Nigor Mortis - Lyrics & Credits

With a girl like you
And a boy like me
I can sing hallelujah
And share the love
Coming through ya
With a girl like you
And a boy like me
We can dance in the moonlight
And swim the waves of midnight
A girl like you
And a boy like me

I was raised on American streets
Just to let you know
I was raised on chicken and cornbread
Just to let you know
(and I’ve got to let it show)

With a girl like you
And a boy like me
We can follow the rainbow
And ride until it let go
With a girl like you
And a boy like me
We can swing through the jungle
Until the vines began to crumble
A girl like you
And a boy like me

I was raised on American streets
Just to let you know
I was raised on catfish and greens
Just to let you know
(and I’ve go to let it show)

With a girl like you
And a boy like me
I can sing hallelujah
And share the love coming through ya
With a girl like you
And a boy like me
We can dance in the moonlight
And swim the waves of midnight
A girl like you (you)
And a boy like me

I was raised on American streets
Just to let you know
I was raised on chicken and cornbread
Just to let you know
(and I’ve got to let it show)

Drums, bass, guitars, organ, piano, vocals: Sananda Maitreya
‘Fiddle’ and banjo: Maestro Lucio Fabbri!

The stock market’s fallen today
Because you’ve changed
Because you’ve changed
Because you’ve changed

The cynical life is easy
If you’re living in an easy chair
But if you’re living all your dreams from there
You’ll wake up crying
A horizontal life is easy
If you’re living in an open grave
But if you’re living from the love you save
You’ll end up flying

The stock market’s fallen today
Because you’ve changed
Because you’ve changed
Because you’ve changed
The busses stopped running today
Because you’ve changed
Because you’ve changed
Because you’ve changed

A critical eye can follow
All the meanings of your last mistake
So you must drink the wine
Before they break the empty bottle
A vertical mind will tell you
That you’re wasting all your time alone
But you must dig before you reach
The bone inside your puddle

Drums, bass, guitars, piano, organ, percussion, vocals: SM

When time, first woke up to begin
You’ve been on my mind since then
(I dream that I’ve already been there)
Friends, lost track of the shape I was in
Drink! Is what they recommend

Ooh Carolina I’m sure
I just wanna love you, for sure
I just wanna love you
Nothing could be finer

Your face strangles tears without a trace
You’d cry if you could find a place
(I dream that I’ve already been there)
Let’s ride, and ramble on the mountainside
You, me, and my fertile pride

Ooh Carolina I’m sure
I just wanna love you for sure
I just wanna love you
Nothing could be finer

Don’t wait, love goes cold if it’s too late
And fades when it depreciates

Ooh Carolina I’m sure
I just wanna love you for sure
I just wanna love you
Nothing could be finer

All instruments and vocal: SM

Flash back to the early 80’s
You couldn’t even sing
But you were lucky with the ladies
And the magic they bring
They say you didn’t need the money
(BUT YOU ALWAYS NEED THE MONEY!)
But you knew someone who knew someone who knew someone

Superstar
Where did you go where did you go where did you go?
Why did you leave why did you leave why did you leave?
Where did you go where did you go where did you go?
Where did you go?
They say you don’t need the money
(BUT YOU ALWAYS NEED THE MONEY!)

All your hits were written for you
You couldn’t even play
The rumours were, despite your image
That you were gay
They say you didn’t need the money
(BUT YOU ALWAYS NEED THE MONEY!)
But you knew someone who knew someone who knew someone

ALL INSTRUMENTS and vocals: SM

Fade, fade I do without you woman
I take the long way home when you’re not here
Let me paint a picture for you
I’m an Angel, not a Saint

So put your body on my canvas and paint
So put the real on your feel
When we meet on the hill
And you can slap me if you tell me I can’t
I’m an Angel, not a Saint!

Come and tumble down across my pillow
Come and lay your flesh upon my shadow
And wet the daisies in my meadow

I’m an Angel, not a Saint
So put your body on my canvas and paint
So put the real on your feel
When we meet on the hill
And you can slap me if you tell me I can’t
I’m an Angel, not a Saint!

