Satan’s Cheerleaders lyrics and interpretations Disclaimer: all interpretations and explanations CONTENTS
If you are beleaguered by unholy composition then consequences vary by degree Caught between the pointed tail, and blackened depths of the abyss the end is near although you disagree
I crossed you off my list in 1931 and yet You simply tipped your hat and turned around and said you’d soon be back But time is a temptation And temptation is the need to tempt And now there’s just the ocean and the cliffs and you and me Between the devil and the deep blue sea
Meaning
Christ knows. He actually does, I am not kidding. He came to me in a dream, (as usual) and claimed that he alone could explain these verses to me. At least I think it was Christ. It could have been Chris, the homeless burrito impressionist. These two chaps do have remarkably similar names that differ by only one letter. My loyalty however is divided.
As it happened, on the same day that I started heeding advice literally, I saw a sign out the front of a church with “Trust in Chris” triumphantly spelled out in re-usable bill board letters. The other fellow, Christ, later appeared to me, in the form of an actual burrito, explaining that Chris was a false idol and not to be trusted, and that his lyrical interpretations were less helpful and more misguided than a teenage runaway, with one leg slightly shorter than the other, looking for love in all the wrong places.
While Christ can appear as a Burrito, Chris can merely don a burrito costume, a slight, but important difference between the two men. As I discovered, Chris actually worked as a spruiker in the late 1980’s, wearing a gigantic burrito costume and encouraging hungry consumers to enjoy a franchised version of this delicious Mexican dish. Sadly, burritos were not the product he was attempting to sell and his laser disc store rapidly went out of business, resulting in bankruptcy, homelessness and a point blank refusal to take off the burrito costume.
Christ on the other hand decided that the lyrics indicated a need for my participation in a revolutionary regenerative psychotherapy treatment, while he casually adopted the form of a modern Ikea wastepaper basket in the corner of my room, and offered me a voucher for a health spa with a 20% discount run by his friend “Gentle Trevor”. According to this divine receptacle, being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea either meant that I required a stiff drink and a brief look at a portfolio he had of a new investment opportunity which could be proven not to be a pyramid scheme, or that I was struggling with a repressed desire to go cliff diving.
These interpretations seemed dubious to me, and although there were nasty rumors circulating about the abilities of the aging parishioner responsible for the fortnightly updating of the sign out the front of the church which urged us all to put our trust in Chris, I dutifully followed the suggestion and went to the parking meter that Chris likes to hide behind on Wednesday afternoons to “pick his brains”. Sadly, this wording upset him quite deeply and he temporarily mistook me for one of the evil squirrels who had been trying to steal his thoughts recently, throwing me to the ground with the strength of a golden warrior princess and attempting to reclaim the purloined thoughts by violently placing his cracked, black lips on my skull and sucking as hard as he could on my temple in order to retrieve them.
This was partially my fault as I had in fact chosen to wear my gigantic squirrel costume that afternoon, (as I had a freemasons meeting later that night), but in retrospect I should have taken Chris’ crippling paranoia of the fluffy tailed rodent into consideration. I managed to quell his fears by reminding him that I was not a real squirrel, distinguishing myself from the creatures by easily eating a cellulose rich meal, which real squirrels, of course, are incapable of.
After he calmed down Chris confided in me that the lyrics meant something about me giving him some money so that he could catch a bus. “Catch a bus to where?” thought I, considering Chris’ homelessness. I was quite certain that the lyrics were not primarily concerned with public transport. How was I to trust in Chris if this was all that he had to offer? Was my faith being tested? Yes. The answer is that my faith was being tested. So I decided to do some research of my own.
