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David Bowie: 'hours...'

 A l b u m   D e t a i l s

Artist: David Bowie
Title: 'hours...'
Released: 1999.10.05
Label: Virgin Records America
Time: 40:30
Producer(s): David Bowie & Reeves Gabrels
Appears with: Tin Machine
Category: Pop / Rock
Rating: *****..... (5/10)
Media type: CD
Purchase date:  2001.10.27
Price in €: 7,27
Web address: www.davidbowie.com

 S o n g s ,   T r a c k s


[1] Thursday's Child (Bowie/Gabrels) - 5:24
[2] Something in the Air (Bowie/Gabrels) - 5:46
[3] Survive (Bowie/Gabrels) - 4:11
[4] If I'm Dreaming My Life (Bowie/Gabrels) - 7:04
[5] Seven (Bowie/Gabrels) - 4:04
[6] What's Really Happening? (Bowie/Gabrels/Grant) - 4:10
[7] The Pretty Things Are Going to Hell (Bowie/Gabrels) - 4:40
[8] New Angels of Promise (Bowie/Gabrels) - 4:35
[9] Brilliant Adventure (Bowie/Gabrels) - 1:54
[10] The Dreamers (Bowie/Gabrels) - 5:14

 A r t i s t s ,   P e r s o n n e l


DAVID BOWIE - Vocals, Acoustic Guitar, Keyboards, Drum Programming, Cover Art Concept

REEVES GABRELS - Synthesizer, Acoustic & Rhythm Guitar, Drum Programming, Drum Loop
MARK PLATI - Synthesizer, Acoustic & 12 String Guitar, Bass, Mellotron, Drum Programming, Add. Producer, Add. Engineer, Mixing
MIKE LEVESQUE - Drums
STERLING CAMPBELL - Drums on [5],[8],[10]
CHRIS HASKETT - Rhythm Guitar on [4]
EVERETT BRADLEY - Percussion on [5]
HOLLY PALMER - Background Vocals

KEVIN PAUL - Engineer
JAY NICHOLS - Assistant Engineer
RYOJI HATA - Assistant Engineer
JAY NICHOLAS - Assistant Engineer
ANDY VANDETTE - Mastering
REX RAY - Artwork, Design, Image Manipulation
FRANK OCKENFELS - Photography  

 C o m m e n t s ,   N o t e s


1999 CD Virgin 48157
1999 CS Virgin 48157
2001 CD EMI 848716



Since David Bowie spent the '90s jumping from style to style, it comes as a shock that Hours, his final album of the decade, is a relatively straightforward affair. Not only that, but it feels unlike anything else in his catalog. Bowie's music has always been a product of artifice, intelligence, and synthesis. Hours is a relaxed, natural departure from this method. Arriving after two labored albums, the shift in tone is quite refreshing. "Thursday's Child," the album's engaging mid-tempo opener, is a good indication of what lays ahead. It feels like classic Bowie, yet recalls no specific era of his career. For the first time, Bowie has absorbed all the disparate strands of his music, from Hunky Dory through Earthling. That doesn't mean Hours is on par with his earlier masterworks; it never attempts to be that bold. What it does mean is that it's the first album where he has accepted his past and is willing to use it as a foundation for new music. That's the reason why Hours feels open, even organic — he's no longer self-conscious, either about living up to his past or creating a new future. It's a welcome change, and it produces some fine music, particularly on the first half of the record, which is filled with such subdued, subtly winning songs as "Something in the Air," "Survive," and "Seven." Toward the end of the album, Bowie branches into harder material, which isn't quite as successful as the first half of the album, yet shares a similar sensibility. And that's what's appealing about Hours — it may not be one of Bowie's classics, but it's the work of a masterful musician who has begun to enjoy his craft again and isn't afraid to let things develop naturally.

Stephen Thomas Erlewine, All-Music Guide, © 1992 - 2001 AEC One Stop Group, Inc.