Settle all your horses in my stables
Your instability is killing me
Let me paint a picture for you

I’m an Angel, not a Saint
So put your body on my canvas and paint
So put the real on your feel
When we meet on the hill
And you can slap me if you tell me I can’t
I’m an Angel, not a Saint!

Drums, bass, guitars, piano, organ, tambourine/percussion, vocals: SM
Them funky fiddles: Lucio Fabbri!

Songs-

...• ‘WITH A GIRL LIKE YOU’
...• ‘BECAUSE YOU’VE CHANGED’
...• ‘OOH CAROLINA’
...• ‘SUPERSTAR’
...• ‘ANGEL (NOT A SAINT)’

All songs Produced, Written, Performed, and Arranged by Sananda Maitreya for Treehouse Publishing. Assisting the recordings as Engineer was Matteo Sandri, also assisting were Giorgio Bau’. Sexing up songs 1 and 5 is the very capable maestro Lucio Fabbri, who we were very fortunate to have worked with, a fine gentleman is he, a wonderful musician (who plays all of the various ‘bluegrass’ instruments), composer, conductor, producer as well. He played the ‘fiddle’ (violin) in songs 1 and 5, and the banjo in song 1. I also used the maestro Fabbri as an excuse to purchase my first banjo, which I’d been threatening to buy for years. We recorded all songs in Casa Logic studios during 12 days between 14 April- 30 April.
Yamaha drums were used, Ufip and Paiste cymbals, Gretsch snare, Fender Jazz bass, Marshall 1960 Lead amp, Roland Vk-8 Organ, Bruder and Sohn upright piano, Fender banjo, and Gibson ‘Lucille’ guitar. We used ‘Elixir’ strings for guitar. The songs were recorded by Matteo ‘Sergente’ Sandri, and mixed by SM and Matteo Sandri. When an SM works with an MS, good things can happen, if not dyslexic confusion.

This chapter of ‘Nigor Mortis’ would like to thank the contributions of the various influences making their psychic presence felt on these recordings/offerings, all in their own ways, unique to each, heroes/heroines:

Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, Stephen Foster, Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn, Aretha Franklin, Frances Darby, Neil Diamond, Smokey Robinson, Sam Cooke, Charlie Pride, Dwight Yoakum, Nile Rodgers, Mavis Staples, Patty LaBelle, Bob Dylan, the Rev. Al Green, Dolly Parton, Kris Kristofferson, Mac Davis, Lionel Richie, Snoop Dog, R.E.M. and last but not least, Bobby ‘Blue’ Bland.
I would also like to thank the middle school I attended in DeLand Florida, Southwestern, for the square dancing classes. As well thanks to my God, which I call every day by a different name, and to my best friend, wife and apologist Francesca Francone Maitreya.

I would also like to thank my Uncle Earl from Daytona Beach Florida, Rev. Earl Kelly, for the time when he advised me over 20 years ago to “Give your dream 10 years, and if it don’t work out, you will never look back and wonder”. He could’ve given me some easy or lazy advice, but thank God, he didn’t. From the well of my heart, I would really like to thank him, he added to the confidence I had in myself and desires. His wife, my Aunt Cuda, I also thank for her ever warm sincerity and for being so cute and friendly.

