Workdogs In Hell

by Workdogs

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credits

released October 10, 1988

Workdogs In Hell Contributors
(in order received)
Denny Callaghan
Mark Abramson
Lisa Mednick
Dave Findley
Malcolm Riviera
Ken Matsutani
Dennis Gronim
Mark Jickling
David Fair
Charles Brohawn
Clint Ruin
Leila Haddad
Jeff Evans
Adrienne Ostrander
Chap Ostrander
Juan Dreyfuss
Ruki Dreyfuss Family
Fran Powers
Bond Bergland
Jerry Williams
Mark Elliot
Bob Bert
Moe Tucker
Jad Fair
Chet Howland
Gary Cracksex
Debra Cracksex
Lydia Lunch
Rev. Mike Osterhout
Ray Reeves
Ready Freddy
Ms. Understanding
Skip Stones
Dave Elman
Kinky & Friends
Frankie S.
Otto Kentrol
Jim Fourniadis
Fritz Fox
Richard Kern

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Track Name: Eulogy/Regrets
Eulogy/Regrets

Regrets - I got 'em
I could have been a millionaire
but I ain't one
Regrets - more than a few
things I did -
and worse -
things I didn't do
yeah I got regrets
I should have been the president
but nobody listened
I should have been making the rules
not just breaking them -
(not to mention the ass kissing)

Yeah I got regrets -
the thwarted pursuit of happiness
I confess I got regrets
I confess I got regrets - bad ones
going to work every day
I shouldn'tna
I coulda been a contender - I coulda
I fought and fought and only thing I won:
more regrets
(being sorry is something I'm getting good at)

For all my bad debts,
the times I made you upset,
my absurd bets,
too many cigarettes,
frayed safety nets
things I wish I could forget . . .
I got regrets
Track Name: Little Boys With Big Guitars
LITTLE BOYS WITH BIG GUITARS

when we first hit this dump
there was no sun, moon or stars
only the sound
of little boys with big guitars
it's been the same
ever since that day
(let's beat it, Man, this place is packed with goddam stars)

listen to them
they won't even listen to each other
let alone the rhythm section
they got these new amps that turn up to 20
I don't believe it
I wish they would shut up
shut up

shut up

I'm talking about boys
those boys with their big guitars
Track Name: More Than An Apology
MORE THAN AN APOLOGY

When I buy you that champagne lunch
more than an apology
roses by the dozen
more than an apology
when I take you away from all this
more than an apology
I hate myself for hating you
more than an apology
wallow in self pity
more than an apology
my phone bill's through the ceiling
more than an apology
I starve myself, get a haircut
more than an apology
when we do it the way you like
more than an apology
every second seems like an hour
more than an apology
I need to be forgiven
more than an apology
don't want to be forgotten
more than an apology
don't want to be forgotten
don't want to be forgotten
Track Name: Realm Of The Censors
REALM OF THE CENSORS

The censors are buried head first in the stinking mud
they pose on hands and knees -
a ripe field of bare buttocks -
obscene parody of prayer
nothing touches them, still they flinch
tremble with anticipated terror
of harsh anal penetration never realized

They can never know real pain
or real pleasure
only fear -
conjured agony, forbidden ecstasy -
each image more cruel and carnal than anything witnessed above

Within their muddy helmets they rot
smelling rot they scream
but their mouths fill with decay and defecation
no sound is heard there below
above them a flatulent symphony
they've learned to speak with their assholes
hearing nothing, they babble on
spitting and drooling brown matter
in their haste to voice their complaints

The Seven Deadly Virtues:
righteous indignation
zealous organization
absolute morality
dignity of the fetus
application with extreme prejudice
pompous justice
and infallible opinion

Preacher heal thyself
your wealth is derived from closed minds,
open wallets,
tight behind the times signs of apocalypse -
you missed the ship
you ain't hip to what's going on
you're wrong and you won't admit it
get with it

Teacher give up
we're lost and want to be
don't need no geography to tell me where I'm at -
economics has more to do with that -
this world's flat and that's that

Lawman surrender
we've rendered you useless
your guidelines are obsolete and always were
you're like fur:
just a dead animal displayed for the status quo
hey Joe
where you going with that gun in your hand?
Track Name: Death Of The Workdogs
DEATH OF THE WORKDOGS