The closing line of the song appears to be the same as the album title. How curious. There was also a song written in 1931 by Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler putting this particular idiom into tune and verse. Perhaps an introduction to a thalassic motif which frames the album itself? There will be no escape …
Incanubulamatica, apparatus fits like glove But these limbs are born of science, all is gone that’s born of love God if talk to, hear him whisper, current form it has no soul Tell my parts can’t burn in hell now, only rust and rot in hole
Cells if when regenerate will lose temptation, trust is born I am pig and I am butcher, hypocrite must soon be gone Flesh is weak and prone to sin, prone is close to never been Now these teeth
Each word to the letter
Curse the curse, erase this razor
Feet are peeled so left in snow, a trail to follow where I go Needs of self are disregarded, no denial, no more no I ingrain assimilation, I will purge all temptation Guided by these hands which tore off face, it only bred obsession
Grind Suck Bleed Sweat
Guided by these cursed hands of automaton Now I’m this
The price of perfection
Curse the curse, erase this razor
Meaning
A simple story, a tale as old as time, tried and true. Man becomes obsessed with the idea of the separation between the physical and the spiritual. Plagued by questions like “where does the brain end and the mind and soul begin?” he decides that the relationship between the physical and the intangible necessitates a bridge of some sort in order for a sentient being to exist.
If a body can be immortalized, can the soul be forever preserved? Could the soul disintegrate before the body? He reasons that if the essence of an individual is not compromised even when the heart, traditionally perceived to be the home of the soul, can be replaced by an apparatus (the now common place pace maker), the spiritual ramifications for any other body part are relatively minor. A “person” machine would not be manufactured from scratch, but the conscious being and individual personality would endure the gradual physical renovations, with limbs gradually being replaced until no longer hampered by the ineptitudes and weaknesses of the flesh. Purged of hypocrisy and trivial distractions, unfettered by base temptations. Could the man without a body be closer to purity than the most fervent believer, while spurning the design of the creator himself?
My grandfather gave me an axe many years ago. Many a time have I replaced its handle. Many a time have I replaced its head. It is still my grandfather’s axe.
All concerns arising from such a philosophy are valid, and represent a simple amalgamation of the troublesome questions that the members of my “faction” recently became quite interested in, resulting in some … troublesome enquiries. “I’ll show you where the body ends and the soul begins”, I eagerly announced one sunny afternoon after this type of query arose yet again in the group therapy session. Action was taken. It is important to set examples.
The gnarled and rusty teeth no longer glint under the bright lights and they cut less smoothly than they used to, but they still cut none the less. You can discover the answers to these questions too. Join us.
There are no lyrics to this song, and therefore no meaning. It doesn’t mean anything because it doesn’t have words. And as we know, a song can’t mean anything or have any sort of emotional impact unless there are lyrics. And they have to rhyme, and be in time and evoke a common human emotion, but without too much emphasis on putting a new spin on it. Experience rather than analysis. Because questions are going to alienate an audience aren’t they? Damn right they are.
Generic lyrics exist for a reason gentle reader. But firstly, to clarify, the word “generic” in often used in a derogatory manner. Something is only generic because it has been used many times before, and the reason it has been used so many times is because it is proven. Proven and effective. Like the band Jet. People don’t want to take a risk with new ideas. They might turn out to be crap! So stick with something that has been tried and proven over the last few decades. Rock and roll with lyrics about girls!
But no. No, no, no. Satan’s Cheerleaders have to be difficult about it. Posing questions like “If the music is strong enough, shouldn’t it speak for itself?”, “In a musical homage to the defining era of the 60’s surf genre, wouldn’t any lyrical content simply be a cheap attempt to improve the commercial potential of a piece of music that by its nature mocks such cynical exploitation?”, and, “For Christ’s sake, do all these questions have to read like a scene from a Brett Easton Ellis novel where the protagonist is standing in front of a mirror injecting heroin into their urethra while rehearsing their responses to an imagined interview with Rolling Stone?”
And what does SS stand for anyway? Seven Stars? Surreptitious Satan? Superlative Stipend? Sausage Sizzle? Darker perhaps? The Schutzstaffel Nazi goon squad also went by this abbreviation which requires the straight forward explanation that this song is not a reference to, or support of that group of violent xenophobic murderers. For proof, please consider the Jewish Klezma musical influence that informs a great deal of the music of Satan’s Cheerleaders.