Once upon a time, before huge corporate consolidation, songs were written not as much for categories and demographics, but for people, their moods, their ways, their means. Songs grew as extensions of who the writers were, and not only according to ‘prevailing quarterly trends’. Of all the various descriptions bandied about where my music is concerned, I consider myself, as much as anything and above all, an American songwriter, nothing more complicated than that. I grew up spending a considerable amount of time in the American south, an area fertile with the miscegenation of essential threads of American/World music. I grew up around blues, jazz, Dixieland jazz, Texas swing, swamp rock, country gospel, gospel, choir gospel, quartet gospel, hillbilly bluegrass, r&b, the works, I grew up hearing rhythm sections composed of just ‘washboard and bass drum’, harmonicas and accordions, and grew up with the ‘steel guitar’ as much a soundtrack to my existence as a bass guitar, and since until the age of 16 I were ‘forbidden’ from listening to anything but ‘family approved music’. The only radio station I was allowed to listen to was a country station, which we listened to only around news time, in order not to miss the news which my step-father favoured. Even ‘Soultrain’, and ‘American Bandstand’ were out of my reach until well after puberty. The only music TV shows we were able to watch without fear of reprisal or censure were ‘Hee Haw’, a country variety show (and a big musical influence on me), and for a spell, ‘The Johnny Cash and June Carter show’. I took what the times gave me. These songs reflect a past that we can now express without fear of political censor, or group think rejection. Without fear of how to market such music, we can just make it and leave you to judge its sincerity and effect. Post Millennium Rock is determined to be the truth, the whole truth of what we are, and has gotten us this far. We are of mixed heritage, naturally and proudly, our music will be as well. In the light of truth before God, I swear that at this point in my life especially, I would much rather die, outright, than to forfeit the unfettered music of my spirit, I will leave the debate to others to determine which demographic grave to bury the songs in. It’s ‘PMR’ to be sure, yet above all, it is simple American music, without shame or apology, made by a boy like me. We hope that you enjoy these ‘hybrid’ offerings which comprise ‘Pussy For Perjury!’.

I can recall, in the year of our memory 1987, being invited over from England to appear on the ‘Dolly Parton’ show, taped at the time in Los Angeles. Growing up in the south during my era of sojourn there, Dolly was revered as not only a singer, but as a songwriter. I still remember her as a musical partner of Porter Waggoner! Fresh off the plane from London, I met Miss Parton, and she couldn’t have been sweeter or more real, and THOSE breasts couldn’t have been more distracting (and bounteously so). Being a well raised ‘southern boy’, I kept my eyes on her eyes, and my mind on her words, welcoming, warm and tender. Her advice was sound, well considered, and generous and she seemed genuinely happy to have me on her show. Having been a fan before, I became an even bigger admirer afterwards. I recall us speaking of our mutual heroes in both ‘hillbilly’ and ‘gospel’ music. We send our sincere best wishes to her, and ask our lord to favour her heart with graces.

I also recall in the same year, staggering (albeit elegantly darlings) down the streets late at night in the fine fair city of Amsterdam and growing larger in the dampening distance, approaching, was the startling image of a cowboy coming towards me, oddly out of place there, yet strangely and welcomingly familiar. My neck strained to discretely ascertain who the fuck this cowboy was in Amsterdam at this late juncture of night, as if I, a mulatto had the right to travel and surprise the world, but not a cowboy, not a redneck. As it turned out, it was none other than Dwight Yoakum, himself introducing himself to the world as himself (more or less I suppose). We instantly recognized one another, formed an instant Amsterdam buddy society, and got even more drunk and stoned than we were before running into each other. Only the CIA could get me to reveal how the rest of the evening turned out, suffice to say that not much can be said about the parrot, the Jimmy Buffet impersonator, and the 3 strippers (not to mention his manager who I am not sure either of us ever saw after that). Fast forward a few years later, and I run into Dwight at the car wash in L.A., both of us devoted Jaguar drivers, both same model, same year. During the swapping of some southern bullshit tall tale ‘my dick is bigger than your dick stories’, he said to me earnestly, “Don’t forget your southern roots”. We hung out for a while, double dated, then lost contact in the way that is even more unique to people living in a town like L.A. Life takes over, shit happens. International or not, I am at heart a southern boy. This is a reach out to my old friends, thank you for having been my friend.

‘Nigor Mortis’
CHAPTER 3 ‘PUSSY FOR PERJURY!’
Subtitle: A Nigor, Mortgaged.

