Winter Thrills

by Jon Horne

supported by
/
  • Streaming + Download

    Purchasable with gift card

     

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
02:07
8.
9.
10.
01:57
11.
12.

about

All the songs were written during February 2018, some of which looked like the photo above.

credits

released March 22, 2018

Mr J Horne: male vocal with guitar acc.

Sounds/mixing on MES:TLD: Andrew E Purcell.

license

all rights reserved

tags

about

Jon Horne Whitby, UK

Keepin' it largely fictional in the pubs and Pavilions of Whitby since 2004. Vocal, guitar, noisy songs with stories and tunes.

shows

contact / help

Contact Jon Horne

Streaming and
Download help

Redeem code

Track Name: Blood For Pop
See the head bowed
See the furrowed brow
Hear the boys cry
See the haunted eyes
See the fingertips
See the fingertips
Blood for pop
Blood for pop

Wind it tighter
Pay the piper
Call it heartfelt
Feel the hearts melt
See the fingertips
See the fingertips
Blood for pop
Blood for pop

Track and feel
Two inch reel (too real)
We’re all needing
To see you bleeding
Don’t stop
No no don’t stop
Blood for pop
Blood for pop
Track Name: Hitler's Bath: Munich 1945
You get in, she says, I’ll set up the camera.
All you have to do is, pretend to be me.
Why are we laughing? Do we think it’s funny
Now look over your shoulder

Two sets of clothes folded on the chair
Two pairs of boots, mud on the floor
There’s a hammering, hammering on the door
Look over your shoulder
We laugh and we laugh

Late at night, the boys pass round the picture
It’s not much but it’s all you can get at school
Tries to forget what they’re doing with her
They laugh and they laugh

We can laugh but we can’t forget what we’ve seen
But we can at least try to scrub ourselves clean
Put our clothes back on, we’ve seen enough bodies
To last a lifetime

Take these boots and wipe them on the carpet
Take all these pictures, burn them on the fire
Take all these memories and throw them
Over your shoulder
We laugh and we laugh

And she says to the boy, how dare you ask me
Why I do these things - because I do.
I don’t know who you are, don’t say you love me
We laugh and we laugh
Track Name: Never Looked Better
She never looked better than when she was waving goodbye
Out in the rain with her head held high
Elbow on the windowsill, two fingers pointed at the sky
Got to hand it to her

You’ve got to admit, she’s frankly magnificent
Nothing you do makes any difference
Nobody’s noticed your existence for years
It’s a shame

You can cry if you like, if it makes you feel better
You can sit right down and write her a letter
Tell her you love her and promise you’ll set her free

Once there was a spark, an ionisation
Hair stood on end, an electric sensation
Now all she feels is a sense of frustration with you
Who’d blame her?

So show your maturity, wave her farewell
Blow her a kiss or stand there and yell
At the moon and the stars, at heaven and hell
If that’s what it takes
Track Name: Mark E Smith: The Last Days
And the band, henceforth group, played on.
Hauled up in a dumb waiter, Health and Safety approved,
ranting, chanting, slurring, blurring the line between sense and prejudice,
our hero, henceforth OH, rises, eyes darting right to left, left to right;
one withered hand strapped to the chair as if electric.
The end, the end is literally nigh.

Middle aged punters, male, formative years much formed
by aforesaid OH, cheer briefly, assuming theatrical ploy.
They see the rodent cheeks, the visible fucking agony,
the two microphones positioned to allow OH to fidget
and manoeuvre himself into position
of least pain whilst still vocalising, and gasp.

And the group played on.
Riff number one: bass-led,
guitars trace double-helix pattern,
its DNA of German/Lancastrian CA ancestry producing
regular and these days planned dissonance.

OH wheeled across boards by wife/kyb, b.voc.
Sober-haired hired hands, suntanned arms beneath untorn sleeves.
Planned dissonance. Seconds of eloquence as diamorphine permits.
False teeth provide added bite. Hell to pay, hell to pay for.
Where once OH paced, now slides down the chair, plants feet on boards
and rocks, fractured, enraptured, if only.

