Tommy Womack's "Alpha Male & the Canine Mystery Blood"
Oct 1, 2015 15:11:45 GMT -5
bananabenda likes this
Post by festivalorbust on Oct 1, 2015 15:11:45 GMT -5
What a great show last night! bananabenda couldn't find the lyrics to Tommy Womack's awesome "Alpha Male..." song, so I asked him for them and he sent them to me. 
So, here ya go:
Alpha Male and the Canine Mystery Blood came to town with Death Cab for Cutie.
I stayed home with my wife and my child and a six-pack of beer.
I pondered that name for fifteen minutes
after I saw the poster stapled to a phone pole on the corner of Grand and 21st.
That was a couple of years ago, I was already in my forties then,
so I didn’t go out on a whim just to see a band called Alpha Male and the Canine Mystery Blood,
just because I like the name, just as if I’m 25 and every day’s a stoned summer day.
My band was always gigging then, REM was still kicking then, I drove that Ford Granada Mom and Dad gave to me after they got ‘em a Ford LTD, and there was music on MTV!
I smoked my manager’s pot and got laid quite a lot.
Planes hadn’t flown into towers yet and we didn’t have an loose-cannon president,
didn’t have all this credit card debt hanging over the house like a cloud,
insuring there’s not a lot of drugging allowed.
The body can’t take it; the wallet won’t hang.
I’m singing all the songs I’ve sang for years, and when it’s a band gig, it’s rocking,
and when it’s solo, the people talking while I’m singing make me depressed.
You think I could take a hint! My time came and went.
Hell, there’s many nights I came and went, in a manner of speaking.
My conscience is leaking.
The world has changed and the good times are gone.
We get to be the folks who greet the dawn
of an age of mistrust, surveillance and sleaze,
bombs in shoes and way too many enemies.
I bet their name was Menstrual Blood and the A&R guide said “That’s no good!
You’ve go to change it to Mystery and then we can target a broader-based, goth, dog-lover market!”
I love my boy. He’s becoming a drummer.
He got a drum kit from Santa. At this rate by summer
he’ll be keeping a beat in a world that needs a metronome shoved up its ass so hard,
all voices will raise in a heavenly choir,
crud’ll get straight, brothers’ll hug,
we’ll dance like we did in the decade of the good drugs.
I’m spitting my genes in an ocean that’s rising,
clinging to Jesus with some compromising
of how it was handed to me from my Mom and my Daddy the preacher,
who watched all that TV in a cream recliner,
frowning through life like a stone hardliner.
You couldn’t faze him. He knew Jesus died for his sins and was raised from the dead. And I’ve always wondered, why can’t he stay dead?
It doesn’t change any good thing he said.
It was all St. Paul’s trip, the Resurrection. Why?
Why can’t he be just a nice Jewish guy
who was super clued-in
and showed us the way to salvation from sin?
And that doesn’t mean if you’re not quote-unquote “saved”,
you fry like a slice of country ham in your grave!
It’s a great big world. Life is a joke.
Arabs & Christians. Pepsi & Coke.
People so gorgeous, it causes ‘em pain, and nobody gives any sympathy for something like that; you suffer in silence –
or form a band!
With a name that appeals to goth dog-lovers everywhere,
on a poster that’s seen by a 40-ish bastard walking to work at 8:15.
11 an hour for all that he does.
Can’t be a has-been when you never was.
Going all day long without eating
‘til all my nerve endings are seriously overheating,
my legs getting wobbly walking down the stairs
to smoke me a cig in the cold fresh air,
wondering why I do the things I do.
And I do ‘em every day.
And it can’t turn out good living this way!
But live my life I must, and in some fuzzy God I’ll trust.
I’ll kiss my wife and I’ll kiss my son.
And maybe someday I’ll go for a run!
Maybe someday a song’ll stick!
I’ll walk around like I got a big boat.
Maybe someday my boy will drum
in a hippy jam band that plays out some.
He’ll take after Daddy, get in a van,
go to places only young people can,
doing things only young people do,
banging those skins at Bonnaroo,
rocking the dreadheads dancing in the mud
before Alpha Male and Canine Mystery Blood.
God go with him.
Amen.