But what could Edwin do?
His hocus pocus had gone out of focus, and his ongoing nexus prevented his locus from finding his lotus (this would end more neatly had Edwin been named Otis).
He had been outwitted, outfoxed by a wily hen, and now years of his life would belong to her, spittle and cough. Dense psycho spastic years. Years where the long hand on the clock wall resembled a middle finger. Years carpeted with molasses. Years that were bulls-eyes to darts, and their opinions. Years being pounded by the barren Earls for taking too long with their girls. She would betray to the magistrates the description of a life his memory could not embrace. She would in court, testify and hiss against a life used to poetry as the language between the lines, and all but have him turned upside down to see if any nickels rolled out of his pants.
She would feel the occasional itch to scratch at his life, and look for signs of blood. And then remove the blood to the lab, to see if its value had risen and if more could be gotten from it. And she was obsessed with his containment. Nothing would ever again be his without a sizable portion of what was hers, attached. They die hard that die so easy, they to whom death comes before it even announces its arrival. No space was respected between it, you and the welcome mat. It barged in, with drinking buddies, and took over your life. It came then with accessories and braided your hair the way it wanted. You were scolded for daring to want a life you once had before giving it so carelessly away to a beast called love. You fell for it, were groomed to need it, to bow, hopelessly romantic, at the feet of what would impale you with it’s disdain for reach. Cack handed, callow, you would wallow in its search until its stench drove you south. O how wondrous and divine is the pussy. And O how murderous the contempt it has for us. And how exhausting its attempts to re-make men into programs for pilgrims and their pogroms. What once simple pussy was, now politics all is. What once a source of comfort, now a source of shambles. The Man of a Thousand Years, through his friend Luther Means (and Luther Means business!), once told Edwin that the messenger does not get the message until AFTER they have delivered it, never before. He would wonder whether morals were just a burden or whether they were our just burden. He would eventually pass through all of the vices it would take to hide his shame and shelter his dwindling carcass. Then, he would let them go and cling to the vice he could not surrender, a predilection for supremely bad puns, and dodgy word play. Though she could not rob his desire, that untouchable splendid thing, his motivation she could hinder, without the cause of which, desire remains unfulfilled, dreams remain but ashes for empathy. Despite what, within the confines of a nightmare, could still be appropriated as pieces of a dream, what for a brief summer was, has been for long winters , not. What rose with the first breaths of spring, fell ankle weary by autumn.
Thereafter, Edwin would find his life chained to the grinding aftermath of a lie. Who knew she was also a spy? Delilah on a working holiday. She was a ‘confusionist’, and could manage to convince Samson that he was instead the Son of Sam. As a government agent she was stunning, as an assassin, somewhat lacking. Who knew that her vision of love would so vastly differ from his own. His denomination was love, she loved only denominations. Vivid was the joy with which she would thwart his every desire. She would contemptuously mock his belief in a God. To even believe in God, in a Godless world is its own form of Sado-Masochism, yet it was the form he understood. To know God is to suffer him. To know fatal love is to suffer both the love and the lover, the disease and its cause. Luther had also once granted Edwin something said to him by the ‘Man of a Thousand’, to wit: ‘The only way to survive resurrection, is to jump in at the deepest end of the grave’ Survive?
He would survive it. And he wouldn’t at the same time. Betrayed by the dream of love, whereupon him it was used to pry open the secrets of his heart, reducing his vineyards from reason to vinegrette. Edwin’s ‘raison d’être’, his confidence and joy in his vision would be taunted and mocked by the very same souls who would come looking for its rescue skills later. He demurred. Once betrayed, once so cravingly spoiled, he would retreat. He would then from a careful distance watch his life fall into the black hole which had been written into his story in order to obscure him. He would let it. Some say he chanted for peace, others say revenge. Perhaps all thoroughbreds need a little breakdown. He came to view ‘Love’ as a matter for Pilgrims, and their progress. For such as he, it was but a trap. A good man broken and abused for falling on the level side of curiosity, but the wrong side of caste. There are but a tiny few who know now the whereabouts of Edwin. He now shuns the attention he once craved, and shushes all talk of what might have been. There are those who can plan their lives, more still who can only ‘counter-plan’ their existence. Edwin had always to respond to what responded to Edwin, he was used to running after those who ran after him. They were never intended to catch the other, only to run after the other, giving the other the necessary exercise needed to do nothing but wait. Rumours were of a small sea side town far from industrial north. “If they put the cause of death on gravestones, too many other people’s names would be on it”, once thought Edwin in a lighter black moment Grace would favour him to never see her again. There is less ‘Agency’ involvement and mischief attending his council, bending his ear. Less presumption interferes. He’s at peace. His prayers are now back in his own hands. He gardens a lot and keeps what he finds. He has also developed a curious fascination with snails. And he briefly had a dog for a spell, a good dog, which he had named ‘Otis’.

