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Van der Graaf Generator: The last we can do is wave to each other

 A l b u m   D e t a i l s


Label: Virgin Records
Released: 1969
Time:
 43:51
Category: Progressive Rock
Producer(s): John Anthony
Rating:
Media type: CD
Web address: www.vandergraafgenerator.co.uk
Appears with: Peter Hammill, David Jackson
Purchase date: 1989
Price in €: 13,99





 S o n g s ,   T r a c k s


[1] Darkness [11/11] (P.Hammill) - 7:27
[2] Refugees (P.Hammill) - 6:22
[3] White Hammer (P.Hammill) - 8:15
[4] Whatever Would Robert Have Said? (P.Hammill) - 6:17
[5] Out of My Book (P.Hammill, D.Jackson/ P.Hammill) - 4:07
[6] After the Flood (P.Hammill) - 11:28

 A r t i s t s ,   P e r s o n n e l


Peter Hammill - Vocals, Guitar, Piano on [2], Design
David Jackson - Saxophone, Wind, Keyboards, Design
Hugh Banton - Keyboards, Design
Nic Potter - Bass, Guitar, Keyboards, Design
Guy Evans - Drums, Bass, Design

Additional personnel:
Mike Hurwitz - Cello on [2]
Jerry Salisbury - Cornet on [3]

John Anthony - Producer
Rob Cable - Engineer
Ge Grimmel - Photography

 C o m m e n t s ,   N o t e s


Recorded at Trident Studios, London from December 11-14, 1969.All songs written by Peter Hammill, except "Out Of My Book" (Hammill/Jackson).



On their ambitious second album, bandleader Peter Hammill was already writing enduring songs.

Michael P. Dawson - All Music Guide
 

 L y r i c s


Darkness (11/11)

Day dawns dark, it now numbers infinity.
Life crawls from the past, watching in wonder
I trace its patterns in me.
Tomorrow's tomorrow is birth again.
Boats burn the bridge in the fens;
the time of the past returns to my life
and uses it.

Don't blame me for the letters
that may form in the sand;
don't look in my eyes, you may see all the numbers
that stretch in my sky and colour my hand.
Don't say that I'm wrong in imagining
that the voice of my life cannot sing.
Fate enters and talks in old words:
They amuse it.

The hands shine darkly and white:
only in dark they appear.
Bless the baby born today,
flying in pitch, flying on fear.

They shine in my eyes and touch my face
where I have seen them placed before;
don't blame me, please, for the fate that falls:
I did not choose it.
I did not, no no, I did not
I truly did not choose it


Refugees

North was somewhere years ago and cold:
Ice locked the people's hearts and made them old.
South was birth to pleasant lands, but dry:
I walked the waters' depths and played my mind.
East was dawn, coming alive in the golden sun:
the winds came, gently, several heads became one
in the summertime, though august people sneered;
we were at peace, and we cheered.

We walked alone, sometimes hand in hand,
between the thin lines marking sea and sand;
smiling very peacefully,
we began to notice that we could be free,
and we moved together to the West.

West is where all days will someday end;
where the colours turn from grey to gold,
and you can be with the friends.
And light flakes the golden clouds above all;
West is Mike and Susie,
West is where I love.

There we shall spend our final days of our lives;
tell the same old stories: yeah well,
at least we tried.
Into the West, smiles on our faces, we'll go;
oh, yes, and our apologies to those
who'll never really know the way.

We're refugees, walking away from the life
that we've known and loved;
nothing to do or say, nowhere to stay;
now we are alone.
We're refugees, carrying all we own
in brown bags, tied up with string;
nothing to think, it doesn't mean a thing,
but we'll be happy on our own.
West is Mike and Susie;
West is where I love,
West is refugees' home.


White Hammer

In the year 1486 the Malleus first appeared,
designed to kill all witchcraft and end the papal fears:
prescribing tortures to kill the Black Arts;
and the Hammer struck hard.

Malleus Maleficarum slaughtered and tortured
all those under suspicion, as the Inquisistion ordered
- burning black hearts and innocents alike,
killing the mad;
such was the power the Hammer had.

Though Hexenhammer was intended to slay only evil,
fear and anger against magic overspilled:
they also killed those of the White.

So for two centuries and more they tried to slay
both the Black and the White Arts -
but spirits override pain.
For every one that the torture took,
two were hid secure,
and so the craft, yes, it endured.

Love and hate lived on in the face of fear,
Hexenhammer's force died,
and the real power became clear.

White Hammer no more is beaten;
now it begins to beat,
and the Grey, once oppressor,
now, at good hands, faces defeat.
And the Black, too, shall bow down
to the power above;
Black hate beats Grey
but surpreme is
the White Hammer of Love.


Whatever Would Robert Have Said?

I am the suck of air you take
that you've had many times before;
I am the blow you try to fake,
but which still throws you out the door;
I am the air that fills your lungs,
but leaves you emptier below;
I am the void that you can't explain,
but which is where you want to go.

Flame sucks between the balls of steel;
nothing moves, the air itself congeals.
Look at the flame if you want to,
hear the sharp crack of the fission,
smell the brief vapour of ozone,
feel static motion.

I am the love you try to hide,
but which all can understand;
I am the hate you still deny,
though the blood is on your hands;
I am the peace you're searching for,
but you know you'll never find;
I am the pain you can't endure,
but which tingles in your mind.

Flame sucks between the balls of steel;
nothing moves, the air itself congeals.
Look at the flame if you want to,
hear the sharp crack of the fission,
smell the brief vapour of ozone,
feel static motion.

I am the joy you really pay for,
but which comes completely free;
I am your god on the final day,
for the truth is you and me...


Out of my Book

We sat by ourselves, still looking for company;
there could have been peace, but that eluded me -
all I could think of was what was on my mind.
You tried to be kind,
but I blocked your feelings.
Now, senses still reeling, you sit in your quiet room and cry.
You tried to make me one,
but I always hide when there's a glimpse of sun.

Running along in sunlight meadows,
your eyes were never more than half-closed:
through fluttering lashes, you watched me watching you.
I tried to be true
to the way that you thought I ought to be
but, in spite of all my efforts,
I failed.
I tried to make you see
but your eyes are blind to all but the bad in me.

What do you think I mean
when I say that I need you?
How am I supposed to seem
when we hit another problem
and the answers are all torn from my book?

Our lives are on paths we just can't control;
we can grow closer as we get old.
Can you imagine us as we adjust?
Can you imagine us
getting near eighty;
we live more sedately,
still hoping the dreams will come true?
We'll try to be secure.

But I'm of uncertain mind
and how can I be sure?
How can I be sure?


After the Flood

Continuing the story, humanity stumbles -
gone is the glory, there's a far distant rumble.
The clouds have gathered and exploded now:
axes shattered, there is no North or South.
Far off, the ice is foundering slowly,
the ice is turning to water,
the ice is turning to water.

The water rushes over all
cities crash in the mighty wave;
the final man is very small,
plunging in for his final bathe.

This is the ending of the beginning,
this is the beginning of the end,
middle of the middle, mid-point, end and start:
the first peak rises, forces the waves apart.
Far off, the ice is now re-forming:
poles are fixed once more,
water's receding, like death-blood.

And when the water falls again,
all is dead and nobody lives.

And then he said:
'Every step appears to be
the unavoidable consequence of the preceding one,
and in the end there beckons more and more clearly
total annihilation'

This is the ending of the beginning,
this is the beginning of the end,
And when the water falls again,
all is dead and nobody lives.

 M P 3   S a m p l e s


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