Friends, this is old Rock Hasbein with the True Story of The Death of The Workdogs. The Workdogs were the very first rhythm section for hire and #1 Rambo Type Head Band - not to mention Yves Bisquet who was their (my) great manager.
One night I was at my pad listening to The Hound - I mean, Leila - on the radio station WFMU and I heard a brand new sound which was Roberta and the new Infotainment Blues Thing. Well on the backstrength of that I got to know Rob and then Scott, who were the Workdogs and it wasn't long after they were coming 'round to my place for meals. Which they come into the habit of doing. And they would ask me to play my guitar for them and maybe some day be their sideman.
See the way it worked it was a different sideman for every show, never repeating the same thing twice. Many a time I was to ask them when my time would come. They said "Rock," they said "soon." They always said "soon." So I continued to practice my guitar and to feed them and to prop them up when they couldn't stand - doing whatever I could.
One day, with the help of 3 J's and The Workdogs were doing fine - that's Jerry, Jimmy and Jim Beam - they was jamming on a Sonny Boy Williamson thing and I was just about to sit in when the telephone rang. I picks up the receiver and it's Easy Money - the front man for my regular gig - which was The Big Nothing - and we had a show that night, a Tuesday at 4am.
I jumps into my car, a Plymouth Valiant, and I rushes to the club - The Masterpiece Theater. And the doorman - which was Carlo - informed me of the death of The Workdogs. He said, "Rock," he said, "they have died no more than 10 minutes ago." Which was 3:33 am on a Tuesday - pardon me - Wednesday morning.
Awful sad I mounted the stage and told the audience of the Great Tragedy. Nobody said a thing. The band, Easy, Tony and Tony took up the beat (which was Tony Sharp and Tony Action) and that night we wrote the new song - The Death Of The Workdogs about Roberta, Haunted House of Love, Punk Rock Truck Driving Son Of A Gun and all the rest of 'em. And all the big names they played with (which was for peanuts) before they was big names. And the way Rob would play the Good Cop and Scott the Bad Cop and they would go out and cop - I mean go out and mess up all their business which was known to everybody in the New York better than which it was known to themselves.
Not to mention Badu Badu their World Beat thing or The AllStars Of Love or A Band Called Horse or all the nights they hosted down at the old House of Games. Now they're playing in that big rhythm section On High. No more $2 choir jobs (which was The Church Of The Little Green Man). Flying above all this mess. And now, up above it all: the false lies about their death (of which the sordid details are so well known) and beyond the suffering which is Business As Usual . . .
One band, one beat one never ending gig.

I climbs from the stage too sad to go on and the manager tells me - which was Bill Wallace , he says, "Rock, they're gone and no amount of riffing is going to bring them back. Call it a night."
He hands me our pay, which was 10 dollars and sends me out into the cold, cold world. With no where to go I drive back and forth in front of The 'Dogs' house thinking - which was on 12th Street - thinking about my lost chances to sit in.About how "soon" never comes and being that close and now its too late which was by 10 minutes.
You know, a man's chances come and then they go and when they're gone what's he got? The Big Nothing, which was my band, and maybe a chance to forget just how close I come to the one shining moment of glory jamming with The Workdogs. And maybe I would have died. Maybe I'd be up there with them now: Rob counting off the beat; Scotty taking off on something completely different and me in the middle holding on for dear life. Which was their style.
Easy comes up to where I'm parked and shakes my shoulders - I didn't even smile. "Rock," he said," it's time to go and put the old men to bed. But I can't get' em out of my head. And each day is a little bit darker since they left. Each day is just a little more gone.
The Workdogs. Great rhythm section. My good, good friends.
That's all.
Track Name: The House That Drugs Built
THE HOUSE THAT DRUGS BUILT

This is the house that drugs built:
you fool can't you see it's empty inside?
don't go in there, don't go in there
what do you think is behind this door?
is anybody home?

keep moving, keep moving
don't stand still, don't stand still
no singles
"bohondo!" - oh fuck
I can't believe that motherfucker ran away with all my money
that was my last 10 dollars
fuck this shit!

we were like strangers in the night, strangers
wandering thru the night
what were the chances
we'd be sharing love before the night was through?
doobee doobee do

I want to tell you about Soul and the loss of it:
well friends gather around
you better get used to it
you can clown till the shit goes down
then its Soul and the loss of it
you can laugh, you can play
'til tomorrow's NOT another day
Soul and the loss of it
Soul and the loss of it
Track Name: Kill 'Em Eat 'Em, Fuck 'Em
Kill 'Em, Eat 'Em, Fuck 'Em

first ya kill 'em
then you eat 'em
then you fuck 'em
then you rob 'em
and you fuck 'em
fuck 'em up bad
fuck 'em up real bad
then you stick the knife in
and you twist it
put your dick in
and you eat 'em
then you cut 'em up a little bit
and you shoot 'em
first you kill 'em
then you fuck 'em

working away
dogging

slice 'em like turkey
cut 'em up
serve them to the homeless
give them the finger

slicing
cutting
hurting - I'm hurting

working away
take my love away

then you stick their dicks down their throats
then you stick your dick down their throat - choke 'em
put your tongue in
cause you eat 'em
fuck 'em, kill 'em
and you love 'em
and you tell lies about 'em

yeah you tell lies
how they're useless, can't be trusted
suck on their brains
but first you fuck 'em
then you eat 'em
then you write 'em a contract
but you will not pay
no you will not pay
cause you kill 'em
watch 'em bleed
the blood's warm, the blood's red
blood's hot
and you're hot

screaming but the neighbors are not around
screaming all over
and the neighbors are not around
yell all you want
scream all you want

You're just like the rest of 'em -

I don't care about anything
except my fun
Track Name: A Litany Of Complaints/Satan Is Real
A LITANY OF COMPLAINTS


this is gonna take forever
what's that noise
I'm tired
leave me alone
stop your crying
this shit's poison
I'm going nuts
get with the program
I can't get thru
what's the point
stop whining
coulda been a corpse
I'm hurting
the money's gone
I can't wait
I'm sick of my life
never again
I was robbed
you call this art
what a baby
total loser
call the police
the sound man's deaf
it never ends
it's dirty
she bit it off
smells like a pond
he's selfish
there's no justice
that turns me off
yo mama
turn it down
it's too small
it's too big
what's in it for me
it's a rip off
I can't get through
my back is killing me
stop it
I got blisters on me fingers
break my heart
the food sucks
forget that shit
get off the pot
I'm freezing here
you're drunk
tell it to the judge
who dealt this mess
I piss on your grave