We declare that the blues is a feeling that has cosseted us quite enough in the dilatoriness of its
abstractions, as have transatlantic liners, noises and ideas. And while we put on a show of being facile, we are actually searching for the central essence of things, and are pleased if we can hide it;
we have no wish to count the
windows of the marvellous elite,
for FBnCC doesn't exist for anyone,
and we want everyone to understand this.
This is FBnCC's balcony, I assure you.
From there you can hear all the military marches,
and come down cleaving the air
like a seraph landing in a
public
baths to piss and understand the parable.
FBnCC
is neither madness, nor wisdom, nor irony,
look at me, dear bourgeois.
Blues used to be a game of nuts in May,
guitarists would go gathering
songs that had a final ring,
then they would exude,
shout out the verse, and dress it up in
dolls' bootees, and the verse became
a queen in order to die a little,
and the queen became a sardine,
and the children ran hither
and you, unseen...
Then came the great
ambassadors of feeling,
who yelled
historically in chorus:
Psychology Psychology hee hee
Science Science Science
Long live Rock
We are not naive
We are successive
We are exclusive
We are not simpletons
and we are perfectly capable of an intelligent discussion.
Be we, FBnCC, don't agree with them, for art isn't serious, I assure you,
and if we reveal the crime so as to show that we are learned denunciators,
it's to please you, dear audience, I assure you, and
I adore you.