We thank Giorgio Bau’, encore, for his hustle and good attitude. Thanks also to Casa Logic Studio. Finally, another thanks to the maestro Lucio Fabbri for his talents and generosity of spirit. We also thank our very own Nik ‘The Sticks’ Taccori for the generous use of his ‘Gretsch’ snare drum, while mine was in the shop being fixed, a last thank you to Enea ‘Il Conte’ Bardi for the vibes and Lily. A special thanks to Margherita and Maceo for their help at the office. We are grateful for the extra little Italian Mojo!

Disclaimer- As a nod to ‘Greening’, we avoided ‘backing vocals’ (they waste unnecessary carbon particles) and planted 6 plants in lieu of this fact. We will let you know how the ‘plants’ turned out.
Remember the old philosophical adage we learned in the 60’s from our cultural prophets; ‘Ass, Gas, or Grass, Nobody rides for free’.
Finally, if you see ‘Lolly’, tell him that I’ve got some brand new adverbs here.

Written by SM

All contained herein is the intellectual property of www.SanandaMaitreya.com

Respect!

* and no infidels, ‘Superstar’ is not about the me myself, and yes, songwriters do get somewhat weary trying to explain to ‘critics’ (such as they now exist), that not all songs are ‘autobiographical’, and even the ones that are, are still ‘embellished’. There are however a peer or two that the song does poke a little fun at. Thought that I’d say this upfront since ‘misunderstandings’ are never far from the surface when swimming against the ‘mainstream’, often deliberately so, and I’ve already been asked whether the song was about me. In a final note, we will be in future making ‘backing tracks’ (Instrumentals) available upon payment/request. We will in the appropriate hour reveal the availability of these ‘karaoke’ versions. We thank you sincerely for your time and attention, not to mention your generous patience.

* This chapter dedicated to You, our Brave Soldiers, the Library of Congress and all of those who may have suffered time in Austrian dungeons. (talk about your Subterranean Homesick Blues!)

Someone once asked me the ‘conceptual’ difference between the ‘Violin’ and the ‘Fiddle’. To my mind growing up, Whites played the violin, Rednecks played the fiddle, and the fiddle is both sexier and funkier than the violin (and we will always love the sound of a violin, like most savage breasts). With the fiddle comes the real Country funk. Ironically, the fiddle’s origin, like the banjo’s and guitar, is Africa, go figure. All of our great music, was already ‘racially/culturally’ mixed before it even got to us to put our stamp on. This may or may not satisfy the Academics as far as explanations go, but it did manage to convince ‘Earl’. (Which is much easier if it’s after his medication).

Drums, Bass, Keyboards, Percussion, Vocal: SM

Dorothy and Toto
Went shopping today
They’re shopping a script for
Another new play
Dorothy had moved from
Kansas to Hollywood
Toto was working
As a TV dog
Do Re Mi Fa, Sol La Ti Da

‘What would you like from the people today?’
She told me that was the name of the new play,
‘What would you like from the people today?’
She wishes they could all be happy
She wishes they could all be happy
She wishes they could all be happy

Several directors
Were ‘sneaking a peek’
Several reporters
Already taking a ‘leak’
Here come the agents,
They’ll move it along
Until the footlights
And the little catfights
Re Mi Fa, Sol La Ti Da

‘What would you like from the people today?’
She told me that was the name of the new play,
‘What would you like from the people today?’
She wishes they could all be happy
She wishes they could all be happy
She wishes they could all be happy

Dorothy and Toto
Live in Beverly Hills
Accountants are fighting
Over paying her bills
She’s scheduled appointments
For fixing her nose
She can afford it
‘cause now she’s rolling in
Dough Re Mi Fa, Sol La Ti Da

Drums, Percussion; Bass, Keyboards, Acoustic Guitars Vocal: SM

Listen to the laughing waters rolling down the stream
If the sun would come tomorrow it would be a dream
Because tomorrow a family reunion is taking its place in the park
Because tomorrow’s a family reunion and it will be there after dark

Children will be running over the clover in the fields
Barbecues and Butterflies are rising on the hill
Because tomorrow a family reunion is taking its place in the park
Because tomorrow’s a family reunion and it will be there after dark

Porticos in alabaster, the calendar is free
We pray to God that he will bless our humble family tree
Because tomorrow a family reunion is taking its place in the park
Because tomorrow’s a family reunion and it will be there after dark.

Words and Music - Sananda Maitreya for Treehouse Publishing

Drums, Percussion, Bass, Keyboards, Acoustic Guitar, Vocal: SM

Priscilla, don’t let your dragons fall
Priscilla, don’t let your dragons fall
Or you may lose your way while the light of the day finds the dawn.

Priscilla, don’t let them tie your shoes
Priscilla, don’t let them hold your screws
Because life in the city will laugh at your pity

O!
When she dances it feels like heaven
GO!
And be well, ring your bell, grab your pillars
SO!

Priscilla, don’t let your dragons fall
Priscilla, don’t let your dragons fall
Or you may fade away while the light of the day finds the dawn
Or you may fade away while the light of the day finds the dawn
Priscilla.

Words and Music - Sananda Maitreya for Treehouse Publishing.

Instruments used were Yamaha drums, Kurzweil keyboards, Latin Percussion, Fender Jazz bass, Musser acoustic guitar, circa ’87. I can’t remember about mics and stuff, that’s Enea’s and Matteo’s scene, God bless them. The songs were recorded by Enea ‘Il Conte’ Bardi and Matteo ‘Sergente’ Sandri during the week of 21 Jan - 26 Jan 08 at ‘Gran Gran’ studio.

Mix engineer was shared by the 2 aforementioned gentlemen, and the 3 of us ‘mixed’ it and rendered it available for the later probable process of ‘mastering’, once we arrive, at end of project to that delicious point. We hope to have entertained you with these selections, meant to be more in number but for a ‘faulty piece of equipment’, which decided to, after years of loyal service to my cause, retire in the middle of the sessions. We salute it and vigorously, We salute you. I would like to thank Enea and Matteo for their vibes and support during the week of these recordings. I would like to thank my wife for her friendship and positive spirit. Finally, I would like to thank the person or group thereof, who invented Mp3. O yeah, and God too, just in case Christopher Hitchens is wrong.

it felt somewhat appropriate for a chapter to be titled; ‘Neutered & Spade’, then be itself cut short (the recording sessions) by ‘failing’ equipment. Thereby being ‘cut short’, the sessions were neutered. Enjoy!

The panther knew that there was no such thing as a black panther really, just a leopard with its dense spots all connected. It needed them to remain poised and still in the shadows. It also knew succinctly that if it turned itself back in to the circus, it would have its balls cut off. It would have to. How do you explain an attack by a panther on a crowd with its balls intact to the insurance company? He shrugged. It took quite a long season or 3 to grow the current set of ‘cojones’, once lost to a vicious and mean blade, attached to a carnival barkers desire, a ticket seller’s greed. Those branded circus days were now a memory. He could not be neutered and spayed for any cause, he ceased being a dark leopard, he’d be but a limbic stuffed animal with a ‘reputation’. He could never digest food he didn’t have to chase, nor could he ever lick a beggar’s hand. Animals could count out their days in the circus. In the jungle there are no days, most certainly no guarantees. What there is, is the one long relentless day and the ever restless, stirring night. What one finds, when one finds, they find all of it, not just suggestions or portions of it, but the sum of it, the source of it, the total life of it. The circus wheels and deals, while the jungle, forged by nuance, either subtly or soundly, takes or gives.

Just to remind you, Panthers never wore pants, neither do ants.

This chapter 2 of ‘NM’; ‘Neutered & Spade’, is dedicated to a boyhood/lifetime Hero, Muhammed Ali. Also dedicated to the Great Maestro Rod Stewart!

Drums, Bass, Guitar, and Vox non inhibitus- S.M.

If I just stay with you
The dark sky on the horizon
Will open wide and see
The future belongs to me
If I just stay with you
The whispers that were behind me
Will turn to cheers instead
And melt straight into my ears
If I just stay with you
If I just stay with you
If I just stay with you.

If I just stay with you
The heartbeat that I am pumping
Will keep on loving you,
Loving you all or nothing
If I just stay with you
The mountains that are before us
Will turn to stepping stones
Then brick by brick I am home
If I just stay with you
If I just stay with you
If I just stay with you

If I just stay with you
The dark sky on the horizon
Will open wide and see
The future belongs to me
If I just stay with you
If I just stay with you
If I just stay with you
(and blah, blah, blah)

Words and Music - Sananda Maitreya for Treehouse Publishing

Drums, Bass, Guitar and Vox populi- S.M.

Come on up to Kansas City
And bring the old van with the peace sign
We'll share a smoke and tell some jokes
And have a real good time
We'll talk about the old days
And whether our dreams were realized
And we'll laugh about the stories that
Vandalized our pride
And we will find our way home
On the lost highway
And we will find our way home
On the lost highway

We tried to do the right thing
But sometimes the right thing comes out wrong
We raised some hell, we cracked the bell
And partied all night long
Life is like a snowball
It melts if it's not rolling on
So pick up your feet
And kick the beat
And rave until it's gone
And we will find our way home
On the lost highway
And we will find our way home
On the lost highway

Say goodbye to Kansas City
And next time you come stay awhile
'Cause I know some girls that will rock
Your world and loosen up your smile
Pay attention on the road
And pull over if you have to sleep
Because the yellow lines are full
Of destinations that time don't always keep
And we will find our way home
On the lost highway
And we will find our way home
On the lost highway
On the lost highway
On the lost highway

Now pay attention on the road!

Words and Music - Sananda Maitreya for Treehouse Publishing

Drums, Bass, Guitar, and Tonsils- S.M.

Saturday night was the last that I could handle
So I threw her out under her own steam
If you don't know
If you don't know
If you don't know just what I mean
I kicked butt in my boots and a pair of jeans

Her brother was mad so he came to have discussion
Instead he traded words for a concussion
If you don't know
If you don't know
If you don't know just what I mean
I kicked butt in my boots and a pair of jeans

From the corner of my eye I saw a witness
But I convinced him to mind his own business
If you don't know
If you don't know
If you don't know just what I mean
I kicked butt in my boots and a pair of jeans
If you don't know
If you don't know
If you don't know just what I mean
I kicked butt in my boots and a pair of jeans

Words and Music by Maitreya, Sananda, for Treehouse Publishing, Milano. Thank you for your time and attention, it has healed my heart