Hours... is a lush, largely serene self-portrait through which David Bowie atones for mistakes and reflects on regrets. Not that this is the chameleon's swan song, but it's a fitting time for him to speak out honestly about his life--a life that's been lionized, criticized, and mythologized by the masses for three decades. Bowie's Hunky Dory muses were once "driving their mamas and papas insane," but here they are aged and faded ("The Pretty Things Are Going to Hell"); yet the man himself could not be more graceful or vibrant.

Beth Massa, Amazon.com's Best of 1999



From Outside to Earthling, which were released only two years apart in the late 1990s, the rock & roll chameleon did his best to keep pace with fleeting dance trends, jumping straight from the persona of a post-grunge industrial phantom into that of a drum & bass beatmeister. While both albums were respectable representations of each genre, by switching directions with such angularity, the CDs were ultimately more costume than camouflage. With Hours... David Bowie updates his musical wardrobe, but for the first time in his career he drops the facade. The album is a real-life memoir of loss, regret, and repentance. He boldly intertwines trip-hop rhythms, new-wave nods, Reeves Gabrels's wondrously odd guitar riffs, slow, deliberate ambient tempos, and atmospheric synth accents, all while maintaining a cohesive, otherworldly pop appeal. The CD marks the completion of an ironic circle, where Bowie draws inspiration from contemporary trends borne out of a musical style he invented decades ago. Looks like Major Tom has finally found his way home, and what a gorgeous homecoming it is.

Beth Massa, Amazon.com



Von Outside bis Earthling, beide im Abstand von nur zwei Jahren in den späten 90ern erschienen, gab das Rock'n'Roll-Chamäleon sein Bestes, um mit den flüchtigen Trends in der Dance-Szene Schritt zu halten. Raus aus der Rolle des Post-Grunge-Industrial-Phantoms, rein in die eines Drum-&-Bass-Meisters. Zwar lieferte er auf beiden Alben durchaus respektable Vorstellungen der beiden Genres, der steife Richtungswechsel aber zeigte, daß die Musik auf beiden CDs im Grunde nur ein modisches Mäntelchen war, das er sich übergestülpt hatte. Auf Hours... nun bringt David Bowie seine musikalische Garderobe auf Vordermann. Zum ersten Mal in seiner Karriere läßt er die Maske fallen. Dieses Album ist eine wirklich gelebte Biographie aus Verlust, Bedauern und Reue. Kühn verbindet er Trip-Hop-Rhythmen und New Wave, Reeves Gabrels' wunderbar ausgefallene Gitarrenriffs, langsame und bedachte Ambient-Tempi und atmosphärische Synthie-Akzente. Das ganze Album ist dabei durchdrungen von einem fremdartigen und reizvollen Pop-Appeal. Mit dieser CD schließt sich ein ironischer Kreis, indem Bowie seine Inspirationen aus einem Musikstil zieht, den er selbst vor Jahrzehnten kreiert hat. Es sieht so aus, als hätte Major Tom endlich nach Hause gefunden -- und welch großartige Heimkehr es ist.

Beth Massa, Amazon.de



Public Enemy, David Sylvian, Björk und viele andere haben schon Songs ins Internet gestellt. Jetzt läßt sich der vom "Thin White Duke" zum Börsengänger gereifte David Bowie 1999 in Platteninfos als Hauptinitiator dieser Idee feiern und stellt als erster Majoract eine komplette CD ins Netz. Dabei hat er soviel Technik-Hype eigentlich gar nicht nötig, wie die zehn neuen song- und gitarrenorientierten Kompositionen auf "Hours" beweisen, die ihn nach seinen letzten Drum & Bass-Ausflügen auf "Earthling" oder dem Titelsong für den Soundtrack zu "Lost Highway" erneut als reifen und sich sehnsüchtigen Schwüren hingebenden Songschreiber auszeichnen. David Bowie 1999 knüpft mit "I´m Dreaming My Life" und "Thursday´s Child" an seine besten Zeiten an: schwere somnabule Melancholie de luxe und den gnadenlos pochenden Zeittakt vor 2000 ignorierend. Er wagt es auch, der klickwütigen Generation der Monitor-Mumien den Titel "I´m Dreaming My Life" in Überlänge von über sieben Minuten vorzusetzen. Bowies insgesamt 23. (!) Studioalbum, das er zusammen mit Reeves Gabrels auf den Bermudas schrieb und aufnahm, erinnert nicht selten an die "Ziggy Stardust"- oder "Hunky Dory"-Phase. Da kann ein Songtitel fast als Rückblick in Trauer gewertet werden: "The Pretty Things Are Going To Hell" - vielleicht auch, weil Bowie weiß, dass die heiligen Werte der Rockmusik eh verraten und verkauft sind. Seine getragene Musik, sein sardonisch flehender Gesang und die in Tristesse verharrenden Bilder seines neuen Videoclips illustrieren Bowies über Jahre und Trends erhabene Vision, die in dem Song "Survive" kulminiert.

