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Engurland (City Shanties)

by Dizraeli

supported by
4rkz
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4rkz It’s just a brill album even tho he has a beard
Crosby Dunkley
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Crosby Dunkley Very on the nose observation of the world today. Worth a listen Favorite track: Reach Out.
Christopher Carr
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Christopher Carr This album pretty much changed my entire perspective on the potential of popular music. This is real Hip-hop, with splashes of folk balladry dropping in here and there. A favourite track is hard to decide on, but I urge anyone and everyone to indulge in this record! Favorite track: Good God.
John-Paul Hartzsch
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John-Paul Hartzsch Saw him in Dessau on the Poetry Slam. Really amazing Performance. Favorite track: Reach Out.
cardsuitmasta
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cardsuitmasta This album has so many nostalgic sounds that remind me of old nerdy fantasy RPG video games, such as fable and FF series. Combining that with a hip hop poetry and groove is fucking genius for me. Fucking eat that shit up! Favorite track: Maria.
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    CD signed by Dizraeli - with beautiful gatefold case, inlay and the stories behind the songs - please ask for a personal message as well if you'd like one - just use the BandCamp message feature on payment :)

    Comes in recycled packaging with original artwork by Sam Bevington (thebevlak.com)

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1.
2.
Garden, made of snow Nothing living lies below Hear the songbird breathing slow In a garden made of snow... One quarter of the muddy platoon man And I'm not in it for the drugs and the poontang Release songs like they're coloured balloons man See them rise til they bump on the moon landscape I'm rooted but my head's in the clouds though Etch a message in indelible sound bro My letters spread around the globe like Katrina did Antihurricane cos I build where my thesis hits... but still a storm, you can't shutter me in voodoo Must travel like Huckleberry Finn used to Sketch a picture of yr mum in a tin tutu Just to confuse you... Then I make a tune for your buttocks and hips to move to Let yr buttoned-up lips get loose to the process No need for the singer mate I speared Britney then I peed in the Timberlake Finally a little peace from the scrilla game The empT-V screen and the titty shake Zim-zimmer frame, I ate the keys to your beemer lay by from the speed of the interstate. Garden made of sand Mona Lisa leads the band They strike up when she lifts her hand In a garden made of sand. I'm loving this. It's brilliant when my friends are round me Without breaking objects, we break boundaries at times we do break objects, and somebody calls the state mounties But generally, we make sounds with our mouth-pieces It's brilliant. The fact that these scriptures even at times make it onto CDs Is double-D wicked Like when you nuzzle the sweet tits of your lover and each minute fills infinity's limits. Bountiful... the beautiful views of the town that I hang around, it's cool. Sometimes I bike out to the Downs and lounge in full sunshine. This one time, I stripped down to my bouncy balls Browned it all off in the sun, then cooled off in a trout pool. THAT's IT! At least it's what I feel I'm looking for- the flow of Chi and peace of which you read in Buddhist thought But it's rawer than that- it's the gaps between the teeth of the deepest sea creatures that attack squid with black ink and lidded jaws. It's the pitted paw of the jackal, the livid roar of the grizzled bear, the armpit itch of the poet... and it's all sitting there. Blood, stones, sticks, soil While you're sat listening to Chris Moyles In a garden made of worms New Domestos kills the germs Press-ups make your pickle firm In a garden made of worms
3.
Engurland 03:35
Skin cancer costs an arm and a leg, man People on the beach self-harming to get tanned Laid out flat like an army of dead mans Red necks, red bellies than expand Like jellyfish on the wet sand Very Engurlish, suncream and sweaty hands Mingled in with tepid lager, I’m on my 7th can- Can I kick it? Probably not very elegant Stepping over spaghetti Bacardi Breezer sick Chilli sauce on my portion of cheesy chips Silly thoughts, tell a stranger he’s a prick- Receive a hit, lips and teeth are split. But it in’t a party unless you bleed a bit Bit of a geezer, telling Lisa she’s a fitty Grab her tits, and she’s throwing a seizure fit Now I’m sleeping in a cell, police are dicks. Engurland, mingerland, middle fingerland Footie song singerland Baddiel and Skinner-land School dinnerland Red white, brown and gingerland Imperial hinterland, Perpetual winterland, Where happy pills are in demand Engurland, engurland, engurland Aren’t you proud? And it’s a land where families spend holidays in traffic jams And radios play tracks by tragic bands That have millions of avid fans, all little girls Who crave a glitzy soundtrack to their shitty world Where there’s poison in the food, and chlorine in the water And models in the nude, in every shop, in every corner And disorders of mind, and bulk orders of baked beans, Cos here are 3 kids, and their mother … aged eighteen … and they dream of stardom, watching the X-Factory But they have no garden, and nowhere to practise being Therefore, they question what they’re there for And why there’s armed policemen, outside Mr Blair’s door … then they reach their teens, and learn to count up to ten Bensons Hiding behind hedges, burning pubescent tension What’s progression? Let the Daily Mail write your starchart- “this week you’ll lose your virginity in a carpark. Next week, you’ll take your first ecstasy pill Nine pints of White Lightning, and get messily ill. The week after that, perhaps you’ll get a job in Lidl You can stop believing, but you can’t stop the drizzle You can stop believing but you can’t stop the drizzle. Stop believing- you can’t stop the drizzle” And we sing… … and we sing… and we keep singing Engurland, mingerland, middle fingerland Footie song singerland Baddiel and Skinner-land School dinnerland Red white, brown and gingerland Imperial hinterland, Perpetual winterland, Where happy pills are in demand Engurland, engurland, engurland Aren’t you proud?
4.
Bomb Tesco 03:42
Who's this? Another rapper with a messiah complex 
Thinking when I write a concept, it stops the nonsense 
But God chuckles, so I let go 
Playing African drums in the carpark of Tesco 
My heart is vast and growing- it beats in paradiddles 
casting poems out through the drab and the drizzle 
 that drives down, and penetrates the shoppers' coats- 
one office bloke gives me a look like 
"you can't stop this bro"... 
But I can bang a drum until my hands fall apart 
and if it makes one shopper dance, 
that's my calling answered. 
 My reason for playing the evening til the morning after 
Carry my flame like stigmata through the falling darkness 
and the rising light- I hit the goatskin 
 The nature of sound means it always finds an opening. 
This time, I'm hoping it might find your lugholes 
 And if it does, I'll flood your subconscious with a drumroll... 

