Ruby Vroom Lyrics

Ruby Vroom – Lyrics


All lyrics received directly from the band and
are by M. Doughty unless otherwise noted. Publishedby Our
Pal Dolores/WB unless otherwise noted


IS
CHICAGO, IS NOT CHICAGO

Once, tripping in the metropolitan capital of Illinois, I came up with this theory that everything outside my body was Chicago and all within was not. A nice simple way to look at the world. I would point at, like, a chair and say “Is Chicago,” and then at my chest, and say, “Is not Chicago.” This entertained me for a good twelve hours or so.

A man

drives a plane

into the

Chrysler building

Saskatoon is in the room

Poulsbo is in the room

Bennetsville is in the room

Palmyra is in the room

Is Chicago!

Is not Chicago!

Is Chicago!

Is not Chicago!

A man

cuts in half

just like he

snaps a pencil

Khartoum is in the room

Phnom Penh is in the room

Pyongyang is in the room

Cairo is in the room

Is Chicago!

Is not Chicago!

Is Chicago!

Is not Chicago


SUGAR FREE
JAZZ

Utter nonsense, actually. The guitar lick on the “Schools he bombs, he bombs” part comes from this kid I went to school with named Matt Swift. He played it incessantly, and so it was dubbed “The Swift Lick.”

Normalize the signal and you’re banging on freon

paleolithic eon

put the fake goatee on

and it booms as cool as

sugar free jazz

Schools he bombs, he bombs

Stack wax lie like a placemat

won’t lap

or help you at the automat

and it’s clear and clean as

sugar free jazz

Schools he bombs, he bombs

Fossilize apostle and I comb it with a rake

you can’t escape

you pull out the brake

and it booms as cool as

sugar free jazz


CASIOTONE
NATION


The five percent nation of fill-in-the-blank. Live, I fill in the blank with whatever comes into my head at the time. People will come up to me on the street and be like, “Yo, Doughty, the five percent nation of McNugget.” Once I said thename of a girl I knew and was approached angrily by this other girl, “Hey you made her a five percent nation, when are you going to make me a five percent nation?”The five percent nation of ________.
(repeat X 12)

5, 10. 15, 20, 25, 30, 35, 40, 45, 50, 55, 60, 65, 70,
75, 80, 85, 90, 95, 100

The people’s republic of ________.

(repeat X 12)


BLUE EYED
DEVIL

Scathing indictment of Hall and Oates? No, the story of a white junkie traveling salesman who overdoes in a motel bathroom. My deepest hope is that this will eventually be railed against on a Christian cable network–the “six hundred and sixty six” line revealing my hidden Iron Maiden influence. “Thirty three degrees” is a reference to the Masons–the highest rank in Masonry being the 33rd. I remember reading Malcolm X talking about Masons in his autobiography, andhim saying something to the effect of, “The devil has only 33 degrees of knowledge, Allah has 360.” Pro-Islam or rampantSatanism? You make the call

Blue eyed devil.

Blue eyed devil.

Born to be a God among Salesmen.

Working the skinny tie.

Slugging down fruit juice.

Extra tall extra wide.

33 degrees

Six hundred and sixty six

Dig digging it, come on.

Moving door to door to door.

Stoned motel room.

Nice cool on the bathroom floor.

King of Siam

Get the trouble frying.

Spoon to the lighter to the lighter to the gun

Devil lapsed out in a pool of sun


BUS TO
BEELZEBUB

Again, sounds nice, means nothing. But we are, in fact, practicing Satanists

Get on to the bus

That’s gonna take you back to Beelzebub

Get on to the bus

That’s gonna make you stop going rub a dub

Your words burn the air

Like the names of candy bars

Your mouth is cold and red

All in rings around your

Laugh laughing laughs

It’s a grind grind

It’s a grind

It’s a grind grind

I’ll scratch you raw

L’etat c’est moi

I drink the drink

And I’m wall to wall

I absorb trust like a love rhombus

I feel I must elucidate

I ate the chump with guile

Quadrilateral I was

Now I warp like a smile

Yellow no. 5

Yellow no. 5, 5, 5

Voulez-vous the bus?


TRUE DREAMS OF
WICHITA

Boy, girl, etcetera. The open plain, yay.