© Stereo, Stefan Meyer



Ich bin dann mit der Sphinx gegangen, Dietmar wollte ja bei Terre bleiben. Während der ersten Schritte im Labyrinth der goldschillernden Sphinx, konnte ich noch das angeregte Gespräch der beiden auf der anderen Seite des kolloidalen Vorhangs aus Sternenstaub verfolgen. Doch ein ängstliches Hoffen, mich nicht zu verirren, lenkte mein Interesse bald auf andere Dinge. Sehr komisch war etwa, dass die einzelnen Gänge mit kleinen metallenen Straßenschildern versehen waren. Der Sphinx folgend passierte ich die Lennon-Road, Rue Jacques Brel, den Kraftwerkweg, die Chic-Avenue, Bauhaus Lane, und Kid Montana Straat, bis mich ihre spitzbübisch kichernde Stimme ablenkte. Ohne den Worten wirklich Aufmerksamkeit zu schenken, verstand ich doch was von: Morgens auf vier -, Mittags auf zwei - und Abends auf drei Beinen. - Was war bloß noch die Antwort? @Normal:Bevor mir was Gescheites einfiel, stand ich an der Kopfseite eines von Labyrinthmauern umzäunten Platzes. In dessen Mitte saß ein Mann, der offensichtlich eine Tapete malte,- und in sich versunken murmelte: »Sie muss besser werden als Labyrinth, nur einmal noch besser.« Ohne den Mann zu begrüßen, fragte die Sphinx: »Kommt es letztendlich allein darauf an, ob die Gitarren eingestöpselt werden oder nicht?« Von ihrer Stimme aufgeschreckt blickte er hoch und antwortete erstaunlich prompt: »Davon weiß ich wenig, ich male hier mit den Farben der Vergangenheit und wie mir befohlen, rühre ich sie mit meinen Tränen an«. Immer noch in ihrem eigenartig amüsierten Tonfall erwiderte die Sphinx ein wenig trotzig: »Rätsel sind meine Angelegenheit, bleib du bei deinen Leisten! Sieh dir das Chamäleon des Rocks an, Neil Young! Zwischen Harvest, Zuma, Trans und Mirror Ball liegt nur eine kurze Wegstrecke«. »Für ein unsterbliches Plappermaul wie dich vielleicht«, raunzte der sichtlich erzürnte Maler zurück: »aber ohne Crazy Horse, Crosby, Stills & Nash und Pearl Jam, wäre ja nicht mal er soweit gekommen.« Wie ein Kind im Grundschulalter äffte die Sphinx seine Stimme nach und schimpfte nun auch: »Ohne die Spiders from Mars und Eno, Pop & Visconti würdest du hier gar nicht sitzen. Also erinnere dich an Tin Machine und leg den blöden Pinsel hin!« Entsetzen stieg in mir auf, als ich sah wie der Maler von seinem Hocker aufstand und zu tanzen begann, als (wohl zu seiner Aufmunterung) plötzlich Placebos Version von »20th Century Boy« durch die Gänge des Labyrinths schallte. »Dann lass ich meine Tränen eben sprechen«, sang er als der letzte Ton verklang. Harvest und Hunky Dory, Pearl Jam und Placebo - alles das Selbe? Ist das die Essenz von allem, dass jeder nach allen Träumen, zu sich findet und dann einfach nur seine eigene kleine Geschichte erzählen wird? Ich musste weg von hier, nach draußen ins Leben zurück! Ich wählte die Gary Numan Street, doch sie führte nicht zu einem Vorhang aus Sternenstaub, sondern zu einer verschlossenen Tür. An der Klinke hing ein Schild mit der Aufschrift: »Bei Mutter schmeckt es doch am besten«. Als ich das Schild zur Seite schob und durch das Schlüsselloch blickte, sah ich ein trauriges graues Chamäleon, das eifrig die Wände der Gänge tapezierte. Nein, da ging es wohl nicht weiter, ich musste woanders rauskommen. Draußen vor dem Labyrinth erklärt Terre bestimmt gerade wie man akkurat Lidstrich aufträgt und wenn ich an meine diesbezüglichen Versuche des letzten Herbstes denke, weiß ich, dass ich jene Lektion noch nötig habe.

