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Workdogs In Hell

by Workdogs

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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
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
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
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?
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.
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
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
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


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




Workdogs New York, New York

The Workdogs - Rob Kennedy (bass, vocals) and Scott Jarvis (drums), who have provided the backbeat for Half Japanese, Velvet Monkeys, and a number of other bands over the years. The only Workdogs' constant is change as they've operated under a different lineup for most every release and/or live performance. A variety of New York indie rock and avant-jazz artists have joined in to back them. ... more

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