 That's the movement, what? 
The movement 
None of your rulers can stop the movement 
 Because it moves in the veins of the movers 
Their brains and their boots and the strains of their music... 

('this is your time... Bomb Tesco') 

 That's my primal ish, son 
 my tribal rhythm bounces 
somewhat manically in the cavity of your sinuses 
in order to fill your mind with this ethereal medicine- 
 you might just find yourself beatboxing in the cereal section 
Or tapping 4/4 beats on tins of corned beef 
Or slapping a solo on a slab of mature cheese 
the manager's called Steve, 
 and he comes over to chat to you 
Saying, "please do not practice drum patterns 
on cans of tuna 
It's very distracting to the consumer" 
...but in mid-opus, Steve freezes 
and his eyes switch focus. 
He grabs a pack of Kit-E-Kat and starts to shake a latin rhythm with it. 
and the shelf-stacker, Dave, is rapping bits of lyrics 
... he's very gifted. And within a minute 
Delores from storage has chipped in with a sung chorus 
in Zulu. They never knew she could do that, it's hard to believe 
Steve is beating the bass on 2 vats of margarine 
and Dawn, from customer services, is busting verses 
over the P.A, and Gary 
who has a nervous twitch, and a weak brain 
is stamping out the hardest beats on the counter of the pharmacy 
Scattering paracetamol rather anarchically... 
Before long, the whole supermarket's deep with raw song 
Somebody's even found some frozen cod they can play chords on. 
Four long hours later, you step out in the fading light 
with a new perception of space and time. 
In the carpark, a strange guy is playing a djembe... 
what a weird way to waste a Wednesday. 


