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The Ballad of the Last Six Months of My Life
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Taken directly from my journal without editing, this is by far the most personal thing I have ever written.
anarchist music radical m riotfolk political folk
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High-energy political folk with powerful lyrics and an innovative acoustic sound.
Hey Friends, I am Evan Greer, a radical singer/songwriter originally from Boston. My songs roam from the romance of a trainyard to the frontlines of the class-war. My style is sort of aggressive folk. I envision a world where people are free to live their lives in the way that they choose, and where our social interactions are based on love, mutual aid, and solidarity, rather than exploitation and greed. My songs are for anyone who has ever envisioned such a world, anyone who has ever fought for one, and anyone who ever thought that one was impossible, but wished it weren't so.
Song Info
Genre
Acoustic • Acoustic General
Charts
#5,309 in subgenre Peak #32
Charts
Peak #113
Author
Evan Greer
Rights
screw intellectual property.
Uploaded
January 10, 2005
Track Files
MP3
MP3 6.6 MB • 128 kbps • 0:00
Story behind the song
Christa, Wild Turkey, Baltimore, Philadelphia, the FBI, my Martin DC-16, punk rock shows, drifters, love, being depressed as hell.
Lyrics
we talked as the moon disappeared discussed the finer points between honest and sincere and she talked of how we’re so alone I said, “hey at least they tap our phones and listen in the walls.” “did you hear that clicking on the line?” “yeah it happens all the time.” “so I guess we must be doing something right.” I said to her “my songs are all a lie I won’t write another ‘till the day I die.” She asked me “why?” I said “I don’t know it just feels wrong.” she said “well then write something new something made of me and you. something that’s free from the background noise of the machine.” then she said “every song you write can be a folksong. so long as everybody can sing along and you don’t mind if they sing a little out of key.” I said “how do you know me so well?” she said “we’re all just the same in the end. we just try to play the game as best we can.” “as best we can?” “as best we can.” I said to her “this place is a machine.” she said “I know cuz I have seen what it has done to you from the embers in your eyes to the bottle in your hand I want you to know I understand why you had to die why you had to lie so many times before.” I tried to transcribe my desire threw my guitar into the fire okay I lied it was just the fireplace no it wasn’t lit, in fact the truth is that it has not seen flames in so many years. but at least my eyes saw tears as they went streaming down your face and we watched the wood and wire rest on brick as I started to feel sick because I knew you knew I knew that tomorrow I’d be back singing songs about Iraq, telling stories of train tracks that I have never walked along so I’ll write for you a song that’s called ‘honesty’ and I’ll tell you to give it up because it’s just an empty cup and when the whiskey is all gone it just picks up and moves right on like every drifter that you’ve kissed and every greyhound that you’ve missed and every lunar eclipse when the shadow of the earth is plain for all to see the fruits of this economy. the earth is a black hole; it’s just a crater in the moon an empty promise that he’ll call back soon. it’s the most ancient of songs the revolution that went wrong when we forgot what we were fighting for and we were passed out on the floor when the cops broke down the door they were confused by what they saw so they went back to their cars. told eachother “we could take ‘em, but they’re sleeping so why wake ‘em?” then one cop came back inside and left water by our sleeping heads because he knows how it feels to try to drink yourself to death and he knew that we’d need it in the morning and then suddenly without warning, the house burst into flames and he carried us outside where we slept for three more days we woke up and looked around the house had burned to the ground and I was starting to feel free, when you said look and see my guitar was lying next to me so I picked it up started to play and we sat there for the whole day in the ruins of a prison we had built for ourselves of rhetoric and cigarettes empty bottles empty threats and a thousand gallons of spray-paint. now all up in flames. so all we could do was laugh and claim it for the ELF we burned ourselves out of our home so that we would be free to roam and I could start writing songs about wishing I had a bed to call my own wishing I had chains, wishing I had a home because I lie but I am not a liar I’m just so fucking tired of being a slave to liberation a servant to the fire. because fire’s not a live it just does its best to pretend. but we all know in the end that it’s just a parasite like a smoker asking for a light. it can’t live without some help but then that’s what it means to be a live even when you’re DIY doing everything yourself gets lonely sometimes. and how I wish that you were here so I could spit upon my fears grab you by the hand and go underground to meet the man who whispers in my ear and tells me t
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