In short, the working title of this track was “Surf Song”. This was never updated, and so, stemming from a desire to not appear too literal, the track name was abbreviated to … SS.
Save me from the sunshine And save me from the rain Pour me a glass of red wine And soak me in champagne
When the night sets in The romance begins Shiny suits and oestrogen It’s a pleasant haze that dulls the days But it slips away
Watch the moonlight, dance across the ocean Until the sunrise, begins another day Pour me a glass of red wine And soak me in champagne
When the night sets in The romance begins Shiny suits and oestrogen It’s a pleasant haze And it dulls the days
Meaning
Light and fluffy. Soft and warm. Basking in the warm glow of romance. Relaxing in the serene waters of gest. Washed away in an ocean of calm. Mellifluous crooning. What a delightful sentiment. That certainly seems to be what this lush honey dripper is all about.
But people’s opinions vary. I know, I know. I ask myself why, why, why? Isn’t there some sort of electrified skull cap that can be fitted at birth to unify the seething, bubbling brains of the unruly inhabitants of society? Not yet … And so, other ideas, less savoury ideas have surfaced, with a snarl and a wink, and a lick of the lips.
One particularly cruel suggestion is that this song is not romantic at all. That if you look carefully at the lyrics, there is no mention of the object of the lyricist’s affections. That it is not enough that this might be implied. That there is an agoraphobic abjuration of the outside world, a fear of the elements that nourish and sustain, a rejection of light, not in preference of, but borne out of the lung rasping, panicked need to retreat and retract. To disappear, with the resulting view of the world being strictly nocturnal. And that a dull haze will soothe the torpid limbs and mind of an organism becoming as grey as its surrounds. That the warm buttery fingers of alcohol will massage the brain into a dormant asylum. And that even this will slip away.
I couldn’t believe it! What a horrible thing to say. I quickly reminded this nay-sayer that this song is in the key of B major. B major! The happiest key of all. The aural equivalent of hypodermically shooting late spring evening sunshine directly into your veins so that every breath you take is warm and tranquil, and every subsequent exhalation passes over the curved lips of a whimsical half smile. B major!
Additionally, this piece is dressed exclusively in the rhythmic attire of bossa-nova, a rhythm designed strictly by libertines and hedonists to work its way with astonishing velocity to the hips and imbibe in them a “wiggly-jiggly” motion akin to an instant, physiologically specific attack of rhythm-itis. This composition’s combination of rhythmic and chordal liaisons produces a sensation of such passion and sensuality, rivaling the allure of a radiant Brazilian goddess, naked, dripping in mango juice, lasciviously conveying erotic suggestions in a whispered husky tone that would even make the Marquis de Sade himself blush.
So pour me a glass of red wine, and soak me in champagne.
The musical score for this piece was actually purchased at a deceased estate auction in 1979, following the death of Edward D. Wood Junior. Ed had paid the princely sum of three hundred dollars to commission the score for a film (of the same name), which unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your appreciation of schlock B-grade 50’s horror films) never saw the light of day. Like a great deal of Wood’s “assets”, he refused to sell this piece of music even when he began experiencing financial difficulties during the 1970’s. Although actually making the film was inconceivable after the script was lost in a warehouse fire during the previous decade, he retained the sheet music until death.
According to friends, Kathy O’Hara once intimated that it had meant a great deal to Ed, as he had specifically directed the composer as to what the tone and atmosphere of the piece should be like, a luxury seldom afforded to poor directors who were fortunate even if they could afford to purchase stock music for their cinematographic forays. While accounts regarding the content of the film script have been vague and confusing, the themes seem to encapsulate Ed’s standard fare of mad scientists, ghouls, atomic supermen and detectives who can’t help but tell their wide eyed secretaries that they “just gotta know what happened to those missing teenagers.”
