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Peter Hammill: Roaring Forties

 A l b u m   D e t a i l s


Label: Fie! Records
Released: 1994.09.01
Time:
 48:19
Category: Progressive Rock
Producer(s): Peter Hammill
Rating:
Media type: CD
Web address: www.sofasound.com
Appears with: Van der Graaf Generator, David Jackson
Purchase date: 2012
Price in €: 1,00





 S o n g s ,   T r a c k s


[1] Sharply Unclear (P.Hammill) - 5:42
[2] The Gift Of Fire (P.Hammill) - 8:31
[3] You Can't Want What You Always Get (P.Hammill) - 9:36
[4] A Headlong Stretch (P.Hammill) - 19:32
    Up Ahead
    Continental Drift
    The Twelve
    Long Light
    Backwards Man
    As You Were
    Or So I Said
[5] Your Tall Ship (P.Hammill) - 4:58

 A r t i s t s ,   P e r s o n n e l


Peter Hammill - Guitar, Piano, Vocals, Producer
Nic Potter - Bass
Stuart Gordon - Violin
Simon Clarke - Hammond B3 Organ
David Jackson - Saxophone, Flute
Manny Elias - Drums, Percussion

Paul Ridout - Art Direction, Photography

 C o m m e n t s ,   N o t e s


1994 CD Fie! Records - FIE 9117 (UK)

Recorded in August 1993-May 1994, Terra Incognita, Bath



From the cutting edge of "Sharply Unclear," athrough the insistent, throbbing "Talk Turkey," across the gentle instrumental bridges and into "A Headlong Stretch" (a twenty-minute, seven-part tempestuous journey through life) and all the way to the peaceful, gently-beautiful "Your Tall Ship," this album is an example of Hammill's musical, poetical and inspirational best.

Ali Sinclair - All Music Guide



Roaring Forties is an album by Peter Hammill, released on his own Fie! label in 1994. It, and the following album, X My Heart, are Hammill's most recent albums that primarily contain an organic, full-band rock style. While there are occasional tracks on later albums in this style, Hammill's principal mode has moved since this album towards a more intimate, chamber-music style. The album also contains "A Headlong Stretch", one of Hammill's occasional long, episodic song suites (see also "A Plague of Lighthouse Keepers" from Pawn Hearts and "Flight" from A Black Box).

Wikipedia.org
 

 L y r i c s


SHARPLY UNCLEAR

You've never shown a trace of human frailty,
No-one could ever catch you on the hop:
Each post-modern take on the action
would find you
already, in principle, totally hot,
all self-referential commentary
and a marketing man's sense of talk shop.
        
The sharper the image you cut
the more you seem unreal;
so sharp you could cut yourself,
transparently ideal.
        
We all know that hard-boiled look,
you cooked it up to face down the stares;
I feel like I'm walking on eggshells around you,
as though you're already no longer quite there.
You acknowledge your trauma,
your neurosis is stripped and laid bare.
        
The sharper the image you cut
the more you disappear;
so sharp you could cut yourself,
somehow this transparency's unclear.
        
All the mirrors in your playroom,
they twist your psycho-epidermis into shape.
No doubt you emerged in your make-up believing
quite simply, believing that you'd got it taped
but the vacancy you offered
is already a Cheshire Cat gape.
        
The sharper the image you cut
the more you disappeared;
so sharp you could cut yourself -
are you still really here?
And the sharper the image you cut
the more you seemed a fake,
so sharp you could cut yourself,
transparently opaque....
And the sharper the image you cut
the less you seemed alive;
so sharp, but this open book's
transparently jive.
        
You were so sharp you cut yourself,
so sharp you could cut yourself;
you were so sharp you made yourself
transparent
and transparently unclear.


THE GIFT OF FIRE

Like a wind in the wilderness
like a swell on the ocean...
would the spell be unbroken
if it was never phrased?
        
She was always the precious child,
she was always a strange one,
a derangement runs deep down through her innocent gaze.....
        
The gift of fire and the gift of tongues,
the gift to see what Goddess Fortune held in store;
pretty soon there were whisperings of witchcraft
from the couple next door.
She had the gift of talk turkey,
the gift of talk turkey.
        
