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Horrorshow
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Listen Close
[Verse 1:Solo]
Can you feel the change in the air?
I never could, took a second look now I see it everywhere,
Today moving so fast, becomes yesteryear,
And if you can't keep up, well then you disappear,
I see the lonely old buildings round my way,
Slowly fall into a state of disrepair,
Then the real estate buy it up, sell it off, knock it down,
Then it's gone like it was never there, does anybody care?
Wood, brickwork and steel laid bare,
Like the city's broken bones exposed to the open air,
And their I am, the heir apparent,
Surveying the damage as my neighbourhood vanishes,
Without a trace-an unsolved mystery,
Whole decades erased instantly,
No room for sympathy in the pursuit of efficiency,
The legacy of a colonial dynasty,
In a city still growing out it's infancy,
Built on invasion, displacement and misery,
Foundations laid by blood, sweat and industry,
Of convicts inspired by aspirations on liberty,
Before that history goes to the grave,
I listen close to the whispers of the ghosts of yesterday,
From beneath the coats of paint they speak,
Empty shop-fronts the faded evidence of a generation's dreams.
[Hook: Solo]
And on a still night, if you listen close,
You can still hear the whispers of the ghosts,
Seek it out and you'll find that it's all around you,
The sound of that which was handed down,
And on a still night, if you listen close,
You can still hear the whispers of the ghosts,
Know where we've been to grasp where we're headed,
Looking at the past from the present,
And on a still night, if you listen close,
You can still hear the whispers of the ghosts.
[Scratched Samples]
[Verse 2: Solo]
Now the signs in the street say for lease or for sale,
An invitation to dream, a reminder of those who failed,
A long way from land grants, rations and dirt trails,
Disillusionment's still in fashion in New South Wales,
Rusted iron, rubble and chipped paint,
Signs of urban decay in a withered landscape,
I see it everyday, the heritage fades,
Gentrification, nothing's gonna get in the way,
Of this concept that we call progress,
Locked in a contest with our superiority complex,
Monuments to man's dominance are the imagery,
Scaffolding sketches out the blueprints of visionaries,
In a city still growing out it's infancy,
Built on invasion, displacement and bigotry,
Foundations laid by cold-blooded killing spree's,
Severed heads sent back on ships for the king to see,
Before that history goes to the grave,
I listen close to the whispers of the ghosts of yesterday,
From beneath the coats of paint they speak,
Empty shop-fronts the faded evidence of a generation's dreams.
I stay playing these beats on the same train platform,
That Lawson waited on watching faces in the street,
Except that somehow the scene appears differently,
Soaked under the cold pale glow of electricity,
So, Before that history goes to the grave,
I listen close to the whispers of the ghosts of yesterday,
From beneath the coats of paint they speak,
Empty shop-fronts the faded evidence of a generation's dreams.
But I know this city, I've felt its heart beat,
Watched life breathe through the cracks in the concrete,
Where it stops is beyond me.
[Hook]
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