Deep Cabaret songs are adaptations of words we've found in our readings. So novels, poetry, journalism, science, philosophy, sit-com scripts... Here are the lyrics, and sources, of our current set.
(Lonsdale Magazine and Kendal Repository 31/5/1822) He was placed at the inn till the vessel was ready. Supposing himself deserted and not knowing why he fell into a state of complete stupefaction.
Secreting himself in the loft and stretching out on the boards he refused all sustenance. Within a few days in this state death terminated his sufferings.
They excavated him in a lonely grave in a rabbit warren twenty yards from the sea. Whither they conveyed his remains without coffin or bier covered only with the clothes in which he died.
(Ewald Herring/ Lewis et al A General Theory of Love) Cardiac muscle fibres are objects but the heartbeat they generate is a physiological event, a collective flutter that propels life but has no mass and occupies no space.
Memories are the heartbeats of the nervous system, a bodily process produced by physical objects, but as immaterial as the soul. Not carved in solid rock but traced on a sand dune.
Memory collects the countless phonemena of our existance into a single whole. A memory is not a thing.
As our bodies would be scattered into the dust of atoms if they were not held by the attraction of matter, so our conciousness would break in as many fragments as we've lived seconds but for the binding force of memory.
(Wassily Kandinsky) The inclination of blue to deepen is so strong that it's inner appeal is stronger when it's shade is deeper. The brighter the blue, the more it turns into silent stillness, becoming white. The deeper the blue the more it beckons us into the infinite.
(Jonathan Safran Foer: Here I Am) In sickness and in sickness that is what I wish for you. Don't expect miracles. There are no miracles. Not any more. There are no cures. Not for the hurt that hurts most. There is only the medicine of believing each other's pain and being present for it.
What use is there in calling a day a name or thinking of it as anything anything but weather? You know what time of year it is when the timothy blooms. You know its morning when the sun comes up. You can say to yourself I'm just a body, a body that thinks and talks and seems to want its life. Not even knowing what you're waiting for, that you're waiting at all. If she'd only known then comfort was coming just there on the stoop, in the moonlight licking tears
from Jack Scout Oh the Matchless had 4 & 30 souls on board. All was calm as the souls sang hymns. Till a gusty bluff blew and the ship it did dip like a whirlwind. And Jack Scout looked down as the Burnley wakes drowned.
(Cesar Aria : The Literary Conference. Robertson & Wainwright. McGilchrist) Language has shaped our expectations so extensively that real reality has become the most detached and incomprehensible one of all. Banality. Life threatening banality. The world we live in stands in relation to reality like a map does to the territory it is mapping. It lacks the the complexity and the livelieness of the actual world. Banality. Life threatening banality. The political and cultural context stifles our potential through the ubiquitous anaesthetising agency of life threatening banality. Life threatening banality.
(Alice Munro) It was as if she had a murderous needle somewhere in her lungs and by breathing carefully she could avoid feeling it. But every once in a while she had to take a deep breath and it was still there.
(Nick Cave : 20,000 days on earth) To act on a bad idea is better than not to act at all. You never know the worth of that idea until you do it. Even the smallest thing, a little flame that you hunch over and cup with your hand, and pray will not be extinguished by the howl and the storm. Even that flame if you could hold onto it could construct great things. Things that are massive and powerful and world changing, all held up by the tiniest of ideas.
(Sarah Hymas 'Sea Spits' Jenn Ashworth 'Fell'. Sea Charts: Make-up of sea bed. 1783 chart of Morecambe Bay by Samuel Fearnon; J.A. Barnes 1904: Transactions of the Cumberland and Westmorland Aniquarian and Archaeological Society both from Karen Lloyd's Gathering Tide ) Sea spits out all its teeth and retreats to the rim of sky. The last tree is trunked. The last tree is trunked. against the lie of the wind. The world roars and only the smallest move. Watch them rattle.
This sea-washed turf is a treachorous maze of unmapped islands, slippery knolls and sucking mudflats, all 'pickled in the juices of the peat' Low water ebbs, stony grounds, brown sand and shells, fine sand and red shells, coarse sand and black specks, soft black ground, soft mud. All pickled in the juices of the peat.
Long Barrow, Slitch Ridge, High Bottom, Long Barrow Ridge, Conger Stones, Blackamoor Ridge, Farhill Scar, Foulney Twist, Foulney Hole, Ragman Ridge. All pickled in the juices of the peat.