She had no message for the marketplace,
she was inflamed by each moment,
she had the silver spoon of soothsay for destiny.
She was always coming on with
the gift of fire and the gift of tongues;
family affair, it was a fortune that they'd got -
pretty soon they were cooking up a story
for the communal pot;
on the prime time slot
they shot the gift of talk turkey.
        
Oh now she can't stop talking about the way she sees it is
and she can't stop talking about her prescience.
She can't stop talking, how dangerous that is
and she can't stop talking, no, she can't stop talking....
        
It's the curse of the fire and she's burning up before us
in the talk of tongues, flames that lick around the dross;
the gift of fire, if she's burning up before us
it's our communal loss,
the inevitable cost
of the gift of talk turkey.
        
What a windfall of wickedness
when truth gets warped to perversion;
in the official version
they'll always make it quite plain
what we're really not meant to see.
The gift of fire consumes all those who touch it
and the gift of tongues is always double-edged;
they grew aware that she would take them to the ledge,
so pretty soon they were working up a story
about the bets they could hedge.
        
The gift of fire and the gift of tongues...
they take her name and they grind it in the dust;
all at once they've got alibis to cover any possible bust
and she's gagged, bound and trussed
by the gift of talk turkey.
        
But she can't stop talking, though her audience disappears
and she can't stop talking about her prescience.
She can't stop talking, though she knows that no-one hears
she can't stop talking, she can't stop talking,
she can't stop talking - how miraculous this is!
She can't stop talking, just like Bernadette.
She can't stop talking, how dangerous that is,
and she can't stop talking, she can't stop talking,
no, she can't stop talking about the way she sees it is,
she can't stop talking, just like Joan of Arc.
She can't stop talking - man, how dangerous she is,
she can't stop talking,
she can't stop the gift of talk turkey,
the gift of talk turkey.
        
No, she can't stop talking.


YOU CAN'T WANT WHAT YOU ALWAYS GET (IF YOU HAVEN'T GOT IT YET)

Give it a bit of hard on the rudder
hot on the heels of foot to the floor;
setting your mind on one thing or the other,
do you still find you're
always wanting something more?
        
Yes, and the thing you want forever
is always the thing you can never have -
I want doesn't get.
        
Try out the line of "This is original";
spin out the story: "This is brand new";
give a bit of "I never felt like this before";
cut to the chase: "I only want you".
        
And the one you want forever
will always be the one you can never have....
        
I want
doesn't get
        
(Here's a message from the future
you don't have time to forget....
Here's a message from the darkside:
better live with your regrets.)
        
And the thing you want 's forever,
it's always, the thing you can never have....
I want doesn't get.
        
Who was it told you you were the gifted one?
Who was it said that yours is the lucky star?
Somehow you're always looking to shed your next skin,
always too busy to be who and what you are.
Still the one you chase forever
turns into the one you can never have.
        
I want
doesn't get
        
(Here's a message for your present
and there isn't any catch:
better live the life you're living,
no conditions are attached.) t
        
You can't live a life as constant acquisition;
you're missing the present,
always looking to live in the future tense.
You build up your hopes for Corpus Non Delicti....
The crack of temples -
who're you going to sue for recompense
when the thing you want forever
will always be the thing you could have had?
        
I want just means I lack
but I don't want to turn the clock back.
        
(Here's a message from the future
that you'd better not forget.....
Here's a message from the darkside
better live with your regrets.
Here's a message for the present
if you haven't got it yet:
better live the life you're living.)
        
I  want
doesn't get.


A HEADLONG STRETCH

i. Up Ahead
        
Passage assured
on the good ship Goodbye...
dare I raise up my eyes
to stare into the rigging?
        
(Preparing to go/come home..)
        
All we could have done
we're at pains to explain
but all our might in the main
is only empty promise
unfulfilled at last
still no-one can be blamed
for breaking daily bread,
thinking ahead.
        
Blessed with strange grace
and reluctant to face
ineluctable fate,
I say I saw the future
I said forget the past
but I'll not hear the last
of lives I've never led,
thinking ahead.
        
ii. Continental Drift
        
We make the beds in which we'll stretch
in unconscious pre-planning;
tending and hedging our bets
thinking we're thinking ahead.
        
Out of the blue comes the given life,
out of the window volition.
In small miracles, in constant reinvention
we make sense of each current position.
        
Every choice that we make, every trick that we turn up
appears in its principle sound.
Yeh, we're self-made men, masters of our destiny,
free and unbound....
        
