Get all 28 David A. Harley releases available on Bandcamp and save 35%.
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1. |
Long Stand
03:00
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Long Stand (Harley)
The day I started work, the foreman said to me
"I’ve another job for you when you’ve finished brewing tea:
Go down to the stores and when you find old Stan
Tell him Harry sent you for a long stand.”
I got a long stand all right: I stood an hour or more
Till Stan got tired of the joke and sent me back to the shop floor.
Well I didn’t think it funny, but I laughed and held my peace,
Even when they sent me back for a tin of elbow grease.
Still I did my bit, till I was pensioned off in ’69
From apprentice to foreman, all down the production line.
Many’s the lad I’ve sent myself when things were getting dull
For a can of striped paint or a pound of rubber nails.
But the joke they’re playing now, I just don’t think it’s fair
Even when you get your ticket, the work just isn’t there.
The safest job in England is handing out the dole:
For every man that gets a job they turn away a hundred more.
For now the work is scarce, again, the queues are building up.
The streets are full of lads and lasses looking out for jobs;
But when you’ve just left school, you hardly stand a chance
They’re sending every lad in England for a long stand.
They say that if you’ve got the gumption you can do just as you please.
They say you’ll do all right with a bit of elbow grease;
But with a hundred out for every job, it’s few that stand a chance
They’re sending every lad in England for a long stand
They’re sending every lass in England for a long, long stand
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2. |
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The tune is now mostly associated with 'Tramps and Hawkers', a song that seems to have been written by 'Besom Jimmy' in the late 19th century, though the tune is far older than that. (Ewan MacColl used the same tune for England's Motorways, from the radio ballad 'Song of a Road', about the people who built the M1.)
Fetch the rolls: make the tea: then grab the end of that
And sand it till your fingers bleed, if you think you've planed it flat.
Call yourself apprentice? Lad, I'd be ashamed
If I knew so little, to be called by such a name
Never mind the splinters: In a year or two
You'll have quite forgotten that they ever bothered you.
Hands as hard as English oak, muscle, skill and guile:
That's what makes a craftsman; but not you, for a while
Cut yourself, you silly sod? Take care, if you please,
And don't bleed on the timber: do you think it grows on trees?
Call yourself a craftsman? No, lad, never you.
Though if you try your hardest, one day you might scrape through
So you've got your piece of paper? I hope I've taught you well,
And I won't deny you're willing: no doubt time will tell.
Call yourself a craftsman? That's as may well be…
Another year, or five, or ten, and then perhaps we'll see…
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3. |
Easy Jack Easy
01:54
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Easy Jack Easy (Harley)
Bread and beer and a roof for your head
Easy, Jack, easy
Spinning a lathe until you drop dead
Easy, Jack, take it easy
Three pound an hour while you're on your feet
And all the chips and baked beans you can eat
When I was still young and in my prime
I'd knock out those countersinks ten at a time
Now I've got wise and a rick in my back
I keep two on the table and eight on the rack
Here comes the foreman, the lord of the shop
I'd give a day's pay to see his pressures drop
When you get your ticket, best take it from me
Leave eight on the table and two up your sleeve
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4. |
What do I do?
02:05
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I can write the first line at 2.45
And finish the song by five to…
I can write an opera in an hour and a half
But what do I do about you?
I can play the Minute Waltz
In 35 seconds flat
But I can’t seem to get you out of my head
So what do I do about that?
Sometimes I fly gliders or water-ski
Before making breakfast for two
From my own recipes
(of course you’ve read my books?)
But what do I do about you?
I can make cocktails like you’ve never seen
Ask anyone – I can do
Things with an olive you’d never believe
– But what do I do about you?
I can build a cocktail with a sting like an asp
Pernod, tequila and lime
Crushed ice and soda
– Now it’s almost done
Buddy where’s the grenadine?
I can build furniture, drive racing cars
I’ve painted a mural or two
But I can’t seem to get you
To remember my name
So what do I do about you?
What do I do about you?
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5. |
Updraught
03:29
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Updraught (Harley)
I’m through with the world and those city screams
I’ll take to the air with a cargo of dreams
All of my life I’ve been tied to the ground
Now I’m spreading my wings to take to the clouds
Flying away / Flying away
No more will I lay aching bones on cold earth
Reaching out for the sun now I know what I’m worth
No more shuffling around, feet nailed to the ground
My skysails are set and I’m outward bound
Flying away / Flying away
At one with the winds I’ll take to the sky
No longer afraid of the sun in my eyes
I’ll rise with the lark and see the world so clear
But it’s your world, not mine, and my world is here
Flying away / Flying away
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6. |
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Fetch the rolls: make the tea: grab the end of that
And sand it till your fingers bleed, if you think you've planed it flat.