© SPEX



Gert van Veens und Daphne Mollées fünfte Album-Runde. Vierzehnmal hat das Duo mit tatkräftiger Unterstützung von Freunden und Bekannten an den Reglern alles getan, um dem Partyvolk die Tanzflächenbrenner zu geben, nach denen es lauthals schreit. Konnte man den Vorgänger "Flightrecorder" mit seinen kleinen Spielereien und der sehr großen stilistischen Durchmischung fast als Konzeptalbum verstehen, so ist "21 Hours", direkt und straight produziert, solide Funktionalität. Quazar schaffen ein brillantes Grundgerüst, einen monumentalen Ruhepol aus Baß und Groove, aus dem heraus House, Trance, Tribal Techno und mehr musikalisch Verwandtes nuanciert wird. Wie schon bei "Flightrecorder" sind dazu einige Tracks fließend ineinandergelegt, so daß sich Trennlinien plötzlich als Verbindungspunkte entpuppen, über die im Wellenflug ein Netz gespannt wird, auf dem sich ein typischer Sound ausbreitet: Quazar-Sound.

Daniel Karg / © Intro - Musik & so mehr unter www.intro.de



Having spent the majority of the '90s investing in shaky deals with cyber rock, industrial, and drum 'n' bass, the Thin White Duke has finally stepped back from those trendier inclinations to make his most straightforward rock album in nearly two decades. Giving the post-glam wankers who've cribbed his classic sound a run for their money, Bowie recalls his Heroes/Low/Lodger days with dramatic vocal build-ups and melodic post-new wave synth washes on tracks such as "New Angels Of The Promise" and "The Dreamers." Other songs, such as "The Pretty Things Are Going To Hell" and "What's Really Happening" revisit the driving, metallic rock of Tin Machine. ‘Hours…' may not be a return to classic form or a significant leap forward for Bowie, but it does prove his enduring vitality, as he continues to pull off fresh, unexpected things as only a chameleon of his caliber could.

Ron Hart: CMJ New Music Report Issue: 639 - Oct 18, 1999
© 1978-2001 College Media, Inc., Inc. All Rights Reserved.



Some albums perfectly suit the season of their release, and this is one of them. 'Hours …', David Bowie's latest release, is imbued with an autumnal feel. Singing in the voice of an aging man looking back not in anger, but with regret and a contemplative clam, Bowie has crafted a suite of songs that also makes sense for this year. He's not partying like it's 1999; instead, he's taken the end of the year, the decade, the century, the millennium as an occasion for self-examination.

That said, 'hours' is far from Bowie's most ambitious album, either musically or thematically -- at least on its most obvious level. He and his cowriter, guitarist Reeves Gabrels, have created a lush, luxuriant pop music over which Bowie's vocals float, as if he were lost in thought. The album's first single, "Thursday's Child," epitomizes the restrained emotional power of their approach.