Out on the Merch desk, mirthfully self-identified
hobgoblins lay out apparel, yellow vinyl, silver discs
and check for 4G, re: Mobile Pay. Cash tins open
for punters of Luddite sensibility. Cold imperial measure
in plastic glass imbibed. The group plays on,
muffled by fire doors. Planned dissonance.

A steady stream exit. Disgruntled and/or lachrymose, pause at Merch desk
to recall lank-haired pretender, oddly delicate of feature, part-formed;
then newly-polished spokesman in the Colin/AH Wilson vein,
US wife/gtr, b.voc., unwonted solutions
to planned dissonance - cf. No Bulbs.
Both incarnations available on 180g vinyl with shirt XXL.

Riff number two: bodiddley skip, unselfconscious,
blues accidentals permitted, if accidental. Why dissonance?
Why plan? Middle-class revolting suspects fear
of naked written word. Anyone can bark, we say. OH says:
you try, see if your bark gets anywhere
near this one’s bite. That was months ago.

Later, and on the edge of an industrial estate,
briefly in opioid sleep, OH cannot hear the voice
of replicants in Schindler’s lift. Cannot ask what the fuck.
Not that it was ever any better, he might have added.
Wife/non-NHS carer pushes, clicks and holds door,
aids, unzips, unbuttons, lifts immobile arm, places dictaphone
near face for easy access to brain. Capturing all that might escape
in these last days. Damned dissonance.
Track Name: Just The Drugs
Have you felt Nibiru coming nearer?
No you haven’t, it’s just the drugs
I’m the manifestation of Shiva
Oh shut up, it’s just the drugs
In a past life I was a tribal elder
No you weren’t, it’s just the drugs
The pain of the world rests on my shoulders
No it doesn’t, it’s just the drugs

It’s just the drugs

Paul McCartney is a stand-in
No he’s not, it’s just the drugs
Same goes for Hilary Clinton
No it doesn’t, it’s just the drugs
Angela Merkel is a lizard
No she’s not, it’s just the drugs
The truth is out there… is it?
Errrrrrm.… it’s just the drugs

It’s just the drugs

They’re poisoning us with vaccines
No they’re not, it’s just the drugs
They’re manipulating everybody’s brains
Fat chance, it’s just the drugs
Fluoridisation is mind control
No it’s not, it’s just the drugs
They give us drugs to make us docile
If you like, but it’s just the drugs

...

I can feel quantum energies
No you can’t, it’s just the drugs
Blah blah blah Jewish conspiracies
Fuck off, it’s just the drugs
Humans are genetically engineered
No we’re not, it’s just the drugs
We all need to live in fear
No we don’t, it’s just the drugs

I.T.S.J.U.S.T.T.H.E.D.R.U.G.S.
Oh yes, oh yes

They’re breeding out the white race
No they’re not, it’s just the drugs
Illuminati and the deep state
False flags?! It's just the drugs
That screaming child is a crisis actor
No she’s not, it’s just the drugs
When did you become such a heartless bastard?
I hope it’s just the drugs

It’s just the drugs
Track Name: Making Up The Numbers
When you're not the kind to ever set a girl’s heart ablaze
You just have to wait around until they’ve made all their mistakes
When the ones that they still dream about
Have done their stuff and gone away
You’re making up the numbers
Making up the numbers
So you say

If you say you never understood, you never realised
That this is all there ever was, this is paradise
It’s not her fault if you didn’t know
And now you’re paying the price
You’re making up the numbers
Making up the numbers
That’s the choice

You wanted to be equals
But you’re not really there
There’s nothing left to add
No circle to be squared
Nothing still to factor in
Nothing to compare
That’s the root of your troubles?
To be fair,
If you took yourself away, do you
Think that anyone would care?
You’re making up the numbers out of thin air.