Signal got lost to the satellite

Got lost in the

Rideup to the

Plungedown;

Man sends the ray of the electric light

Sends the impulse

Through the air

Down to home

And you can stand

On the arms

Of the Williamsburg Bridge

Crying

Hey man, well this is Babylon

And you can fire out on a bus

To the outside world

Down to Louisiana

You can take her with you

I’ve seen the

Rains of the real world

Come forward on the plain

I’ve seen the Kansas of your sweet little myth

You’ve never seen it, no,

I’m half sick on the drinks you mixed

Through your

True dreams

Of Wichita

Brooklyn like a sea in the asphalt stalks

Push out dead air from a parking garage

Where you stand with the keys and your cool hat of
silence

Where you grip her love like a driver’s liscense

I’ve seen you

Fire up the gas in the engine valves

I’ve seen your hand turn saintly on the radio dial

I’ve seen the airwaves

Pull your eyes towards heaven

Outside Topeka in the phone lines

Her good teeth smile was winding down

Engine sputters ghosts out of gasoline fumes

They say You had it, but you sold it

You didn’t want it, no

I’m half drunk on static you transmit

Through your

True dreams

Of Wichita

(freestyle verse)

Punch it

I got, uh, fed

I got, uh, too much things on bounce, uh, my head

I got to burn ’em up

I got to burn ’em up now

I got to go uptown, uptown

I got a thing

I got a little bit pushed

got to stand on the corner and bellow for mush

I got a bomb

I got a baby bomb bomb

got to stand on the corner and bellow for my friend Tom

I got a thing, I got to thing it

I got to thing–team

I got to run my side

true dreams


SCREENWRITER’S
BLUES

Kind of a weird hallucination about the hell of my imagined future life as a writer I once had.

Exits to freeways

wisted like knots on

the fingers

jewels cleaving

skin between

breasts.

Your Cadillac breathes

four hundred horses

over blue lines

you are going

to Reseda

to make love

to a model

from Ohio

whose real name

you don’t

know

you spin

like the cadillac was

overturning down a

cliff on television

and the radio is on

and the radioman is speaking

and the radioman says

women were a curse

so men built Paramount

studios

and men built Columbia

studios

and men built

Los Angeles

it is 5 am

and you are listening

to Los Angeles

And the radioman says

it is a beautiful night out there!

And the radioman says

Rock and Roll lives!

And the radioman says

it is a beautiful night out there

in Los Angeles

you live

in Los Angeles

and you are going to

Reseda; we are all

in some way or

another going to

Reseda someday

to die

and the radioman

laughs because

the radioman fucks

a model too

Gone savage

for teenagers with

automatic weapons and

boundless love

gone savage for

teenagers who are

aesthetically pleasing

in other words

fly

Los Angeles beckons

the teenagers

to come to her

on buses;

Los Angeles loves

love

it is 5 am

and you are listening

to Los Angeles

I am going to

Los Angeles

to built a screenplay about

lovers who

murder each

other

I am going to

Los Angeles

to see my own

name on a

screen, five feet

long and luminous

as the radioman says

it is 5 am

and the sun has charred

the other side of

the world and come

back to us

and painted the smoke

over our heads

an imperial violet

it is 5 am

and you are listening

to Los Angeles.

You are listening.

You are listening.

You are listening.

You are listening.


MOON
SAMMY

The actual real-life Moon Sammy is a security guard at NYU who wore a rent-a-cop uniform with a badge that read, “Moon Sammy.” A bunch of unconnected quotes from the book of Revelations, Chapter 10, are thrown in at the end. Again, this theme of Satanism.

Moon Sammy walks. Across the floor. Below the floor.
There is a wall.

Behind the wall. There is a chair. Moon Sammy knows. The
chair is there.

But that’s OK, that’s OK, you can do that–if you’re
wound up, full of tension,

incoherent. Your mouth is buttered with lies; you ask why,
but you could

call it enigmatic; all your thoughts about the chair are
full of static.

Automatically your mind goes down the stairwell to the
chair; your body

says Moon Sammy, can you come back?

Strum it.

Moon Sammy washes. In the sink. Below the sink. There is
a drain. The drain

goes straight. Into the sea. The sink itself. Is
porcelain.

Obsess yourself with causality. The information you hear
is a loophole,

technicality. Behind every object is a mathematic; an
obscure substance

infused with a kinetic force, energy, an obscure conscience
shoots a gun at

the feet the world dances.

Babylon, mystery, mother of harlots, and all these
abominations of the

earth, that sits on many waters, drunk with the blood of the
martyrs of

Jesus.

And I wondered with great admiration.


SUPRA
GENIUS

Boy, girl, planet-destroying death ray, etc.

Something I can’t comprehend

Something so complex and

Couched in its equation

So dense that light cannot escape from

In the dark your brain glows

And it goes

Way um way, way um way um

I know you’re a supra genius

Will you shoot the blue earth down?

In the space station

Polishing the ray gun

You say correllation is not causation


CITY OF
MOTORS

An actual narrative! A girl is looking into a pool of oil in a gutter that’s streaming from a wrecked car. She sees the reflection of the moon in the oil, and then the silhouette of a burglar over the moon as he jumps from one building to the other. The moral: don’t smoke in gas stations.

Three times dark, first in the mind.

Second on Java street, the dead car there.

The hood blown off with a BB gun.

Manuela said she saw the brakes fail.

Manuela said she saw the brakes fail.

An empty body but it still bled

Oil from the axle and it left a trail.

Ran down Java street and formed a pool.

Manuela saw the moon in there.

Manuela saw the moon in there.

I hear a rumbling.

I hear transmission grind.