Call yourself apprentice? Lad, I'd be ashamed
If I knew so little, to be called by such a name
Never mind the splinters: In a year or two
You'll have quite forgotten that they ever bothered you.
Hands as hard as English oak, muscle, skill and guile:
That's what makes a craftsman; but not you, for a while
Cut yourself, you silly sod? Take care, if you please,
And don't bleed on the timber: do you think it grows on trees?
Call yourself a craftsman? No, lad, never you.
Though if you try your hardest, one day you might scrape through
So you've got your piece of paper? I hope I've taught you well,
And I won't deny you're willing: no doubt time will tell.
Call yourself a craftsman? That's as may well be…
Another year, or five, or ten, and then perhaps we'll see…
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7. |
Ten Percent Blues
03:42
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Got a seat facing the engine
So I don’t have to face
Where I’ve been
Luggage on the rack, no reason to look back
At all my wrecked
And reckless gypsy dreams
No more bright lights, no more white lines
Or crashing in the back of the van
No more hustling small-time gigs
I guess time has beaten the band
No more deadlines, no more breadlines
Mr 10%, you’re on your own
No more fine print, no more backstage blues
This rolling stone is rolling home
Got a ticket to take me to tomorrow
It can’t be worse than today
So driver, take me home
And don’t spare the horsepower
I’m on a ten-year holiday
No more missed chances
And chickens*t advances
Cold chips in the back of the van
No more blown tires and fuses,
No more broken promises
Time has beaten the band
No more spotlights
No more ups and downers
Absolutely no stage fright
No more superstar fantasies
From today I’m strictly 9-5
No more infighting, no more moonlighting
No more one-night stands
All along while the band was beating time
I guess time was beating the band
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8. |
Bootup Blues
02:49
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When I woke up this morning
My laptop wouldn’t boot at all
I said I woke up this morning
And tossed my Tosh against the wall
My baby took the mains adapter
And the battery’s screwed beyond recall
Well she left me for some guy
With a 99GHz overclocked PC
And now she’s interfacing
With his RS232C (he’s a serial womanizer)
She said my hard disk was too small
To satisfy
Her new spreadsheet
I wouldn’t treat an iPad
The way that woman treated me
She fragmented my hard disk
And ran off with my Angry Birds DVD
Left me nothing but this boot sector virus
And a copy of Wordstar version 3.3
Dah-diddy-dah-diddy-dah-diddy-dah….
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9. |
Paper City
05:25
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I woke up with my mind’s eye
facing your direction:
I looked hard
And I saw you needed help.
You’re choking on paper
and tape and legislation,
But you can’t produce
one thing to help yourself.
Paper city at the heart
of a paper empire:
You’ve got strings to pull,
you’ve got wires all over the earth.
Sky-climbing parasite,
concrete and paper jungle,
You’ve got money to burn,
but I know you’d rather freeze to death.
You’ve got stacks of stocks
and shares and bonds:
You’ve got telephone and telex,
databank and dateline too.
But you can’t produce
as much as one lead pencil,
Or a bar of soap,
or a rubber band to pull you through.
The media twitch at the flash
of a freemason’s handshake:
Speeches are made
and the punters gather round;
Paper politicians
and faceless company men,
Taking the pulse
of an ailing paper pound.
I bet you know
just what you’re worth on paper:
When the market crumbles,
what will that do to you?
A lot of cold people
don’t own the earth they lie in:
Will you be all right
in your green-lined paper tomb?
Paper city at the heart
of a bankrupt empire:
Your towers get higher
as your assets hit new lows.
Nose-diving parasite,
I wouldn’t mind you dying,
But you’ll take so many with you
when you go.
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10. |
Waste
04:44
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Waste
School was the first test,
first through the gate
with an apple for Miss:
mustn't be late
for the nursery school rat race,
the maze of jigsaws,
struggling with Book III
when the rest were on Book IV.
New satchel and cap
for Secondary School.
New classmates and teachers,
stricter rules
"Get on with your algebra.
Don't play the fool.
Get some diplomas to paper your room
or you'll finish your life at the end of a broom."
Turn off that TV:
get on with your homework.
It's time for bed
and you've all that to do..."
"Please, mum, I'll never finish it now.
Can't you ring in tomorrow and say I've got flu?"
"How do you think
you'll get through your exams?
Where will you end up?
I can't understand
why you can't knuckle down
like anyone else:
don't you want to make something
of yourself?"
