James Vincent McMorrow's We Don't Eat

I'm having a thought here; on Of The Thing Sung I share poems, quotes from novels and I even sometimes talk about plays, films and book reviews. But what do I not talk about? Music. It's in the very title of my blog and I don't talk about it! Tsk Tsk 

Lyrics have the ability to define generations in the same way that novels do. Bruce Springsteen's Thunder Road, J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, The Rolling Stones' Gimme Shelter and F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. Need I say more? 

I want to start a new segment to remedy this problem. Weekly, if not more frequently, I want to feature a musician whose lyrics demonstrate that they understand love of the thing sung, not of the song or of the singing. 

Here's the first, a beautiful song by Irishman James Vincent McMorrow. Endlessly inspiring and nostalgic.

verse 1

if this is redemption, why do i bother at all
theres nothing to mention, and nothing has changed
still i’d rather be working at something, than praying for the rain
so i wander on, till someone else is saved

i moved to the coast, under a mountain
swam in the ocean, slept on my own
at dawn i would watch the sun, cut ribbons through the bay
i’d remember all, the things my mother wrote

chorus

that we dont eat until your fathers at the table
we dont drink until the devils turned to dust
never once has any man i’ve met been
able to love
so if i were you, i’d have a little trust

verse 2

two thousand years, i’ve been in that water
two thousand years, sunk like a stone
desperately reaching for nets
that the fishermen have thrown
trying to find, a little bit of hope

me i was holding, all of my secrets soft and hid
pages were folded, then there was nothing at all
so if in the future i might, need myself a saviour
i’ll remember what was, written on that wall

chorus

bridge

am i an honest man and true
have i been good to you at all
oh i’m so tired of playing these games
we’d just be running down
the same old lines, the same old stories of
breathless trains and, worn down glories
houses burning, worlds that turn on their own

chorus

so we dont eat until your fathers at the table
we dont drink until the devils turned to dust
and never once has, any man i’ve met been
able to love
so if i were you my friend
learn to have just a, little bit of trust.