Dance to the music (Rock rock rock)
The lyrical mainstay of Paul Yates second (and sadly last) school assembly pop extravaganza.
To set the delicious scene; Paul was NOT your normal school league pop kid. He looked like H from Steps had been interrupted whilst morphing into a football. His fringe and forehead seemed thrust together as a result of seperate, geographically divorced planning committees. His shirt cuffs were always a good seven inches prouder then his jumper sleeves.
He was good at all subjects and correspondingly bad at all other aspects of life - including not being considered a bed wetting chess club stalwart.
He happily admitted doing an hour of voluntary "study" (not homework, study) each night at home, as if this deserved anything other than scowls and occasional violence. His sister showed solidarity with her brother's cause by sprouting a moustache at the age of 14.
Despite all this, Paul scored minor pop kudos for a keyboard backed lament about nuclear war one assembly day. We begrudgingly gave him credit for his efforts.
Flushed with success, a later assembly found him sitting behind a "drum kit" assembled from the kettle drum, a snare drum, and all the other crap the dumb kids got to vent on during group pieces. To our delight, he proceeded to thrash (alone, without any other accompaniment) arhythmically like a waterheaded Keith Moon, whilst trilling in an odd adolescent contralto;
Dance to the music,
rock rock rock.
Everybody is doing it,
rock rock rock.
Please note his failure to conjugate "everybody" and "is" into a less rockless "everybody's". Oh yes, he even incited group bachannalian abandon politely. Of course, we laughed. A sound which his brain appeared to translate into applause.
He never performed another self-penned opus, so this remains the highlight of my school life. Paul, if you're out there; home studios are very cheap now. Please, Paul. You owe it to rock.
To set the delicious scene; Paul was NOT your normal school league pop kid. He looked like H from Steps had been interrupted whilst morphing into a football. His fringe and forehead seemed thrust together as a result of seperate, geographically divorced planning committees. His shirt cuffs were always a good seven inches prouder then his jumper sleeves.
He was good at all subjects and correspondingly bad at all other aspects of life - including not being considered a bed wetting chess club stalwart.
He happily admitted doing an hour of voluntary "study" (not homework, study) each night at home, as if this deserved anything other than scowls and occasional violence. His sister showed solidarity with her brother's cause by sprouting a moustache at the age of 14.
Despite all this, Paul scored minor pop kudos for a keyboard backed lament about nuclear war one assembly day. We begrudgingly gave him credit for his efforts.
Flushed with success, a later assembly found him sitting behind a "drum kit" assembled from the kettle drum, a snare drum, and all the other crap the dumb kids got to vent on during group pieces. To our delight, he proceeded to thrash (alone, without any other accompaniment) arhythmically like a waterheaded Keith Moon, whilst trilling in an odd adolescent contralto;
Dance to the music,
rock rock rock.
Everybody is doing it,
rock rock rock.
Please note his failure to conjugate "everybody" and "is" into a less rockless "everybody's". Oh yes, he even incited group bachannalian abandon politely. Of course, we laughed. A sound which his brain appeared to translate into applause.
He never performed another self-penned opus, so this remains the highlight of my school life. Paul, if you're out there; home studios are very cheap now. Please, Paul. You owe it to rock.
written by Dr*w Sty*es, approved by Log