joshua Tree, California, Sophie Collins on cello, based in deepest darkest Western Australia and local renowned musician Johnny Zwartz on double bass. Shelley Harland and Tiare Helberg feature on silvery backing vocals, established multi instrumentalist Craig Wilson completes the line up.

It has now been a year and a half of constant touring, celebrating the band’s 30th anniversary and performing their latest album Untitled #23 (featuring Patti, Sophie and Shelley). In April 2010 the band toured “An Intimate Space” in the USA playing a song from each of their albums in reverse chronological order, giving away a program and free CD of even more new material. In October 2010 the band were inducted into the ARIA Hall Of Fame and toured “An Intimate Space” in November and December in Australia. This was followed by the “Future Past Perfect” Tour in the USA playing Starfish, Priest=Aura and Untitled #23 in their entirety with another free program and a three and a half hour show of captivating music that mesmerized the sell out crowds.

With three EP’s: Pangaea, Operetta and Deadman’s Hand now released from Untitled #23 on their own Unorthodox label through MGM, the band have already begun work on a new album expected to be released in 2012. In the meantime EMI Records have followed up the stylishly packaged back catalogue. (Of Skins And Heart 1981, The Blurred Crusade 1982, Seance 1983 and Heyday 1985) with a double-disc Starfish 1988, just released and including rarities and outtakes. The releases also include unseen photos and extensive, revealing sleeve notes written by Marty Willson-Piper.

Seeing the church – Steve Kilbey, Peter Koppes, Tim Powles and Marty Willson-Piper in this spectacular setting is an event not to be missed – a one-off celebratory concert focusing on the most illustrious of careers and performing a wealth of material from their deep catalogue.

Recent Concert Reviews Have Been Outstanding:

“The band thrilled ardent followers by weaving musical spells full of grand gestures, menacing atmosphere and stratospheric radiance.”
– Jeff Elbel Chicago Sun Times February 2011

“Textures. Beyond the brilliant songwriting, it’s the sonic textures that make the church my favorite band on the planet. You can tell how much attention they pay to getting the right sound for every song. A dazzling blend of guitar tones from Peter Koppes and Marty Willson-Piper, astute drumming by Tim Powles and sharp bass playing from Steve Kilbey waxes and wanes from melodic to dissonant to ethereal and back again; it’s stunning ensemble work that frames Kilbey’s distinctive baritone voice as he intones a rush of imaginative lyrics that wander from wry to surreal: the church sound like no other band, and create a memorable flow of music that resonates deep in my brain.”
– Anton A, Tantalized (Review of Highline Ballroom and BB Kings Shows in NYC)

Reviews of “Untitled #23” have also been exceptional around the world:

Rolling Stone Australia gave the album an unprecedented 5 star review.
“A stunningly ambitious album of shimmering rock.”

Rolling Stone USA in Fricke’s Picks,
“A genuine milestone in longevity and psychedelic invention.”

Classic Rock UK
“What is on offer – aside from a masterpiece of dynamics and craft – is the irresistible sound of integrity.”

The Age
“It’s a haunting, dark, thrilling, ecstatic, melodic psychedelic journey in ten unforgettable pieces. “

Beat Magazine
“Untitled #23 is kaleidoscopic but accessible, tightly focused psych-pop brilliance.”

Sydney Morning Herald
“Sparkling electric poetry from some guitar-shaped hole in the universe.” ****

For more information please contact:

BRIAN MCDONALD AT RiSH PUBLICITY
T +61 418 604 844 or 0418 604 844
E brian.mcdonald@rishpublicity.com
Skype brianrish
A Goldsborough Mort 420/243 Pyrmont Street Pyrmont NSW 2009 Australia
W www.rishpublicity.com | www.rishrecords.com

Unorthodox Press Release April 2011