 Carpool
Hymn
(3:51) [7/21/99 & 3/5/02]
For Victor Perez
MP3
Liner Notes
Blue screen glare dissolving to my hair,
Word clicks to Tire Hum Bridge: we're halfway there.
Studebaker John plays from the sodium dash.
O our Co-pilot, I praise you nothing tonight crashed.
I know, I’m certain that this world is not my home;
Streetlamps switch on nightly like Your dome,
But as sure as I can’t escape their light through the lids of my eyes,
I’ll be feeling that wind on my face when I die.
We’ve crossed o'er the trains, & You know my relief
Not to wait by the railroad; we'll be home before three.
Barb's asleep in back, Scott draws in the air an X.
O our Co-pilot, I thank you for the rest up next.
I know, I’m certain that this world is not my home;
Arches’ columns break like sea wavefoam,
But as sure as Your breeze keeps me ‘tween ditches is sent from on high,
I'll be crossing that bridge with You when I die.
("Remember what I told you:
If you were of this world, they would love you.")
So there were these mutants, the outcasts of the world,
All given strange and terrifying po'ers, unique as each one unfurled.
Led by a father’s kindly hand, they steered their boat against the drift.
O our co-pilot, I bless you for these revealed gifts.
I know, I’m certain that this world is not my home;
I don’t got claws of Adamantium chrome,
But as sure as a comic's ink gets washed by the rain from Your sky,
I’ll be kicking it with the X-Men when I die. |
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Originally designed as a loungey, Studebaker John-esque affair, this
trio of spontaneous thanksgiving hymns is sent straight upwards from
a car full of homeward-bound office workers, with one verse for each
half-asleep carpooler. Lyrical debts are paid to Victor Perez, an old
Catholic school pal & improv bullshitter supreme who once turned a half-assed analogy comparing
our youth group to the X-Men into a rousing speech that had all attending
enraptured! Happy days . . .
Brandon Harvey - Lead & Rhythm Guitars / Eric "The Dark Prince Of Rock" Butkus - Rhythm Guitars / Theresa Brooks - Lead Vox &
Bass Guitar
Sinead O’Connor - “Black Boys On Mopeds” / The Blasters
- “Hollywood Bed”
“Out of the
wringer, into the dryer,
Couldn’t just retire
Had to try tempting the fates
One little band spinning ‘round together
Couldn’t cling forever
God, I think I’m losing my mates
Seven good years, followed by a feeling
I’d hit the glass ceiling
Maybe I’d just best disappear . . .
Lord, where do we go?
We’re gathered here to ask the Lord’s blessing
Maybe not his blessing
Maybe we’re not asking at all
Out of the box with every good intention
Did you fail to mention
This time we were destined to crawl?
And every day that we died just a little more
I was sure you were sovereignly watching us dangle
I don’t get it now
But I’ll get it when
In Sock Heaven
I see it all from Your angle . . .
One pile waits with their God in a box
The other pile nervously mocks Heaven
Misfits lost in the dryer, take heart
Maybe there’s a place up in Sock Heaven
Didn’t want a platform to build a new church
Didn’t want a mansion in rock heaven
Didn’t want more than to be understood
Maybe there’s a place up in Sock Heaven”
- Steve Taylor, “Sock Heaven” (1993)
“Love
does not come to an end. But if there are gifts of prophecy, the time
must come when they must fail; or the gift of languages, it will not
continue for ever; and knowledge ----- for this, too, the time will
come when it must fail. For our knowledge is imperfect and our prophesying
is imperfect; but once perfection comes, all imperfect things will disappear.
When I was a child, I used to talk like a child, and think like a child,
and argue like a child, but now I am a man, all childish ways are put
behind me. Now we are seeing a dim reflection in a mirror; but then
we shall be seeing face to face. The knowledge that I have now is imperfect;
but then I shall know as fully as I am known.”
- St. Paul, 1 Corinthians 13: 8-12, The Jerusalem Bible
“Does
the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at the door.”
- Christina Rossetti, “Up-Hill” (1861) |
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