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British Subject Dry Tears Two Times
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Think dusty road for animation.
artist blues guitar london graphic designer animator illustrator robert phillips robertemerald tichphillips woolich xbusker
Artist picture
Blues. Used to busk. Thankyou for looking March 2021. Love/art/blues/Rob. So, musical diary
Pardon? How can I interview me? Some streets are better than others? Some highways are brighter than others. Time of day, find a state of mind, imagination, TV, 1920s. I write about love, lost or found, hopefully honestly inspired by love, and try to play better for that. When younger protested about behaviours on my radar, and of course, being a simple artist, surfing the great times I imagine I had in another life, or maybe one day this one!
Song Info
Genre
Blues • Acoustic Blues
Charts
Peak #591
Peak in subgenre #53
Author
Robert Ellery Phillips
Rights
Robert Ellery Phillips (robertemerald)
Uploaded
March 16, 2013
Track Files
MP3
MP3 2.1 MB • 160 kbps • 1:49
Story behind the song
Think dusty road for animation. Very Cowboy I think. In my world, even though it's not that good, this thing will only sound this way with my acoustic guitar as it is, with the current tuning, with certain strings missing, with other strings being worn just so. The Robot Is Dead Meat by 2978 AD Robot Blues While I do this there is a clever sit on me spy boyzone trying hard to read me off, pretending in their own cyber space that this work belongs to them as well. It's a nice little threat, and a convenient and neat little trick, what with beads and b-lines to me all day, without actually knowing me of couse, but then most don't realize they are psychopaths and everything they do is 'clever'. Do all buskers become a society joke for years or is the with it slander more potent than that? Story: The hobo, 1923, after a fairly wicked week in Australia, discovers a genie whom tells him in the future workplace bullies, such as hecklers, will be reported. He writes a letter to the newspaper with his story. The bullies reply by claiming that's not fair. It was tutelage, and beggars have no choice about that, but refuse to introduce themselves. They yell 'the cops said we could' from a passing car window, but Apple Jack, the hobo, didn't get a look at them. And why should he? He's not a policeman!! The bullies like to play 'be the busker', and pretend new tunes are theirs as well. Right royal mean little kiddies. I believe the theory is, as they claimed they were bigger and my talents are nothing compared to them, rather than actually prove that they plan to sit on their 'we give like God' dead weight reputations and prove a relationship to my blues by getting to know the songs better than I. They can play 'he works for us piggies' that way? This is how robots have to fight cowards and frauds. Deduction and publication. There is no 'proof of things past' by what anyone does today, or by way of 'knowing one's crimminal without knowing one's crimminal personally because we are all psychic'. Just how private and absurd is their bloody behaviour? I still don't know who the sit on me bastards are. It's obviously an anyone vendetta, to strangers probably, how I suspect they get to my consciousness. If they talked normally, without threat, they couldn't. I suspect they spy all day, a sort of soften up, to display their 'gifts' by night, all off my pain. More anti-bully at links below: Animations (good!) robertemerald at Youtube, also http://www.redbubble.com/people/robertemerald (art, short stories) http://www.redbubble.com/people/robphillips (photography - WA) http://www.facebook.com/robert.e.phillips.5 http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1334955793 http://www.myspace.com/robert1637 http://www.myspace.com/tichphillips http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/search/author/robertemerald http://www.newgrounds.com/audio/search/author/robertemerald http://www.soundclick.com/members/default.cfm?member=robertemerald (music) http://www.soundclick.com/bands/default.cfm?bandID=1086607 (me) http://robertemerald.blogspot.com.au/
Lyrics
I've been hammering this one for about a week.
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