Throughout his career, Bowie has unpredictably moved back and forth between accessibility and abstruseness, between abrasiveness and pop accessibility. 'Hours' finds him easy to reach, a man of accomplishment exploring his past and wondering what, if anything, it all means.

Anthony DeCurtis - January 1, 1999
Copyright © 1994-2001 CDnow Online, Inc. All rights reserved.



A month after Nine Inch Nails make the best David Bowie album of the year, the dame isn't quite feeling himself. Bowie and co-writer Reeves Gabrels haven't sounded so confused about where they fit in the contemporary rock soundscape since the late '80s. "Thursday's Child" timidly tosses pop to a hairdresser's quartet of backing vocalists. The monotone "Something in the Air" tries to involve us in heartbreak with lines like "Abracadoo, I lose you." The singer says he's consciously attempting to write for his generation, but "New Angels of Promise" blandly advertises a video game. He may intermittently wander into town like a sacred cow, but when he inhabits the skin of the ordinary Joe, he just sounds ordinary. Lacking a big idea, hours... is a tired retread of love lost, times regained and, on the din machine of "The Pretty Things Are Going to Hell," the prettiest thing sounds bored with it all. Only "Survive" - a mash note to Jagger's "naked eyes" - fully titillates. If they can send John Glenn back into space, can't Major Tom get up there too?

© 1999 VH1 Online - Viacom International Inc. All Rights Reserved.



David Bowie is feeling reflective and his newest album, hours..., well, reflects this. Taking it down a few notches since the techno Earthling and his gritty work with Nine Inch Nails, Bowie has gotten back to basics. He's gone soft(er) -- in the sense that heís not doing any uber-dark, edgy, "I'm Afraid of Americans" or danceable "Dead Man Walking" kind of music. On hours..., he's a man who's taking stock of his life and writing low-key, poetic songs about his discoveries. The artist formerly known as Ziggy Stardust has ten pensive tracks full of regret about lost love and lost opportunity, but from a mature man's perspective. David Bowie is 52-years-old after all, so maturity isn't surprising. Perhaps wisdom would be a better term to express the theme of hours..... Side note: ironically, with this wisdom, the always brilliant Bowie looks even younger than usual, with his new soft longish mop of layered brown hair and understated clothes (changing his look often is just one of the qualities that's made Bowie such an interesting artist over the years).

Packaged with Bowie's middle-aged wisdom is a large dose of melancholia and subtlety. A seductive sadness permeates hours.... Nothing exactly clobbers you over the head here, but rather, the album seeps into your system instead. "Thursday's Child" is a soulful song about a fresh start after a life of failures: "All of my life I've tried so hard/Doing my best with what I had/Nothing much happened all the same." "Something in the Air" is a moody rock ballad about mislaid love: "We used what we could/ To get the things we want/ But we lost each other on the way/ I guess you know I never wanted anyone but you." "Survive" is in the same love lost vein. And for that matter so is "If I'm Dreaming of My Life."

"Seven" is about facing mortality: "I've got seven ways to live my life/ Or seven ways to die." 'What's Really Happening" sounds like early Bowie. He's exhibiting a vocal style here we haven't heard lately, maybe not since the "Fame" era. hours... is then infused with a mini-rock shock with "The Pretty Things Are Going to Hell." Could this be Bowie's musical retrospective on his glam phase, and a statement on how he's just happy to have survived? "You're still breathing but you don't know why/ Life's a bit and sometimes you die/ You're still breathing but you just can't tell/ Don't hold your breath but all the pretty things are going to hell." The strongest track on the album is "The Dreamers." It throbs and it soars. When his voice takes off in that "Heroes" mode, nothing compares. "The Dreamers" is a poignant tale of a man who's missed his chance: "So it goes," he sings passionately. Let's be grateful David Bowie didnít actually miss his chance.

© 1999 MTV Networks. All Rights Reserved.