(Tommy Womack, "Alpha Male & the Canine Mystery Blood")
www.facebook.com/Tommy-Womack-54320066668/timeline/
www.tommywomack.com/about-2/
www.tommywomack.com/store/books/ Tommy's book, The Cheese Chronicles, is hilarious and should be read by anyone who loves live music!
www.tommywomack.com/category/blog/ I love reading his blog, too.
So, here ya go:Alpha Male and the Canine Mystery Blood came to town with Death Cab for Cutie.
I stayed home with my wife and my child and a six-pack of beer.
I pondered that name for fifteen minutes
after I saw the poster stapled to a phone pole on the corner of Grand and 21st.
That was a couple of years ago, I was already in my forties then,
so I didn’t go out on a whim just to see a band called Alpha Male and the Canine Mystery Blood,
just because I like the name, just as if I’m 25 and every day’s a stoned summer day.
My band was always gigging then, REM was still kicking then, I drove that Ford Granada Mom and Dad gave to me after they got ‘em a Ford LTD, and there was music on MTV!
I smoked my manager’s pot and got laid quite a lot.
Planes hadn’t flown into towers yet and we didn’t have an loose-cannon president,
didn’t have all this credit card debt hanging over the house like a cloud,
insuring there’s not a lot of drugging allowed.
The body can’t take it; the wallet won’t hang.
I’m singing all the songs I’ve sang for years, and when it’s a band gig, it’s rocking,
and when it’s solo, the people talking while I’m singing make me depressed.
You think I could take a hint! My time came and went.
Hell, there’s many nights I came and went, in a manner of speaking.
My conscience is leaking.
The world has changed and the good times are gone.
We get to be the folks who greet the dawn
of an age of mistrust, surveillance and sleaze,
bombs in shoes and way too many enemies.
I bet their name was Menstrual Blood and the A&R guide said “That’s no good!
You’ve go to change it to Mystery and then we can target a broader-based, goth, dog-lover market!”
I love my boy. He’s becoming a drummer.
He got a drum kit from Santa. At this rate by summer
he’ll be keeping a beat in a world that needs a metronome shoved up its ass so hard,
all voices will raise in a heavenly choir,
crud’ll get straight, brothers’ll hug,
we’ll dance like we did in the decade of the good drugs.
I’m spitting my genes in an ocean that’s rising,
clinging to Jesus with some compromising
of how it was handed to me from my Mom and my Daddy the preacher,
who watched all that TV in a cream recliner,
frowning through life like a stone hardliner.
You couldn’t faze him. He knew Jesus died for his sins and was raised from the dead. And I’ve always wondered, why can’t he stay dead?
It doesn’t change any good thing he said.
It was all St. Paul’s trip, the Resurrection. Why?
Why can’t he be just a nice Jewish guy
who was super clued-in
and showed us the way to salvation from sin?
And that doesn’t mean if you’re not quote-unquote “saved”,
you fry like a slice of country ham in your grave!
It’s a great big world. Life is a joke.
Arabs & Christians. Pepsi & Coke.
People so gorgeous, it causes ‘em pain, and nobody gives any sympathy for something like that; you suffer in silence –
or form a band!
With a name that appeals to goth dog-lovers everywhere,
on a poster that’s seen by a 40-ish bastard walking to work at 8:15.
11 an hour for all that he does.
Can’t be a has-been when you never was.
Going all day long without eating
‘til all my nerve endings are seriously overheating,
my legs getting wobbly walking down the stairs
to smoke me a cig in the cold fresh air,
wondering why I do the things I do.
And I do ‘em every day.
And it can’t turn out good living this way!
But live my life I must, and in some fuzzy God I’ll trust.
I’ll kiss my wife and I’ll kiss my son.
And maybe someday I’ll go for a run!
Maybe someday a song’ll stick!
I’ll walk around like I got a big boat.
Maybe someday my boy will drum
in a hippy jam band that plays out some.
He’ll take after Daddy, get in a van,
go to places only young people can,
doing things only young people do,
banging those skins at Bonnaroo,
rocking the dreadheads dancing in the mud
before Alpha Male and Canine Mystery Blood.
God go with him.
Amen.
(Tommy Womack, "Alpha Male & the Canine Mystery Blood")
www.facebook.com/Tommy-Womack-54320066668/timeline/
www.tommywomack.com/about-2/
www.tommywomack.com/store/books/ Tommy's book, The Cheese Chronicles, is hilarious and should be read by anyone who loves live music!
www.tommywomack.com/category/blog/ I love reading his blog, too.