With the sheet music came a reel of audio tape of various voice recordings. Although there is seemingly no continuity between the passages, ranging from two old Italian men discussing various matters and chortling to themselves, to what sounds like radio static in amongst advertisements of the period, they are all strung together consecutively on the same piece of tape with a run time of 79 minutes (the exact run time of Ed Wood’s “masterpiece”, Plan 9 from Outer Space.) While it seems unlikely that the tape and the score are linked intentionally, this audio has been spliced into the album track for a sense of completeness.
Sadly, the composer’s signature, appearing only on the final page of the score is unintelligible and his identity remains a mystery. Arranging the music for the Satan’s Cheerleaders quintet took some cunning adaptation but the eventual translation of all the hand-scrawled notes covering the yellowing and stained sheets gave some insight into the intended effect and atmosphere of the piece. Horror show … real horror show.
Well the devil in a three piece pin-striped suit was looking pretty sharp So he called up his buddy Elvis who was once known to remark “Well sticks and stones, they broke my bones, but whores and liquor saved me, but now I got a new idea so hold on to your teeth … baby”.
A stranger pair there could not be to behave ecclesiastically But irony belongs to the devil If I had a dime for every time that I have been misunderstood Man I could retire on the level
So my friends, let’s make some cash, from torment and derision A purer form there could not be, than televangelism
That’s why I’m
100% sold on Jesus Because he soothed my worried mind So send nine ninety five and your earthly soul I have power and money, but by God I want more So give it to me baby, give it to me
So the devil raised an eye-brow, cracked a smile and stroked his beard His buddy’s plan was pure gold, and so well engineered And when dusk arrived, the smile became a laugh just like a bell “If I’m not the greatest preacher yet, then damn my soul to hell!”
Audiences tuning in and basking in the glow The helpful words and dazzling smile of he from down below They sent their cash, they sent their souls, they sent their daughters too Because we know there’s just a little bit of the devil in all of you
Power, money, greed and sex with none left in the lurch Baby you can have it all, when you’re part …
Well you know one day I’ll make my way Along the path that’s for the few You can’t believe the things that I say Because it all comes back to you
So I now must pack my things and go back down my hole I have to leave while I still gots a semblance of a soul
That’s why I’m
100% sold on Jesus Because he soothed my worried mind So send nine ninety five and your earthly soul I have power and money but by God I want more So give it to me baby, give it to me
Meaning
It probably has become apparent that Satan’s Cheerleaders would be quite lost without religion as a recurring theme at this point but golly gosh darn it, religious subject matter is as rich and fertile as a virgin’s womb.
And what a delightful blend of social commentary and pure rockabilly we have here, utilizing the colloquialisms of the musical genre while simultaneously laying the hypocrisy of televangelism spread-eagled on the altar of secular dissection. “Baby”, “Go cat go” and “been” were all staples of the 1950’s American rockabilly scene, and all words and composite phrases invented by Chet Atkins, who refused to utter them on the grounds that “a dealer never tastes his own”. But by god they were addictive, and nary a rockabilly song emerged without at least a couple of these phrases filling their jaunty verses, sometimes spliced together, as if by a stop-motion plasticine mad scientist escaped from a Tim Burton film.
Questions?
Who could forget the classic appearance of the “Go baby been cats” at the 1958 Nashville “Go cat go” festival, with their hit “Go baby, go cat, been caught? Go!”? No one. No one could forget it regardless of their powers of recall due to the memory serum that the band cunningly administered to the crowd before the performance, in addition to restraining them in apparatus not dissimilar to little Alex’s learning brace in Clockwork Orange. Everyone there that day will vividly remember that performance, until the day they die.
Why wouldn’t the devil become a televangelist? Why not indeed. Elvis always looked pretty good in a suit (pronounced syoo-wit). Contrary to popular belief, the conclusion of this song does not suggest that the devil was forced to disappear back down to hell, taking the King with him because he was disgusted by the utter lack of ethics and morals serving as the foundations upon which the house of televangelism is built. Or that he had become a massive success because he had the shiniest eyes, broadest grin and slickest hair. No. A more recent interpretation was provided to me late one night by a whispering willow. It opined that the Devil simply got sick of explaining to people that he was a Christian and consequently retreated to the warm, forgiving passages of Hades.
