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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.
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2. |
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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
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3. |
More Than An Apology
03:56
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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
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4. |
Solo #8
01:35
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5. |
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This is the house that drugs built
This is the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is Jack who's flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is the maniac in the half-track who whacked the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is the quack who proscribed the Prozac that set off the maniac in the half-track who whacked the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is the angry pack from Singac that attacked the quack who proscribed the Prozac that set off the maniac in the half-track who whacked the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is the rack of bric a brac that slacked back the angry pack from Singac in their attack on the quack who proscribed the Prozac that set off the maniac in the half-track who whacked the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is Mack, the advertising flack who stacked the rack of bric a brac that slacked back the angry pack from Singac in their attack on the quack who proscribed the Prozac that set off the maniac in the half-track who whacked the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built
This is Karnac, the mystic hack who used the zodiac to track why Mack, the advertising flack would stack the rack of bric a brac that slacked back the angry pack from Singac in their attack on the quack who proscribed the Prozac that set off the maniac in the half-track who whacked the black Cadillac that delivered the sack that knocked Jack flat on his back from shooting up the fine, fine smack they sell at the house that drugs built.
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
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6. |
Eulogy/Regrets
06:45
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7. |
970-DOGS
03:59
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Music- Workdogs with contributions from Bond Bergland, Kinky & Friends, Leila Haddad, Jerry Williams
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8. |
Realm Of The Censors
05:21
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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?
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9. |
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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?
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10. |
* (Star Circle)
05:16
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11. |
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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