There’s nowhere to be discovered, there are no pastures new
She knows the ways she likes it and she thinks that you do too
She decided to settle down
And so she settled for you
You’re making up the numbers
Making up the numbers
That’s the truth
Making up the numbers
Is all you can do
Making up the numbers
Track Name: By the Time
By the time that the drink was drunk
I was still on my feet
Beer must have been too bitter
Wine must have been too sweet
By the time that the drink was drunk
All I had was an empty cup
With nowhere to fill it up
The boat was already sunk

By the time that the dance was done
I was still in my seat
Must not have heard the rhythm
Must not have felt the beat
By the time that the dance was done
I was a flower on the wall
Cinderella at the ball
When the twelve bells had rung
You can’t buy the time
There’s no time left to be bought
One more glass of wine
And give it your best shot
If you’re struggling for a rhyme
Chuck in an afterthought

By the time the song was sung
I was clearing my throat
I hadn’t opened the piano
And I hadn’t sung a note
By the time the song was sung
I wanted another verse
Time won’t go in reverse
So open up your lungs

You can’t buy the time…
Track Name: End Of The Tour
Last night, I’m over at my boys house
that he shares with this girl and
two kids under five.
He hands me a Spanish beer, and says:
“I’ve got something that’s been
preying on my mind.”
I said: “Son, there is nothing in this world
That I won’t do for you,”
but his lip just curled, and he said:
“Ever since I got home,
I’ve been dying of the cold

I look in the mirror and I just look old
I didn’t expect the streets to be paved with gold
But when you’ve seen the things I have
And done what I’ve done
You deserve at least something, don’t you?

Outside they’re yelling on the street
And kicking the parked cars
Can’t understand a word they speak
And I’m watching the front door
Can’t think of anyone I’d want
To be knocking on the door
I don’t know anyone still hanging on
from the old days any more

Snow’s starting to settle
It’s as cold as it ever gets
Outside, lovers hold each other
Unexpected tenderness.”
The boy says: “how did I ever
put up with this freezing cold?

Whatever happened to summer -
Has the summer been sold?

I look in the mirror and I just look old
I didn’t expect the streets to be paved with gold
But when you’ve seen the things I have
And done what I’ve done
You deserve at least something, don’t you?”
Track Name: The Very Picture
I’m on the far side of the stories that I’m used to hearing
There’s an old man with a temper who keeps reappearing
There’s a young male lead
Who’s troubled and deep
The very picture of a man
Whom no one understands

“It’s the old, old story,” my old man used to say
Before adding it had all gone to pot since his day
But here I am again
Saying things he can’t defend
The very picture of unfair
So let’s leave it there

Time will shift the sands
The future’s in your hands,
I can guarantee,
one day you will be
The one who’s been right all along
But for now I’m the one singing this song.

How you know things to be is not what everybody sees
It’s a mystery to me when I started being like me
You can rest assured
It’s written on the board
The very picture of me
Is what you’re going to be

You can argue with me until you’re blue in the face
Then I’ll be gone and it’ll all be too late
It’ll pass to you and yours
As a matter of course
The very picture of you
Is what they’ll turn into
Track Name: New Zealand
She’d throw it all in
For a wooden house in New Zealand
On the South Island
Where the wind blowing across the ocean
Will take your breath away
And she’d go any day.

She says she can’t breathe
The air we have in England
She says it’s a disease
This material life we’re leading
It takes our souls away
That’s the sort of thing she says

Now she swears just like a sailor
Then she turns away and laughs
She’s got all the information
Complete with photographs
And the worst thing is, you’re wondering
If she has got a point

Now the nights are cold
But you’ve always got each other
Well you need to know
If it’s enough just to be lovers
Or should you tell her to run
To the South Island?
To the wooden house in New Zealand
Track Name: Matty Groves: The Untold Story
A holiday, a high holiday
On Easter day it’s said
Little Matty Groves awoke in Lord
and Lady Arnold’s bed.