A compelling theory. Can you imagine how hard it would be for the prince of darkness to explain his faith when cornered by the sort of curious American who actually buys into televangelist preaching?
“Uh well hey there Mr Devil, I heard you was tellin’ Peggy Sue you was a Christian”
“Hmmm?”
“Well … well, I mean, how can ya be? You’re the devil man!”
“Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes! A thousand times yes my dearest Rubin, but you have to understand … just a moment, I just have to sign for this. Unwrapping, unwrapping, unwrapping, bingo! What a smashing new smoking jacket! So soft, so velvety, and soooooo crimson! I just love crimson don’t you? Just have to light a cigar to christen in, pardon the … hehe … and here we go, much better, verrry devliy.”
“Are you trying to steal my kidneys?” ”No”
“Hang on just a dang minute. Why did you put that knife in there?” ”That? Oh never mind that, I just have to keep the blade warm in this climate or it might oxidize. Oh do stop inhaling sharply through your teeth, and where did um, that uh, hehe, the ah ripe little Peggy Sue get to? She certainly has become a pretty young thing hasn’t she! Gingham! Jesus Chrisssssssssst!”
“Well you keep saying you’re a Christian on the telky-vision but you are all evil, and I already knowd that you done taked Peggy Sue away last week some time and published that article in “Faithful sex cannibal” magazine about how a southern teenage girl’s delicious flesh can be enjoyed twice!”
“Oh yes. Yes I did didn’t I?” ”Stop laughing! … I … don’t feel too well”
“Well yes, sorry about that, I was only trying to help seeing as you got so upset about the knife being in there in the first place so I took it out. So very ungrateful. God I love cigars. Now in answer to your query, which I am answering for the last time, as the King and I have a thousand years of darkness to attend to. And so it goes ... I am a Christian … hmmm … please stop gurgling and groping at my ankles. This is going to have to be quick isn’t it seeing as your entirely uninspired and behaviorally frugal existence means that you won’t be joining Jules Vern and myself downstairs for a game of pontoon in oooh, I’d say about eight and a half minutes. So, ahem, As the devil I represent the other half of the coin in Christianity. Goodness can not exist with out devilishness to define itself against in basic binary opposition. My juxtaposition thus completes the whole so as to give it meaning. The devil, moi, is bound to be a Christian, as this is the belief that spawned him, that is to say … me! It is utterly delightful isn’t it? Now I know that was a bit brief, but frankly, you have that bulgy sort of look in your eye and it is rather unattractive. Elvis baby, can you please grab my pistola and a couple more bottles of that Château Margaux. Home again, home again jiggity jog.”
This is the traditional piece of Klezma music that “Kricfalusi” is based on. The melody played on the harmonium is indicative of the piece’s status as a “taksim”, a freeform prelude that introduces the motifs of the following piece.
The freylekhs is a circle dance. Typically piano, accordion, or bass plays a duple oom-pah beat. These are by far the most popular klezma dances. This piece is a testament to the serious influence that klezma music has had on Satan’s Cheerleaders.
It is so easy to despise bands that say “We find that both art and literature have had as much of an influence on our music as music itself has”, but there are some who might have you believe that we are one of those bands.
But we certainly are not. That sort of ideology is strictly for tall skinny scarf wearing bands, whisping about in the wind and casually casting a vague glance into the middle distance. The singer would probably get about in very tight black jeans, be in possession of a fairly ambiguous sexuality and make a point of letting people know just how much he doesn’t care about things, while pretending not to care or notice that girls have decided that he fulfills all of their criteria for being “beautiful”. His band would play weak music and their faces would melt and peel away in the presence of Satan’s Cheerleaders.