 That's the movement, what? 
The movement 
None of your rulers can stop the movement 
Because it moves in the veins of the movers 
Their brains and their boots and the strains of their music...
5.
Take me, take me dancing Take me from this place where I can’t even breathe Take me, take me dancing Got no-one to pray to… I’m on my knees. Sail, sail away now And when you sail away let me aboard Cos I am tired, tired of running Tired of screaming, and I’m tired of being ignored.
6.
Good God 03:42
For my mate Mike, God is called Christ It gives him headspace among the highrises Lends order to the muddle of his mind, Sorts his troubles into sins Helps him struggle through a crises. For Tom-Tom, God is Dionysis … he prays by dropping little white hits And waits for the hurricane of light Blowing rugged in his eyes Leaving puddles in his irises. For Polly, God is called Isis: She steals kisses from the night’s lips. Her heart’s large enough to hold the moon She’s the chorus of a soul tune Says a little prayer like this: Deep in the belly, you’ve got to watch what you worship Chasing pennies is a very weird way to find a purpose Get yourself a good god and get yourself free What you call it makes no bones to me. No bones and no idols, I circle with the cycles Instrumentals are my temples and the mind is my Bible I keep it wide open, let my verse flow free Psalms spoken as an urgent poetry. Words are muscles, and they break commandments Casting them aside To let the spark of life set the dark alight Far and wide over land and sea, My magic speaks with the thousand mouths of the banyan tree With all the twisted tongues that nature gives it Without the grandiose pantyhose of the mystic Who sacrifices sense at an altar shrine- “the body’s sinful and the soul’s divine” Well, I’ve had a skinful of an older wine I came free, now I’m going forth and multiplying The same beast that was present at the origin of people. I’d rather one tree than a forest of cathedrals… Deep in the belly, you’ve got to watch what you worship Chasing pennies is a very weird way to find a purpose Get yourself a good god and get yourself free What you call it makes no bones to me.
7.
Pen Tangle 01:20
8.
One time for your crooked mind, said I As I gave the man a pound He said, “thank you stranger The deed will come back round; Perhaps we’ll drink together, man Next time you pass through town” Picks up his guitar again and sings: It won’t be long before I’m gone Swallowed by the road I lie upon It won’t be long before I’m gone Swallowed by the road I stumble on …there’s no backing down. Two times for your crooked mind, said I As I gave the man coin He said, “I don’t need money now But I could smoke a joint” “fine”, said I Sat by his side I rolled and rolled, he told his life And toked like he deserved to choke And die… He said It won’t be long before I’m gone Swallowed by the road I lie upon It won’t be long before I’m gone Swallowed by the road I stumble on …there’s no backing down. Three times for your crooked mind Standing at the grave. Many of us fall And very few are saved It makes no difference now, If he cursed, or if he prayed Perhaps we’ll drink together One of these days… It won’t be long before I’m gone Swallowed by the road I lie upon It won’t be long before I’m gone Swallowed by the road I stumble on …there’s no backing down.
9.
Reach In 02:11
10.
Reach Out 04:13
Old man creeps in the streets in the puddles 
Holds down the need to speak of his troubles 
Both hands shake with the Parkinson’s 
that is starting to break him. 
Darkening sun sets over the streetlights - a night with no stars in 
 one shadowy figure steps into a doorway 
where the whores play the same games as always. 
the old man’s seen it all before, he could tell you some morbid stories 
 He’s been through four wars and one divorce, 
 Carries a twitch that he got from the Blitz 
 he’s had a lifelong lover lost to the void 
he’s seen his brothers destroyed 
 by the tick tock Bang Bang of reality 
… just another picture to hang in the gallery. 

You need to reach out 
Into the darkness 
 Before it reaches you. 

