Zombie Dub – The Resurrection
Rising from the gravy…
A miraculous resurrection has occurred.
Hidden in a cave high in the North Wales Golgotha hills (just by Dwygyfylchi) researchers rolled back a stone to uncover two previously unheard Zombie Dub tracks.Together they constitute the new limited edition single (Vinyl run of three), which is seasonally- monikered I Rise.
Zombies can never die it seems and this dripping set of pus-driven electro-punk dub poetry is also downloadable for free to the tune of 100 downloads.
Cut your toast into the shape of upside down crosses to dip in your googy eggs as you listen here:
https://soundcloud.com/paulhammondmusic/zombie-dub-this-spectral-convent
A: I Rise
I rise Through the slime of the years / Through the dust and the spiders / And pallid outriders / I rise Through the choke of the smog / Where the opium smothers / The corporate suckers / I rise Do the angels sing? / Let me hear the demon choir. / Ah, me. Oh, my.
I rise Where there’s love there is loss / Where there’s fire there are flamers / And blisters and blamers / I rise From the ashes and dust / I am golem incarnate / A thunderhead harlot / I rise Do the angels sing? / Let me hear the demon choir. / Ah, me. Oh, my.
B: This Spectral Convent (Traddle-De-Ay)
Traddle-de-dee and traddle-de-ay / Let me tell you a tale of awful array / Traddle-de-dee, and traddle-de-dead / It’s diseased as the inside of Coleridge’s head / On his worst opium binges, beset by mind-spiders / And burrowing worms through his synaptic sliders / A residue left there: the words yet unwritten / The putrid lost pages: the maggots now risen
Traddle-de-day and traddle-de-do / Past midnight, of course, as I stole from my tomb / Traddle-de-day, and traddle, de-dight / The stench of the rotted-flesh devils’ delight /Drunken the stones, crooked the graves / Memoriam inscriptions now cracked and erased / The moon hides, a crow cawks, a feral dog growls / The pregnant clouds ominous in skies acrid, foul
Trouble-you now and trouble-you-all / I was not alone in this land of lost souls / Trouble-you now, and trouble-me-well / I saw awful things straight from the circles of hell / In the distance, an unearthly, portentious glow / A hall of derangement, of disrupted flow / Of garish, eye-burning signs, slogans misused / Belligerent promises, fiendish half-truths
Trouble-my-world, now trouble-de-dob / I peered through a strange glass-like prismic blob / Trouble-your-own, now trouble-for-years / Some figures scurried there; hunched, absurd, damned and weird / Down aisles and columns packed high with odd shapes / Gargoyles pushed barrows of gunk, grot and grain / Around and around, up and down, up and down / In shapeless circuits, their backs broken, bowed
Traddle-de-stab, now traddle-de-dent / I found myself drawn to this spectral convent / Traddle-de-bad, and traddle-de-dize / The floor shone like the sunlight that bursts vampires’ eyes / Horrible sounds brought me nigh to my knees / Oafish, preposterous, trite melodies /The undead shuffle of the zombie-fied / Continued: echoless, feckless, mind-fried
Traddle-de-dee, and traddle-de die / With a ghastly groan and a ghastly sigh / Traddle de-dee, and traddle-de-doe / A nightmare worse than Edgar Allen Poe / Confronted me there; body parts plastic-wrapped / Necks, backbones, cheeks, skin and bile burst and snapped / Deformed deathmasks, hacked-hunk buckets of offal / Here some guts; here some entrails; here some ears in a bottle / Trouble-once-more and trouble-for-ay / Still I staggered on, through this senseless display
Trouble-de-dee and trouble-brewing / Worse than the night-terrors of Stephen King / Suddenly, moulding in front of me / Was a farrago of an apothecary / Handing out bottles of curse-coloured potions / Syringes, lozenges, bat’s wings, neon lotions / Terrible times and terrible signs / All around the assaulting, persistent foul crimes / Terrible eyes and terrible death / The stench of wrecked bodies, of fetid, rank flesh / Suddenly, freezing, sharp blasts of pain / Again and again and again and again / Hands grasping, frostbitten, missing their fingers / Shaking and clawlike and riven with shivers
Traddle-de-dee and traddle-erase /I had to get out of this accursed place / Traddle-de-dang and traddle-do-dee / Horror closed ranks before and behind me / A long line of grave-grasping disfigured forms / Things of the like as should never been born / Amidst them, I stood, hoping to fade away / Hoping that none of them would notice me
Terrible day! O terrible weeper / At the end of the line was the dead-eyed gatekeeper / Terrible night! O terrible world / I prepared myself to utter a secret password / Soon it was my turn; the fiend gazed up and spoke / With malevolence worse than James Herbert ere wrote / The terrible words from the depths of black heart / “That’s 2.99 sir. Paying cash or card?”
Music and Production: Paul Hammond / Lyrics and Vocals: Joe Shooman