He felt a hand upon his chest
And fat lips kiss his head
He felt a hot breath on his neck.
“Pray who are you?” he said.

Lord Arnold said to Matty Groves
“You now damned well my name
And if you look upon my face
You’ll see it hung in shame.”

***

“Hang your head or hold it high,
You have that luxury
You are the great Lord Arnold
And I’m just a serving boy.”

Then came the creaking of a door
And steps upon the stairs
The voice of Lady Arnold,
Crying: “Husband, are you there?”

“Dear God, my lady’s back from church
And I’m sure she’s not alone
I should be out in the far corn field
Bringing the yearlings home.

***

Get up, get up!” Lord Arnold cried,
“Get up as quick as you can
Or it’ll be said in fair England
That I knew a naked man.”

Lady Arnold, she burst in
With a page boy at her side
“Oh husband, this cannot be true,
You’ve wronged me so,” she cried.

“True it is, my darling wife,
But spare me your harsh words.”
Meanwhile he was reaching for
His two long beaten swords.

***

The Lady was too quick for him
She grabbed one beaten sword
And with one blow, she killed Matty Groves
Then turned to face her Lord

She slashed across her husband’s chest
And hurt Lord Arnold sore
But he stabbed her right through the heart
The Lady struck no more

And to the page, Lord Arnold said
“Tell me what you just saw.
And don’t forget what’s in my hands
These two long beaten swords.”

****

“My lord, my lord,” the page boy said
“No one will believe
Your Lady killed little Matty Groves
They’ll fain blame you, my liege.”

Then take my horse, young servant boy
And take a bag of gold
Ride out and tell a sorry tale
How Matty did me cuckold

And how in rage I struck him dead
And how my lady mourned
And how I then killed her as well
Beware the noble scorned
Track Name: Don't Call Me A Cowboy
I was walking down the High Street
Minding my own
I was wearing my stetson
‘Cause of the midday sun
Somebody started laughing
Saying: “Hey, look at that.
He must be a cowboy
Cause he’s in a cowboy hat.”

Now if I’d had a six-gun
I might have told him: “Draw.”
Or I could have ridden off
But I don’t have a horse
Snakeskin boots, leather chaps
Or a lash lariat.
Don't call me a cowboy
Just because I wear a hat

Don’t put me in the saddle
To ride out on the range
I don’t want to live on whisky
and bacon and beans
The frontier’s not the kind of place
Where I want to be at
Don't call me a cowboy
Just because I wear a hat

Don’t call me a hangman
Just because I’ve got a rope
Don’t call me an scientist
It’s just a microscope
I’m not a priest, a politician
Nor an aristocrat
And don't call me a cowboy
Just because I wear a hat

I’m not from Oklahoma
Abilene or Great Bend
I’m not from the state of Texas
Down by the Rio Grande
I’m not even American
Let me tell you flat
Don't call me a cowboy
Just because I wear a hat

Don’t put me in the saddle
To ride out on the range
I don’t want to live on whisky
and bacon and beans
The frontier’s not the kind of place
Where I want to be at
Don't call me a cowboy
Just because I wear a hat

The flies are all buzzing
There’s dust on the trail
Got my head down, listening
For the rattle on the rail
I’m dozing in the sun
Like a calico cat
But don’t call me a cowboy
Just because I wear a hat

Meanwhile in the old town
They’re waiting on a train
Tumbleweeds are tumbling
The preacher prays for rain
The sun’s burning down
Casting shadows so black
The place is full of cowboys
And they’re all in cowboy hats

Don’t put me in the saddle
To ride out on the range
I don’t want to live on whisky
and bacon and beans
The frontier’s not the kind of place
Where I want to be at
Don't call me a cowboy
Just because I wear a hat

Jon Horne recommends:

If you like Jon Horne, you may also like: