Nigor Mortis - Chapter III - Pussy For Perjury

NIGOR MORTIS CHAPTER 3 COVER

09) WITH A GIRL LIKE YOU  3:48

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!


10) BECAUSE YOU'VE CHANGED  3:33

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

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

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


11) 00H CAROLINA  3:12

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


12) SUPERSTAR  3:03

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

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 INSTRUMENTS and vocals: SM 


13) ANGEL (NOT A SAINT)  2:58

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!


NIGOR MORTIS CHAPTER 3
PUSSY FOR PERJURY (SONGS FROM AN AMERICA GRAVE)

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!’.


RELEVANT REVELATIONS

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).