In to the heart comes the brave new world
where we're slaves to the strength of conviction.....
I believe decisions come like continents to conquer
like I believe we're no strangers to fiction.
        
Every road that we take
means a journey rejected
we pretend we can still have it all;
every future we dream a virtual reality,
only vanity still holds us enthralled
when the best laid plans of mice and men
all unravel in the judgement call.
        
Pride still make us ride for a fall.
        
Surely we look ripe for a fall,
surely we look ripe for a fall;
maybe we just ride for the fall.
        
iii. The Twelve
        
The jury's out upon the matter
and they can barely bear to admit
that all the time that we spend planning
in the end will matter not one whit.
        
Though I've certainly considered
every vital pro and con
I get no scent of an acquittal
I lose the drift... the signs are wrong.
What's going on?
        
(Twelve signs of the zodiac,
twelve hours to face,
the twelve disciples all aquiver,
twelve arrows strike a twelve-tone case.)
        
Round and round in repetition
of the flight from boredom into thrill
and all the time we're waiting on the punchline,
the hollow laugh within "we will'.
        
What won't we give to take up
the turning over of a new leaf?
No-one ever reaching future perfect;
before we know it, beyond belief
we come to grief,
we hit the reef.
        
iv. Long Light
        
Signs serial
adrift in the air
immaterial
face up to the phosphor flare.
        
Ghost essence
fuels fire in the rig;
incandescence
let's dance out the mystery jig.
        
Jig,
dance the dance of mystery light,
dance the dance, jig,
dance the dance infernally bright.
        
Dark water
dark fire down below...
storm quarter
time to dance out the mystery - no!
        
The twelve will swing us to completeness
right from the cradle to the grave
and all our future projection's
only second guessing seventh waves....
A break in the connections
we thought were built to last
here's a change in the weather,
Tsunami time -
the wave's already rolling in towards us from the past.
        
v. Backwards Man
        
It's only looking backwards
that you retrace your hand,
it's only in a moment of reversal
that you can see where you stand...
ease out, come through the film and through the mirror
welcome the backwards man.
        
Oh yes, the beach still stirs the ocean,
and soon the tide will turn the moon round
all is forgiven and all was foreseen -
all's as it ever could be.
        
Ends forced motive out of meaning
means all even out in the end;
retracing steps,
in the process you learn to stand,
learn to walk again
so much gets forgotten, so much is forsworn
in retrospect.
        
Did I really do that?
Was I ever so young?
        
It's here, looking backwards
that you confront your own face
it's only in such moments of reversal
that you're secure in place.
Through the fire backwards
again and again
return to base.
        
vi. As You Were
        
It's some relief
to find the possible in store;
beyond belief,
in overtime, I'm overboard...
uncharted waters, full fathom five,
the future's rising, it's just arrived.
        
It's not the same
as I imagined it would be
but there's no blame
if every life's imaginary.
        
And if I get quite what I deserve
that'll end the sentence, the time I've served
a full stop to the sentence....
        
When it's all done you willed the person you've become
in serious fun it's as you were that you become
and so it's done.
        
vii. Or So I Said
        
I saw the future
or so I said....
How strange they seem,
the lives I've never led,
thinking ahead.
        
(I'm ready to come home....)
        
So head on,
headlong,
headstrong.
        
(I'm ready to go....)


YOUR TALL SHIP

Far, so far away...
surely you remember
log book pages frayed
that fanned the flames of long ago,
guttered in the grate,
shadows in the embers....
look away, look for home.
        
Voices on the air,
running with the current;
wind and tide set fair,
ship to shore the message goes,
all in love is fair -
across the raging torrent,
sail away, sail for home;
look away, look for home.
        
Land-locked lovers, landlub friends, in procession:
all rites of passage have an end.
Look away, sail away,
sail your tall ship home.
        
We are ocean-borne,
 far from any harbour,
from our moorings torn,
ghosts that fly for all we know....
turn to face the storm
that's building off to starboard,
sail away, sail for home,
look away, look for home.
        
Look away in the Roaring Forties.
        
Land-locked lovers, littoral friends,
the succession never ends....
the spirit's willing to carry on;
all rites of passage make us strong.
        
Sail away,
sail away,
sail your tall ship home.

 M P 3   S a m p l e s


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