I bear witness.

I have the clutch now.

Three times dark, third on the rooftops;

Man jumps between and grabs the rail.

Man pulls the door but the door is locked.

Man gouge the hinge and goes down the stairs.

Man gouge the hinge and goes down the stairs.

Dull bright morning and the tools are gone.

Detectives with flashlights in the elevator shaft.

Manuela tells detectives she saw him there.

Stuck in the hinge is a sliver of a fingernail.

Stuck in the hinge is a sliver of a fingernail.

Stack of tools in the Oldsmobile.

From the Motor City to the City of Dis.

They trace his travel by his credit card.

No sleep, smokes, and he’s nauseous.

No sleep, smokes, and he’s nauseous.

Flicks an ash like a wild loose comma.

Ash hits the oil around the pump.

Travels to the pump and the pump explodes.

Witness said he saw the car jump.

Witness said he saw the car jump.


UH, ZOOM
ZIP

More fun words that mean nothing.

Zoom zip and uh wake up, uh zoom zip

My eye like a noisegate the number 8 frustrate and I roll
to the floor fruit

to the fruit to the core of a spheroid embedded in my skull
the round the

zero the symbol of null and void and well I toyed with the
concept of

vitamin B-12 the synapse the synapse it feeds itself on a
nutrient

contained in sunlight the blink the lid the fight to snap
open

Moving up to the double M 2000 I eat up a decade like a
flan your turn of

the century turn it up turn it up clock seconds to the hour
go and cash the

millenium Um Um and it hums like a migraine to the brain in
the time yet

remaining but uh ah melancholy nonsense and I crack nouns
brotherfuck

the verb tense

Recombination, then Viacom, Safeway


DOWN TO
THIS

I had a job working at a club called The Knitting Factory as a doorperson. One night, zooted no doubt, I was selling tickets as another person checked names off the guest list, and I started chanting, “I got the tickets and you got the list!” much to the annoyance of my co-worker. Finding this not particularly songworthy, we tried out a couple of soundalikes in rehearsal, my favorite of which was “You get Jim Backus and I’ll get Koresh.” We finally settled on ‘You get the ankles and I’ll get the wrists,’ and it evolved into (don’t slap me) a song about throwing an externalized conception of oneself off a building. We still hear many happy misinterpretations of this one, the most common of which is “You get the eggrolls and I’ll get the rice.”

You get the ankles

and I get the wrists.

You get the ankles

and I get the wrists.

You get the ankles

and I get the wrists.

You come down to this.

Nerves are up

and the eyes all screwy

Blood like a panful

of boiling ratatouille

Hang from the axles of a box car

Follow the dotted line

Like a steer to Chicago

to the hooks of the Chicago man

I get all tripped up

my eyes turn to water

rug burns from a shag rug

struck dumb in the presence

polyester burns from a jacket

rub the skin thin

break down in a diner

then I pay the bill

cashier toothpick stuck in the ground

tiny lawnmower to mow me down

I could get lost in a lunchbox

lie low in the mittens in the lost and found


MR.
BITTERNESS

Boy, girl, automatic weapons, fire, etc.

There is a bar they call The Bitter Sea.

And she sits and drinks a velvet crush–that’s

Kool Aid and gin–casing the clientele

Like a relentless cameraman. She is

Elsewhere. She says You keep a-knocking

But you can’t come in, and I say

Little Sister, don’t you do what your Big Sister does

Spiral down down down down down down down

Well desire looks just like you with an uzi nine

Gundown fifteen bystanders in a roadside driveby

Desire is the grassfire drinking gasoline

And she says Open up your mouth, man, let me come inside

Spiral down down down down down down down

She cracked

Now they call me Mr. Bitterness

She snapped

Now they call me Mr. Bitterness

She’s gone,

Gone gone

Aaah, leaning up against the wall

I will lash out dancing like a madman when you’re gone

I will spit the blue flame and hurl my glass against the
wall

And I will hear your name coming out from a boom box

I will hear your name called out from passing cars

Spiral down down down down down down down

She cracked…


JANINE

I was walking over on lower Second Avenue with my guitar, and this drunken man walks up to me and goes, “Hey, excuse me, how do you get a white woman to love you?” Bright boy that I am, I answered, “Uh, try writing her a song.” “You write her a song, you got a guitar,” he answered indignantly. “Her name’s Janine.”

Janine, I drink you up

Janine, I drink you up

Janine, Janine, I sing

If you were the Baltic Sea and I were a cup, uh huh

Varick Street and I drove South

With my hands on the wheel and your taste in my mouth,

Janine

Jesus to my left, the Holland Tunnel on my right

Angels shine down from the traffic light,

Janine

I fell asleep by the blue light of Live at Five

And as I drifted off, I heard Al Roker say to me:

Dial one nine hundred

Four Jay Ay En Eye En Ee.

Slap myself to waking but now it’s too late

Cause I spelled your name out on my licence plate,

Janine

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