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You Won't Take Me Alive
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PSYCHOLITERATE NEW WAVE ROCK!!
new wave indie rock britp
Psycholiterate New Wave Rock
Flashback to 1999: Young piano virtuoso Gordon Hunter is on scholarship at the Guildhall School of Music in his native England. A double major in performance and composition, he is already being hailed as modern classical music’s next “big thing.” It was quite the surprise, then, that in his first solo piano recital, he departed from his anticipated program of Chopin Etudes by launching into a free-form jazz improvisation based on several Chopin motifs. Gordy’s behavior grew more eccentric, as he began to embrace rock, soul, and particularly 80’s new wave music, incorporating stylistic elements of all into his compositions, which were now deemed highly controversial. Fast forward to present day: Gordon Hunter is still the same precocious, rebellious youth, only now he has a few new tricks up his sleeves. Upon dropping out of college in 2001, Hunter relocated to the States, settling in Hartford, CT, where he soon became proficient at guitar, bass, and a wide array of synthesizers. It was in Hartford that Hunter formed Gordon Hunter & the Wandering Rocks, a unique mix of performance art, catchy retro new wave rock stylings, and interpretive literature. Based on a series of vignettes written by Hunter in which he envisions himself as a middle-aged man in the midst of a midlife crisis, the band, which features the always charismatic Hunter on several instruments as well as lead vocals, provides the musical backdrop to this piece of interpretive literature. However, you don’t need an English degree to appreciate Gordon Hunter & The Wandering Rocks; the well-crafted, danceable songs are instantly memorable and the sheer uniqueness of the stage show is enough to provoke any music lover’s interest.
Song Info
Genre
Alternative • Brit Pop
Charts
#456 in subgenre Peak #13
Charts
Peak #212
Author
Gordon Hunter & The Wandering Rocks
Rights
2004
Uploaded
June 28, 2004
Track Files
MP3
MP3 3.0 MB • 128 kbps • 0:00
Story behind the song
After failing to pay the appropriate rent, Gordon Hunter was banished from his apartment by the rail-thin, bug-eyed landlord. Gordon so resignedly accepted this fate that the landlord felt a tinge of pity and grew very soft, which Gordon misconstrued as a reaction to the destruction of his room. Packing was not a problem; one would be amazed how the tactical solution of destroying large objects reduces one’s burden in such affairs. After gathering his essentials, Gordon fashioned a temporary place of residence out of his automobile. It was, truly, the most exquisite abode that had ever been created from such means, including but not limited to: A bedroom (the rear seat, not quite long enough for his frame), a kitchen (the small cooler in the boot), and a washroom (any place outside). To further insure his financial status, Gordon withdrew the savings he had from the bank in part, savings that were to one day allow him to purchase a legitimate house and that were now used for more important necessities such as cigarettes and liquor. He felt an ironic, smug sense of superiority watching the zombies scurry outside his window while he was hammered and numb, enjoying, no doubt, a parallel quality of life. Wintertime brought a new set of problems. The nights were extremely cold, too cold to sleep without the aid of booze. The days seemed to be but a precursor to the nights, to give one a bit of a warning of what was to follow. Some days would be exceptionally frigid, with audible wind rocking the car—those were the days of fearfully cold nights, where restarting the car time and time again to warm it up had little effect, where the only recourse was to drink until one blacked out, then awake in disembodied pain and start drinking again. Rather than regarding Gordon with curiosity, the general populace took no notice of his living arrangements. To him it was further proof that England, the very womb that bore him, would have no qualms about sweeping him into the gutter of poverty.
Lyrics
sirens scream their wakeup calls as rays of light begin to fall a subtle ache inside your skull the day begins quite vulnerable a gasp for breath with arms outstretched as father time breathes down your neck overworked and overstressed they’ve got your soul but what the heck the London times goes well with oats the taste offsets those tragic notes and on with your overcoat you head across your makeshift moat the bus arrives eight thirty-five like clockwork no room for surprise see morbid suits choked by a tie a lifetime thrown away with a sigh oh no you wont take me alive no no you wont take me alive even though they say the grass is greener on the other side you wont take me alive shopping bags with fancy names their colors run in pouring rain yet we’ll stand by them just the same then race home for that football game a pint of ale to complement a few more till you’ve lost your sense you threw away every last pence now try to cough up this months rent down at the track you get a tip a thoroughbred with one bad hip and on the straightaway it slips you curse your luck and bite your lip so let’s all fly the union jack to cover all the things we lack the potroast on the oven rack makes you so glad to join the pack
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