Single   $0.75
Album   $5
A bit of beat poetry on the nature of reality. Our friends Chris and Marco join us on drums and flute, respectively.
Artist picture
Rob plays things with strings and makes sounds with his voice. Eshinee plays things she can hit with her hands and sings. They both write songs, inspired by eve
Misses and Mystery is the songwriting/performing partnership of Rob Veith (vocals, guitar, bass, and programming) and Eshinee Smallwood (vocals, percussion, and keyboards). They have performed together as part of other bands and have released three albums independently. Diverse in their musical influences and erudite in their songwriting, a typical Misses and Mystery album features a mix of traditional folk, psychedelic rock, and jazzy improvisation.
Song Info
Genre
Acoustic • Acoustic Rock
Charts
Peak #210
Peak in subgenre #5
Author
Rob Veith
Rights
2002
Uploaded
February 04, 2006
Track Files
MP3
MP3 5.0 MB • 128 kbps • 5:26
Story behind the song
This is an old, old song. Written back in high school or first year of college. There's a quote in here from some NY beat poet, but I don't remember what it is, or who said it originally. Just that, that was the inspiration and the song grew from there. One of those songs that turns out a bit different every time it gets done. This version is actually a composite of several takes recorded on several different occassions, with the rhythm guitar put down over a click to hold it all together.
Lyrics
The dog walks down the streets of town like he thinks he owns the road, like an urban sultan past his harem whores. He lives in a world of looking-glass tires and the myriad mailbox things and he glances casually at the men he can't afford. And he don't give a damn about the political man, it just seems like a fire hydrant to him. And the fax machines, and the laser beams, and things dogs don't understand just seem like a fire hydrant to him. Pretty people piece together a rude rainbow of truth while a dog sees things in gray and black and white. You can call him stupid while he's howling at the moon tonight. It's okay because in the end everythings all everythings all right. And the men in white with their apocalyptic signs just seem like a fire hydrant to him. And the cats up in the trees and the street refugies just seem like a fire hydrant to him. The dog thinks real the things he feels, digs staccatto sense and Glass, jams past the porter with his pompous groove. The dog digs Plato and his imaginary friend-- he can scat that special kind of jazz. And he don't give a damn about a polyester prince. It just seems like a fire hydrant to him. And the fax machines and the laser beams and things dogs don't understand just seem like a fire hydrant to him.
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