Vi bliver nødt til at hænge lidt på det rullende nattog uden oplyst endestation, som er The Felice Brothers nye album From Dreams To Dust. Hvem kan forestille sig en lettere usoigneret musik, der kommer som et sammenstød af klassiske Bad Seeds-dyder og en ung Dylan forklædt som sølvbryllupsband på hårdt arbejde? Læg oveni en fortællende bevidsthedsstrøm, der udspringer af to menneskers rablende samtale under en natlig køretur, om hvordan verdens undergang vil lyde, se ud og føles. Åbningssporet på det nye Felice Brothers-album rummer næsten det hele, og er dog helt sit eget…
The sheriff disappeared
He drove in a doomed Corvette
Helen was in the passenger seat eating melon and spitting out the seeds
Feeling happy to be alone but still turning a saxophone
As cold as stone kinda like
She said this is what the apocalypse will look like
A tornado with human eyes
Poisoned birdbaths and torrents of chemical rain
Like the heads of state hyperventilating in clouds of methane
Sundown on the human heart
And this is what the apocalypse will sound like
But it will be loud as a mushroom cloud
It’ll sound like Final Jeopardy
But somehow be ghostly like a glockenspiel
Like the testing of bombs or the tapping of stiletto heels
It’ll sound like jazz
Jazz, jazz, jazz
Jazz on the Autobahn
It’ll sound like jazz
Jazz, jazz, jazz
Jazz on the Autobahn
The sheriff disagreed
He tried to make the distinction between death and extinction
They stopped off at a place called Hamburger Heaven to grab a bite to eat
But Helen had no appetite, she just drank a 7 Up
while the sheriff tapped his coffee cup to a distant beat
Kind of like
Ooh ooh-ooh
Ooh ooh-ooh
It won’t look like those old frescoes, man, I don’t think so
There will be no angels with swords, man, I don’t think so
No jubilant beings in the sky above, man, I don’t think so
And it won’t look like those old movies neither
There will be no drag racing through the bombed out streets neither
No shareholders will be orbiting the earth, man, neither
It will be hard to recognize each other through our oxygen masks
The successful sons of businessmen will set their desks on fire
While 5-star generals of the free world weep in the oil choked tide
It won’t sound like jazz
Jazz, jazz, jazz
Jazz on the Autobahn
It won’t sound like jazz
Jazz, jazz, jazz
Jazz on the Autobahn
They agreed to disagree
They zoomed off in a doomed Corvette
The sheriff couldn’t recall feeling this way his entire life
As he drove through the principalities of unreality
On the run with somebody else’s wife
The heiress of Texas oil
Ooh ooh-ooh
What is freedom? He thought
Is it to be empty of desire?
Is it to find everything I’ve lost or have been in search of?
Or is it to return to the things, to which there is no more returning?
Does it feel like jazz?
Jazz, jazz, jazz
Jazz on the Autobahn
Does it feel like jazz?
Jazz, jazz, jazz
Jazz on the Autobahn…
