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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