Because we are men. Manly, ball-grippingly, meaty, steak eating, whisky soaked, aggressive, wild-eyed, dangerous men. And we kill bands like the aforementioned type.
Satan’s Cheerleaders were .. was … wis … ? Slight gramatical crisis here. Is Satan’s Cheerleaders a group, singular, and therefore referred to using “is and was”, or is it a collective of individuals, and consequently bound to be considered as plural, necessitating the correct application of “are and were”? Further investigation is vital. As Iggy Pop once said, “A grammatically apathetic band is no band at all!”
A couple of members of Satan’s Cheerleaders have intimated that they have been heavily influenced by cartoons. Physically sometimes. Especially cartoons ranging from the 1930’s to the 1960’s, before the generation of whore cartoons spat out of the large, pustulent, weeping vagina of corporate america, not to entertain people, but to sell shit. Not cartoons so much as advertisements, with all the soul, charm and charisma of a vacuous, baseball cap wearing promotional model selling cheap cigarettes in a night club which bears an uncanny resemblance to an abattoir, and not in a cool European kind of way.
The look, the feel, the sound and the madness of these original cartoons has had a deep influence on the Cheerleaders. They were funny, utterly manic and brilliant, and this particular track is a veneration of that style. It is named after the cartoonist John Kricfalusi, who revived this style of cartoon after a terrible absence of quality material, a dirth which lasted for several decades. His attitude and aggressive pursual of the art-form in the face of the commercial demands of a completely disconnected industry should serve as an example to us all.
Yes. We are grown men and we watch cartoons.
Oh you Henry, lie in your sleep There’s no look on your face, just hide it down deep But disregard fools who are posing as friends Their recognition is more than amends Anonymous comfort is always a bitter pill
So don’t look at me Is mediocrity safety?
At the hint of a chance, they’ll confide in you Saying do as I say, but never as I do But I am not subject to whimsy at the hands of caprice And maybe one day when I’m famous, these delusions of grandeur will cease
Because you lied when you said This is all you could have been You lied to your self That is all
Your body and mind have one million uses So make use of your time not god damn excuses My words alone may well save you
Just another head, floats like lead, twenty five bucks a hit And you know, everything is as it should be
Because you lied when you said This is all you could have been You lied to your self That is all
Meaning
You can never be certain of the extent to which others will lie to you, but you will always remain painfully aware of the extent to which you have lied to yourself.
Another musical interlude? Do we really need another one of these? Sure. Why not? The track serves as an introduction to Asleep in the Deep. Sinking. Down through the watery depths, into the chasm, and finally reaching a resting place at the bottom of the ocean. From the decent from the top of the cliffs at the beginning of the album, to the ocean floor at the end, the listener is sent tumbling into the abyss.
Sound like someone has thought a bit too much about what is essentially, just a bunch of notes and chords? That we might be one of those “arty” bands that have already been lambasted. Or worse! What if this is a “concept” album? Filled with maritime themes and watery theatrics (despite the utter lack of pirates for which the band formally apologises.) T.I.S.M posed this very question towards the end of the last millennium, “Yob or wanker? Come on mate, what are ya?” Well, there is one test to be applied, and that is the “attempting to impress girls after a gig” test, which can be applied to most bands. It basically follows the pattern of what one would say, if approached by some fine saucy young trollop at the bar after playing a particular fiendish set, and being asked about the band. It would seem that we would have to respond with something along the lines of:
“Hi there ... oh the band ... well we try not to play the same sort of thing twice ... um, well ... look, the Cheerleaders is more of a pastiche of styles, utilizing the various elements of established techniques even while they are refined in a manner which is not satirical, rather, an homage. It is a band very much informed by technique, as demonstrated by the fully trained musicians, and there is a humour in the personality of the music itself which is not to say that this is a "novelty" act. I both loathe and forcefully reject that notion. The aspiration is to get to the essence of a musical style and then put our own slant on it, hence the opening track of the album being entitled "A tip of the hat". This acknowledges the many styles, cultures and musicians that have influenced the Cheerleaders, and deserve our humble acknowledgement. There is of course a heavy emphasis on the live performance element, which is designed to engage the audience intellectually while having enough energy to make it a fun band to come and watch and dance along with. You can't underestimate the effect of colour and movement. Most of all, we actually believe in the band, and feel that it has an artistic integrity. We take the band, but not ourselves seriously."
