Get all 10 Junkman's Choir releases available on Bandcamp and save 25%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Folk Mutation, Brexit Christmas, The times they are a chiyngin, Anarkeildih - Volume 1, Reel, Rattle 'N' Roar, 7, A Roarin' Handfu', Steel Linin' Chant, and 2 more.
1. |
The Spike
02:53
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Dover to Nazareth the iron horse would run, through the vile streets of London and the chargin of the nuns. So they packed up their bibles and sold off their land , and the greatest single act of Christian charity began. They were walking on the track, with the wind at their back. Walking on the track, cheating old black jack. So was born a place where millions have slept. Dossers and alkies breaking rocks for bread. Some so drunk they couldn't stand, the spike kept them upright. Howls of lunk, and lout and loon, like linties in the night. To the urban underclass, the "Spike" was sanctuary. Now they're fed on white potion and daytime T.V. The poor law workhouse and a century of filth are gone, but the heart of the "Spike" is still living on.
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2. |
Wide Blue Yonder
03:56
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3. |
Mad Elaine
02:16
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Hey Mad Elaine, did you smash your stereo?
Hey Mad Elaine, did you crash Daddy’s DBR?
Hey Mad Elaine, did you burn out Herstmonceux?
Hey Mad Elaine, no school for punk rockers!
Hey Mad Elaine, do you want to shock the world?
Hey Mad Elaine, so you want to rip it apart?
Hey Mad Elaine, just a poor little white bread girl.
Hey Mad Elaine, no school for punk rockers!
Hey Mad Elaine, playing at the primitives’ game.
Hey Mad Elaine, all pose, no soul, no heart.
So Hey Mad Elaine, put down those spikes and chains.
Hey Mad Elaine, no school for punk rockers!
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4. |
Gaun
03:01
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5. |
The Baptist Song
03:44
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Lift me up to that old willow tree; Lay me ‘neath the roots,
Let her branches weep on o’er me.
I’m so tired of feeling low, Hope her tears baptize the soul.
Rusted chains betray the shame that shackled willow town,
Now burning lights of home, choke on this ashen ground.
I hear that Northeast wind blow; to mark the coming snow.
That Northeast wind blows, to mark the coming snow.
Tanners: All left for the winter.
Ship hands: bound for foreign shores.
Whores are all that’s left in this cold grey dawn.
To haunt the night with hearts as black as crows
Tanners have all left for the winter.
Ship hands are bound for foreign shores.
The whores all that’s left in this cold grey town.
So lift me up to that old willow tree, Lay me ‘neath the roots,
Let her branches weep on o’er me.
I’m so tired of feeling low, Hope her tears baptize the soul.
Hear that North East wind blow, to mark the coming snow.
And I said…
(Lift me up) Don’t let me down.
(Lift me up) Don’t bring me down.
(Lift me up) Don’t let me down.
Don’t let that North East wind blow.
To mark the coming snow.
Don’t let that North East wind blow.
Mark the coming snow.
Just let the North wind blow,
And let your Baptist go,
And takes these chains from my soul.
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6. |
Holyrood Dream
03:07
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7. |
Coalmouth
03:55
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Marching out on the streets. Head to Cauldhame on a November morning.
Greet with coughs and a curse; five hundred shawls converge on the warren.
Deep in the bowels of earth, auld Blue Dan waits for pony and pitboy.
Noble blasting the leaf, the sound of the props and waters weeping for man’s toil.
Keeps on riding the cages, Keeps on digging the seam.
Keeps on pushing four-fifty, till that coal dust flows through the vein.
From Busbiehead to the Plann. Doura, Perecton, Southook and Hayside.
They’re living close to the damned. All labour’s lost tending tunnels for gravesides.
Twelve hours down by the face, shot fired damp escapes from the flames kiss.
Dodge underworld’s cold embrace, a rush of air struggles out of the darkness.
Keeps on riding the cages, Keeps on digging the seam.
Keeps on pushing four-fifty, till that coal dust flows through the vein.
Claw tooth and nail, till they’re beat; breaking out on a coal fire gloaming.
High from fighting the deep; salute the stacks forget the wail of the sirens.
They’re marching into the streets, heading hame on a November evening.
Leave the shrouds to their sleep, four hundred shawls to weep by the warren.
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8. |
Hogweed John
03:05
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Ink stain sky; spreading west like a bruise.
Moon harvests dusk as a scythe.
Stars, they come out, tiny little daggers,
Piercing through the fabric of night.
He’s waiting out there, for the sad, sold and weary.
He’s been waiting in the dark since the light was made.
He’s been filling out the stories where the blame lay unspoken,
Sharpening your wits with an old rusty blade.
Chorus
He’s long gone, Hogweed John.
Cast right out of heaven for the wrong that was done.
He’s long gone, Hogweed John.
Two miles from home when it all went wrong.
There’s young Jayne, all lost and lonely,
Lying so peaceful in the dry riverbed.
She’s been missing, but nobody’s missed her.
‘Always in the way’ was what the good Baptists said.
Beholden to a promise from a tall dark stranger.
Show her lights brighter than the green ocean sheen.
But the bounty he’s bringing cost a whole lot more than money.
Sweet spoken lies rub salt in your dreams.
Chorus
Sun was on the meadow; Cast a shadow on the rise.
John was out a-fishing, for a catch he’d prize.
Red Barn hunkering down original sin.
The beast is on the prowl and there’s the man with him.
The stain on her head was a pretty purple flower.
Red ribbons fell like tears from her long blond hair.
She wore a smile that lived as long as the five men who found her.
Haunted in their dreams by the guilt they all shared.
And he’s…
Chorus
Long gone, Hogweed John.
Cast down to earth for the wrong that was done.
He’s long gone, Hogweed John.
So far from heaven, so near to her home.
He’s long gone, (Hogweed John)
He’s long gone, (Hogweed John)
He’s long gone, (Hogweed John)
She was two miles from home when it all went wrong.
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9. |
Borracho Loco
02:46
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10. |
Rotten Apple
03:55
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She’ll give you the razor. She’ll give you the knife.
She’ll even help you make the cut, and then ask for her bite.
She’s no good. She’s trashy, wrapped up in her greed.
The rotten apple of my eye can see the weak spot in me.
She says ‘give me a penny’, ‘give me a pound’.
‘Ach, give me your wallet; need to buy another round’.
She says ‘I’ll loan you my heart, if you sell me your soul’
She was my first Queen of everything. I was only her last fool.
She’ll blind you with passion, when she gives you the eye.
She’s a muse. Yes, she’s a harridan, past mistress of the lie.
She’ll Love you, she’ll relieve you of all honour and shame.
The rotten apple of my eye can see I Love her all the same.
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11. |
Rothesay Bay
03:48
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Junkman's Choir Scotland, UK
Junkman's Choir are a two man band with a global sound; playing a mix of Cajun, country sea shanties, rockin' reels and
spinning some twists and turns on the works of Rabbie Burns.
The sound of accordion, pocket trumpet, guitar and vocals, is as unique as it is infectious.
Look out for them on street or stage, stomping out their steel-toed rhythm.
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