Never mind the premillennium panic, David Bowie seems to be saying on Hours . . ., let's try plaintive instead. Bowie's twenty-third album is as nakedly emotive a collection as anything in his iconic catalog; it's a summary statement from the man who invented postmodern rock & roll, so school is in session. But teacher is more concerned with baring wounds than with making big statements: "The pretty things are going to hell/They wore it out, but they wore it well" is as big as it gets. The sentiment sounds chucked from Johnny Rotten's diary, almost a kiss-off to the rock era. Bowie is probably the only cat around with the history, irony and distance to deliver that lyric as self-critique, death sentence, fond reminiscence and party favor all at the same time.

Cranking the guitars up some would have made the Sex Pistols analogy more palpable, but it would have taken away from the album's general air of effervescent melancholy. Hours . . . contains that quite bearable lightness of being that comes with Bowie's position as a relevant older rock star. Having done his bit for future primitivism on his previous two conceptually frenzied outings, Outside and Earthling, Bowie brings the curtain down on the century with a collection of songs that are just, well, hunky-dory. Members of the fan base will also hear echoes of Ziggy, Aladdin Sane, Heroes, Low and even Tin Machine. First and foremost, though, the introspection of Hours . . . is a testament to the serenity that comes with legend status, maturity and endurance.

As was the case with Miles Davis in jazz, Bowie has come not just to represent his innovations but to symbolize modern rock as an idiom in which literacy, art, fashion, style, sexual exploration and social commentary can be rolled into one. While this isn't an idea without its heirs apparent -- the names Corgan, Reznor and Manson come to mind -- Bowie makes it all seem so damn easy.

Hours . . . wafts into the room, breezily delivers its angsty arabesques and afterlife lullabies, and then luminously bows out in a succinct 45:42. Confessional highlights include "Survive," with its fragile failed paramour, and "Thursday's Child," about a life of despair saved by true love. On these songs, Bowie's voice, darker and woodier in timbre than usual and on the verge of tears, strains over music gently suggestive of elevator Philly soul and the ghost of Phillipe Wynn: "Shuffling days and lonesome nights/Sometimes my courage fell to my feet/Lucky old sun is in my sky/Nothing prepared me for your smile."

As always, Bowie's eccentric sense of melody twists around the ear like a space oddity, getting under the skin, plucking the heartstrings and stirring up feelings of alienation we never knew we had. Bowie's longtime partner in crime, guitarist Reeves Gabrels, takes a co-writer credit on everything here. Their fertile collaboration yields settings full of atmosphere, spunk, grit and nuance; Hours . . . is an album that improves with each new hearing. Just when all the pretty young things might have thought their world was safe from Jurassic intrusion, here comes Bowie, staking an unshakable claim on rock's brave next world. Hours . . . is further confirmation of Richard Pryor's observation that they call them old wise men because all them young wise men are dead.

GREG TATE - RS 824
© Copyright 2001 RollingStone.com



David Bowie reflektiert den Prozeß des Älterwerdens. Eine Selbstanalyse, an deren Ende das eigene Sein als große Lüge enttarnt wird und wenig Platz für Euphorie bleibt. Dabei beschreibt Bowie aber nicht sich selbst, sondern fängt das allgemeine Gefühl seiner Generation ein. Er selbst fühlt sich nur jung, er will auch so klingen, wie der junge Bowie. Folglich orientiert sich "Hours" an seiner vielleicht besten Phase, den "Berliner Jahren" 1977 bis 1980 und an so einem Meilenstein wie 'Low'. "Hours" kündet vom selben Nihilismus, hat sie selben großartigen Gitarren und den selben akzentuierten Gesang. Markenzeichen, die dieses Album mit zum besten machen, was David Bowie in den letzten Jahren hervorgebracht hat.