We were blessed by time and circumstance to have played Yamaha drums, for which we thank young maestro Sergenio, UFIP and Paiste cymbals. We thank young Master Nik Taccori, 'The Stiks', for the use of his snare (he insisted!). We were grateful to have had the use of my MATCHLESS amp, and MARSHALL Head, our SHURE microphone, and my Light Blue Fender Jazz bass. All guitars used during the sessions were various Fender Stratocasters that time and spirit have blessed me to use, honour and cherish. Molto Thanks to Enea 'Il Conte' Bardi, and Matteo Sandri for their able assistance and charitable attitudes towards the sessions and their realization. We also thank 'FAUSTO'S Bar for the food and the Milanese hospitality. FORZE JUVE! We also thank Frances Darby for whatever I inherited of my dogged persistence and singular determination.
We would finally like to thank my wife Francesca Francone Maitreya for demonstrating consistently, the values and virtues of a living Goddess. Last but not least, we thank, extensively, our dedicated staff, and our web dominatrix, St. Lilian of Amsterdam. SM

All songs written, produced, arranged and performed by SANANDA FRANCESCO MAITREYA, for TREEHOUSE Publishing and eternity. Recorded entirely in GRAN GRAN studios, Milano Italy, between September 17 - 29 in the year of our lord 2007.

Gratitudes to the various monks who remember us in their prayers (Ciao Don Giorgio!), and to my faithful boon companions Luther Means and Victor Spoils. We would also like to thank the record industry for the sensibilities that I did inherit from my trials and tribulations. All's well that ends well! We would lastly like to thank the unsung workers of 'Afghanistan' and 'Morocco'.

Photos and graphics by Frame Flame Architects

Drums, Bass, Guitar, and Vox , non interruptus- S.M.

If you tell me that you're leaving me
My heart would soon be sad
I'll grab the pillows from the bed
And knock these stones against my head
If you turn and walk away
And leave me where I lay
I would just walk out on the ledge
And knock these stones against my head

You say you're leaving me today
You say that I should walk away

If you leave my arms this way
And climb out of our bed
And just leave me on the wetspot
I'll knock these stones against my head
If you wave and say goodbye
You will not see me cry
I'll grab the pillows from our bed
And knock these stones against my head

You say you're leaving me today
You say that I should walk away

If you tell me that you're leaving me
My heart would soon be sad
I'll grab the pillows from the bed
And knock these stones against my head
If you turn and walk away
And leave me where I lay
I'll just walk out on the ledge
And knock these stones against my head
I'll just walk out on the ledge
And knock these stones against my head

Words and Music - Sananda Maitreya for Treehouse Publishing.

Drums, Bass, Vocals- S.M.

A wife knows
Her man's pain
A wife knows
Her man's pain
And she brings out the bitter tears that remain

A wife feels
Her man's pride
A wife feels
Her man's pride
And she brings out the best in him by his side

A wife knows
Her man's pain
A wife knows
Her man's pain
And she brings out the bitter tears that remain

Words and Music - Sananda Maitreya for Treehouse Publishing

'Dying is Easy' (it is convincing your creditors that you are dead that is hard). I do not believe in 'Coincidence', but as 'The Police' brought to our attentions, 'Synchronicity'. The original title of the project was meant to be called 'Othello', but then a film of the title came out. Although we'd announced our 'Angels& Vampires' project roughly a year before author Dan Browns' 'Angels and Demons', we were in fact encouraged by the convergence of events, and felt it to be a good omen. About a week after writing/receiving the song 'The Lost Highway', we read that the venerable Bon Jovi had a project called 'Lost Highway'. I guess the gentlemen of this Hall of Fame bound group are also Hank Williams admirers as am I. It doesn't matter, life touches and inspires us all, if we are sincere. Chapter 1 of 'Nigor Mortis' is dedicated to my 'Nigors' everywhere, no matter what tribe or complexion of skin tone you were assigned. We know each other by feel. We love each other by instinct. Dylan was a 'Nigor', Jim Morrison was, Hendrix was, Cobain was. Who carries a love for humanity bigger than their logic is one. Look up 'NAGA' and we'll be closer to understanding one another. By the way, my wife is a big fan of BON JOVI, and we wish them well. We also wish you and your spirit well, for all of the days of your life. Now, don't forget, pay attention on the road, choo-choo!

Sananda Maitreya, Ph.D in Hubristic Studies.