Old man sits on train as it rumbles 
 Over land soaked in rain and struggle 
… the motion of it shakes his brain in a muddle 
like Boggle dice contained in a bubble. 
 Man stops at stops in his pub crawl 
in villages, on grubby stools. 
 He grins and orders in house double 
no rocks in it- got to sort out his own rubble 
 His mind is full of mumbles: a jar full of colour 
in among bubblegum fools 
 None of these suckers get him. Numbness sets in 
Turns his stride to a stumble, 
 Tripping over his feet, back to the train 
 Rain seeps through cracks in the pane 
 Window frames him: Too old a man for a salary 
… just another picture to hang in the gallery. 

You need to reach out 
Into the darkness 
 Before it reaches you.
11.
Maria 06:53
he sits with his head in his hands his feet sunk into the sand the sky turns grey above him; he shows no sign of being alive. But what can a boy do? The day the world went wrong he was in the front row. What must he go through to pay, to pay? Well, he don’t know Maria was his sweetness, his light his redress, his night, his day they rented a flat together and shared the summers in their hideaway. All he needed was her cheek pressed to his and his world was calm. He could almost weep watching her sleeping in the circle of his arms. There was one day they woke up early and the dawn was splashed with gold. Maria jumped up and wanted to walk in the morning cold so they left, undressed and stepped outside strode the avenues nude and giggling unashamed, and unafraid of any truths the universe may cast their way, whatever time may bring they danced among the city greys and then he heard her sing… Won’t you follow me And find a space a little closer to the sea To float away away away Today today today today… But then the seasons spun The weakened sun began to fade with such freedoms come poverty and food has to be paid for. Maria was too much a wild child to work for living so it was he who went out chasing papers, while she chased her visions. Imprisoned in suits and ties and factory uniforms he slaved to pay for them both, dawn through to dawn through to dusk. Resentment cultivated into mistrust in his mind, and nothing hits us like a kiss does when there’s very little love left within it and workaday stress had stretched his love to its limits, Money makes money, somebody said but the money he made barely bought bread for the table, and when you watch the weeks tick away and the clock on the factory wall steals the day and all that’s left you is the grey of twilight and the long tired nights there’s got to be a point when your fire dies. His was fading fast; no number of Maria’s laughs could warm him someone should have warned him even a crack in the design can let a storm in and the architecture of their love was looking worn thin. A smile, a worried glance, an angry thought. A fumbled coffee cup, a slap, a slammed door She wanted to make love He needed to sleep She wanted to talk He thought she thought too deep When she sang Won’t you follow me And find a space a little closer to the sea To float away away away Today today today today… and to his mind it seemed that Maria’d lost her rhyme and her reason in her drinking and daydreaming. Sick of coming home to the mess she made with scattered sculptures, and fragments of scribbled pages she called it art- he called her from work and said he’d be home late. Needed some of his own space needed a drink. He went with a couple of work mates to a bar just opened close to the factory gates. and his mates were chatting about these women they find fit saying they wouldn’t mind a bit of it considering and in the midst of it our friend was drunken-hypnotised by this blonde bit of skirt with cute little eyes that flickered like the serpent’s tongue blatantly flirting he thought, just what i need after a week’s working and one drink leads to another thing he finds himself pressed against the barside fumbling with this blonde bird mumbling something about going back to hers and before he knows she’s pulling off her skirt. three hours later it was long done and over in his sleep, becoming just a little more sobre he was locked within a dark dream in his imagining he was scrabbling to find Maria but she kept vanishing he woke, cold and shaking in a sudden sweat driven by fear, he rushed to gather up his stuff and left running with his head spinning his tongue raw running through the streets that had been theirs the summer before he reached the door of the flat and tiptoed in hoping to find his lover there, soft and dozing but there was no lover, no sound no smiles just Maria’s artwork, stacked in neat little piles. He burst into the bedroom but she wasn’t there just a rumpled pillow and a strand of her hair. And a note where she would have laid her head and the moment that he saw it he knew that she was dead. It read Won’t you follow me? And find a space a little closer to the sea To float away away away Today today today today… And everything must die No sooner dry than we are taken by the tide And float away away away So very little time to play
12.

credits

released October 12, 2009

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Dizraeli Bristol, UK

Multi-instrumentalist MC, singer, producer from Bristol, UK,
distributing explosions that journalists find hard to describe.

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