ME/Sounds 10/99'
  

 L y r i c s


THURSDAY'S CHILD

All of my life I've tried so hard
Doing my best with what I had
Nothing much happened all the same

Something about me stood apart
A whisper of hope that seemed to fail
Maybe I'm born right out of my time
Breaking my life in two

  (Throw me tomorrow..oh,oh)
Now that I've really got a chance
  (Throw me tomorrow..oh,oh)
Everything's falling into place
  (Throw me tomorrow..oh,oh)
Seeing my past to let it go
  (Throw me tomorrow..oh,oh)
Only for you I don't regret
That I was Thursday's Child

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday born I was (x2)

Sometimes I cried my heart to sleep
Shuffling days and lonesome nights
Sometimes my courage fell to my feet

Lucky old sun is in my sky
Nothing prepared me for your smile
Lighting the darkness of my soul
Innocence in your arms

  (Throw me tomorrow..oh,oh)
Now that I've really got a chance
  (Throw me tomorrow..oh,oh)
Everything's falling into place
  (Throw me tomorrow..oh,oh)
Seeing my past to let it go
  (Yeah, throw me tomorrow..oh,oh)
Only for you I don't regret
That I was Thursday's Child

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday born I was Thursday's Child
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday born I was Thursday's Child
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday born I was
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday born I was


SOMETHING IN THE AIR

Your coat and hat are gone
I really can't look at your little empty shelf
A ragged teddy bear
It feels like we never had a chance
Don't look me in the eye

We lay in each other's arms
But the room is just an empty space
I guess we lived it out
Something in the air
We smile too fast
Then can't think of a thing to say

Lived with the best times
Left with the worst
Danced with you too long
Nothing left to save

Let's take what we can
I know you'll hold your head up high
We've raged for the last time
A place of no return

And there's something in the air
Something in my eye
I've danced with you too long
Yeah
Something in the air
Something in my eye

Abracadoo, I lose you
We can't avoid the clash, the big mistake
Now we're going to pay and pay
The sentence of our lives
Can't believe I'm asking you to go

We used what we could
To get the things we want
But we lost each other on the way
I guess you know I never wanted anyone more than you

Lived all our best times
Left with the worst
I've danced with you too long
Say what you will
There's something in the air

Raged for the last time
But I know you'll hold your head up high
There's nothing we have to say
There's nothing in our eyes

But there's something in the air
Something in my eye
I danced with you too long
There's something I have to say
There's something in the air
Something in my eye

I've danced with you too long
Danced with you too long
Danced with you too long
And there's something in the air
Something in the air


SURVIVE

Oh, my
Naked eyes
I should have kept you
I should have tried
I should have been a wiser kind of guy
I miss you

Give me wings
Give me space
Give me money for a change of face
Those noisy rooms and passion pants
I loved you

Where's the morning in my life?
Where's the sense in staying right?
Who said 'time is on my side'?
I've got ears and eyes and nothing in my life
But I'll survive your naked eyes
I'll survive

You alone across the floor
You and me and nothing more
You're the great mistake I never made
I never lied to you, I hated when you lied
But I'll survive your naked eyes
I'll survive

Beatle boys, all snowy white
Razzle dazzle clubs, every night
Wish I'd sent a Valentine
I love you

I'll survive
Naked eyes
I'll survive
I'll survive
My naked eyes
I'll survive
I'll survive
Naked eyes
I'll survive
I'll survive
I'll survive


IF I'M DREAMING MY LIFE

VERSE (there)
  Was she never there/here?
  Was she ever?
  Was it air she breathed?

  At the wrong time
  Oh-oh
  Oh-oh

All the flowers so
From the gallery
With the hymns of night
Singing "Come to Me"

CHORUS
  At the wrong time
  On the wrong day
  All the lights are fading now
  If I'm dreaming all my life (x2 second time)

Just one living chance
When the mother sighs
When the father steps aside
At the wrong time
Oh-oh

VERSE (here)

CHORUS

Was she ever?
Was she ever here?
If I'm dreaming all my life
If I'm dreaming all my life away

Dreaming my life
Dreaming my
Dreaming my
Dreaming my
Dreaming my life
Dreaming my life away
Oh-oh