"Is this really the job you want to do?
It's not that we're unimpressed with you
and your three CSEs
but we think you'd be overqualified here."
"Do you have a degree?
No? Oh dear...."
"We only take school-leavers at sixteen."
"You seem bright enough, but so young:
well, I mean,
we want people who've seen a bit of the world."
"Sorry, we really wanted a girl..."
Still, things picked up at the next interview:
"Good morning, young man:
how do you do?
I see you did quite well at school.
Not quite enough diplomas to paper a room.
Still, I'm sure you'll do well here:
here's your broom."
I got on well enough there,
at least for a time:
I was sure I'd make maintenance chief
by and by,
till the Time and Motion people came round
and by and by the news filtered down...
"You've done pretty well here:
don't think that it's you.
You're neat, and punctual,
and willing, it's true.
It's just that Top Management have the idea
that we don't really need full time maintenance here.
There are agencies now, with skilled men and machines
to come in twice a week and keep the place clean.
We're sure you'll do well:
you're hard-working enough
and we wish you success
at finding a job."
A nod's as good as a wink
to the most willing blind horse:
in time I found a place
on a government-sponsored course
in Advanced Machine Minding:
the machine being King
the future must belong
to the man who serves the machine.
And the training centre bosses
were very good to me:
they found a job for me to go to
with free overalls and tea
and when the work's a little slow
well, they've given me this broom
so I can make my contribution
where machines refuse to go...
The soldier dies behind his gun
defending his homeland:
John Henry died beating the machine,
his hammer in his hand.
But I'll tell you this for free:
I'll burn this factory through and through
Before I let myself go under
Still pushing this damn' broom...
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11. |
Orpheus With His Loot
02:27
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I used to push pens in the City
Being paid to milk someone's cash cow
I once served my time at a dollar a line
But that's not the job I do now
A seducer wants words for a lady
A sonnet to melt her cold heart
Though he orders a charm
That will open her arms
Cupid's quiver is empty of darts
The clown wants some words to divert you
And asks me to build him some jests
A wink and a nudge,
To distract some harsh judge
But that's not the job I do best
The emperor assumes that I love him
This bully, this man without shame
He commands me to praise
All the lies he portrays
From his seat on the gravy train
Friends of the Fancy, nose to the trough
Take profit from all of your pain
I can buy with sweet notes
My way onto the lifeboat
If I comfort these grandsons of Cain
The rats have abandoned this Ship of Fools
The saints have forgotten to pray
Orpheus counts loot
That he earned licking boots
But his tongue is silent today
And this is my text for today
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12. |
Hands of the Craftsman
05:35
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Hands of the Craftsman (Words and Music by David Harley)
Minutes ago as God measures time
Something manlike emerged from primordial slime:
Ever since, Mother Nature has been on the run
From a hand with four fingers and opposable thumb.
That hand learned to grip, then it learned to shape
Flint into a weapon, then a tool to shape,
To build and to kill, and around then it learned
To strike sparks to bring fire and lighten man’s world.
The hands of the craftsman have moulded our world
From the first stone axe to the first steam drill
To the harvester, laser, and silicon chip,
But the hands of the craftsman are losing their grip.
The years roll on swift with the birth of the wheel:
Man learned to work bronze, then iron and steel:
The bow drill, the pole lathe, the compass, the lock;
The lens, the sextant, the lantern, the clock,
Castings and mouldings, extrusions and pressings,
The bandsaw, the dropforge, the milling machine.
The tools and the skills have changed through the centuries,
The crafts and the knowledge, but seldom the dreams.
The builder could turn his hand to most trades:
Masonry, joinery, plumbing and all.
The engineer trained on a score of machines:
Now it’s often just one – he’s in luck if it’s more.
Modularization's the name of the game:
It means that they put you on just one machine,
One or two operations on just the one part –
It’s efficient, but de-skilling’s what it means.
One day we’re skilled men, the next, operators,
The next, no-one knows if we’ll be there at all.
The art passes into the programmer’s hands:
Tomorrow, machines will service themselves…
The glazier, the bellfounder, printers and knappers,
Dyers and weavers, some are already lost:
Prefabrication will see out the tiler
As the thatcher before him learned to his cost.
The paviour, the saddler, the cooper, the wheelwright,
Fitters and grinders and turners and smiths,
We all take our turn in the pattern of process
And one by one, we’re taking our leave…
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David A. Harley England, UK
David Harley is a former professional musician, administrator, IT security editor, author and researcher, and former much else that is even less impressive. He now lives in Cornwall. More info at whealalice.com
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