Perhaps it is time to chuck all this Cheerleaders stuff in and get an acoustic guitar, polo shirt and a lobotomy and write some more formulaic material so that in response to any questions regarding the three chord pop songs being churned out at the pub on a Sunday afternoon, regarding feeling “ways” about “things”, one could simply reply:
"Yeah, me and the boys were just chillin', havin' a few brewskies and just picked up the old guitar and had a bit of a strum. We'd been listening to a bit of Jack Johnson and Pete Murry and had been down at the beach, just having a surf, taking it easy and put a couple of tunes together on the porch that night. We're just into taking it easy you know? We're not into all that flashy stuff, its just not us, we just play some honest songs about what we know, you know?"
And then I can sleep at night. If the second phrase is the sort of thing that you like to hear, then I have to be honest … Satan’s Cheerleaders is the band for you! Yessir! It’s all about honest, feel good, chord driven sing…
Sorry, just had to pop out and vomit blood into the gutter momentarily. As mentioned before, we kill bands like this. Violently and without remorse. There are various ideas floating around regarding what sort of musicians occupy the Satan’s Cheerleaders camp but let us assure you, we are not sensitive poets. Our live shows are quite the demonstration of what whisky soaked rock pigs we truly are.
But for the album, this segue into the nightmarishness of the grand finale sets the scene nicely.
O.D. Inhale Intoxication
What of the storm when the night
Loudly the bell in the old tower rings Many brave hearts are asleep in the deep
If your faith is in god and in simplicity Then there’s no need to move because you’re down on your knees Curse the progression of man and machine The excess of damnation’s erosion is sleep
Meaning
The phrase, “asleep in the deep” refers to those who have drowned.
The first section of lyrics refer to George Poe. This intriguing individual built the Poe Chemical Works, the first chemical plant in America to mass-produce liquid nitrous oxide. Poe designed, patented and produced various devices to administer nitrous oxide as an anaesthetic, and by 1883 was supplying about five thousand dentists across the American continent with the drug. Like his cousin, Edgar Allen, George Poe was fascinated with death, and traveled the American countryside “reviving” rabbits and dogs rom a death like state with his nitrous administering apparatus. The animals in question had been lightly but not completely killed preceding the demonstration, and would awaken upon being treated with the magical nitrous gas, much to the astonishment of onlookers. One particular test subject, “Socrates” the rabbit, underwent this procedure literally hundreds of times, prompting some to ask, “Is death truly the greatest of all human blessings?” During a national tour in 1889, Poe claimed that amongst other things, his apparatus could revive humans who had drowned.
The italicized lyrics are adapted from "Asleep in the Deep”, with lyrics written by Arthur J. Lamb and music composed by Henry W. Petrie in 1897. The full lyrics to the original are as follows:
Stormy the night and the waves roll high,
What of the storm when the night is o'er?
Loudly the bell in the old tower rings, Many brave hearts are asleep in the deep,
A version of the original composition, sung by the inimitable Thurl Ravenscroft conveys a darkness that the Cheerleader’s version could only hope to recreate.
And then we reach the final verse of the album. The closer. Into the abyss. As the possibility of damnation and retribution for inaction is slowly eroded from general consciousness, so too is the corresponding impetus to actively counter that contingency. And so, we sleep. Unconscious in, and oblivious to, a world of screaming white noise. Descending at an exponential rate, as light is greedily swallowed, until at a hydrostatic pressure of 110316.11669069377 kilopascals a high pitched resonance accents the total absence of light. And then, it too simply relinquishes its final hold on the senses. © 2009 Simon Ridley
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Album artwork by Foz www.visualante.com.au