REPEAT
  Dreaming my life
  Dreaming my
  Dreaming my life away
  Oh-oh


SEVEN

I forgot what my father said
I forgot what he said
I forgot what my mother said
As we lay upon your bed

A city full of flowers
A city full of rain

I got seven days to live my life
Or seven ways to die

I forgot what my brother said
I forgot what he said
I don't regret anything at all
I remember how we wept

On a bridge of violent people
I was small enough to cry
I got seven days to live my life
Or seven ways to die

Hold my face before you
Still my trembling heart
Seven days to live my life
Or seven ways to die

The gods forgot they made me
So I forget them too
I listen to the shadows
I play among their graves

My heart was never broken
My patience never tried
I got seven days to live my life
Or seven ways to die

Seven days to live my life
Or seven ways to die

Seven (repeat ad lib)


WHAT'S REALLY HAPPENING?

VERSE (x2)
  Grown inside a plastic box
  Micro thoughts and safety locks
  Hearts become outdated clocks
  Ticking in your mind

CHORUS
  What's really happening?  What tore us apart?
  What's really happening?

  What's really happening?  What tore us apart?
  What's really happening?

Now it's time to close our eyes
Now it's time to say goodbye
Now it's time to face the lie
That we'd never cry

CHORUS

All the clouds are made of glass
And they're slowly sinking
Falling like the shattered past
Were we built to last?

CHORUS


THE PRETTY THINGS ARE GOING TO HELL

What to do
What to say
What to wear on a sunny day
Who to phone
Who to fight
Who to dance with on a Sunday night

Reaching the very edge, you know
Reaching the very edge
Going to the other side this time
Reaching the very edge

CHORUS
  You're still breathing but you don't know why
  Life's a bit and sometimes you die
  You're still breathing but you just can't tell
  Don't hold your breath but the pretty things are going to hell

I am a drug
I am a dragon
I am the best jazz you've ever seen
I am a dragon
I am the sky
I am the blood at the corner of your eye
I found the secrets, I found gold
I find you out before you grow old
I find you out before you grow old

What is eternal?
What is damned?
What is clay and what is sand?
Who to dis?
Who to truss?
Who to listen to?
Who to suss?

I'm reaching the very edge, you know
I'm reaching the very edge
I'm going to the other side this time
I'm reaching the very edge

CHORUS

I am a dragon
I am a drug
I am the best jazz you've ever heard
I am a dragon
I am the sky
I am the blood at the corner of your eye
I found the secrets, I found gold
I find you out before you grow old
I find you out before you grow old

REPEAT (4x)
  The pretty things are going to hell
  They wore it out but they wore it well

You're still breathing but you don't know why
You're still breathing but you just can't tell
Don't hold your breath but the pretty things are going to hell


NEW ANGELS OF PROMISE

VERSE 1
  New angels of promise
  We despair
  We are the dead dreams
  We take the blame
  Take us to the edge of time
  Take us to the edge of time
  We are the fabulous lovers
  I am a blind man
  She is my eyes

CHORUS (x2)
  Suspicious minds
  You didn't feel us coming in this lonely crowd
  It's always time

VERSE 2
  New angels of promise
  We despise
  Don't fall apart now
  We are the silent ones

  Take us to the edge of time
  Take us to the edge of time
  We are the tabular lovers
  We listen to the strorm

CHORUS (x2)

VERSE 1

CHORUS (x2)

It's always time (repeat)


THE DREAMERS

Black eyed ravens
They spiral down
They tilt his head back
To the flame filled sunset
Raise their guns high
As the darken falls
These are the days boys

Shallow man
Shallow man... and they
Eats in the doorway
With his head inclined
And he's always in decline
No-one heals anymore
So he shrinks as they ride
Under vermillion sky

So it goes
Just a searcher
A lonely soul
The last of the dreamers

Shallow man
Shallow man
Speaks to the shadows
Moves his trembling hands
And he's always a little late
For the dawning of the day

So it goes
Just a searcher
Lonely soul
The last of the dreamers

 M P 3   S a m p l e s


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