Freelancer – My Funky Bassline

Okay, more music…sort of. This was a performance poem I wrote over 10 years ago that I have put to music. Again on a Zoom H6 recorder.  I can’t get the voice right, but it’s just a little bit of fun.

Lyrics below

 

My Funky Bassline

It was a steamy summer’s day and I had a tortured soul
I was being persecuted by the gods of rock’n’roll
I had a funky bassline captured in my mind
It was trying to escape, there was someone I had to find

I went looking for the Funkster, the only man around
Who could help me make this tune into a groovy sound
There was nothing else to do that could ease my suffering brain
And stop that funky bassline driving me insane

On my way down to his joint I maintained exclusion zones
With my unexploded rhythm vibrating through my bones
And I got the strangest looks from other people on the street
As I walked the paving stones with a syncopated beat

When I reached his place he asked me, ‘How can I help you man?’
And I said ‘I’ve got this funky bassline and I need a helping hand.’
‘No worries mate,’ he told me, ‘I’ll see what I can do,
It’s a crime to find a bassline and fail to follow through.’

So he sat me on his couch and I hummed my funky music
And his face lit at once and he said, ‘YEAH, I can use it!’
He left the room for hours, but then when he returned
He played me the result, some music that he’d burned

He’d mixed guitars and drums with my funky little bass
And my groovy little rhythm had finally found its place
But no sooner had I left him, I was once again afflicted
With a catchy little bassline, it seems that I’m addicted

I hear music all the time and it comes from everywhere
And new rhythms make me nervous and it doesn’t seem quite fair
That I get funky tunes appearing, while the Funkster soothes my soul
And I’m fated to be tortured by the gods of rock’n’roll

 

My Funky Bassline

 

It was a steamy summer’s day and I had a tortured soul,

I was being persecuted by the gods of rock’n’roll.

I had a funky bassline imprinted on my mind,

It was trying to escape; there was someone I had to find.

 

I went looking for the Funkster, the only man around,

Who could help me add this rhythm to a groovy little sound.

There was nothing else to do that could ease my suffering brain,

And release that little beat that was driving me insane.

 

On my way down to his joint I maintained exclusion zones,

With my unexploded rhythm vibrating through my bones.

And I got the strangest looks from other people on the street,

As I walked the paving stones with a syncopated beat.

 

When I reached his place he asked me, ‘How can I help you man?’

And I said ‘I’ve got this funky bassline and I need a helping hand.’

‘No worries mate,’ he told me, ‘I’ll see what I can do,

It’s a crime to find a bassline and fail to follow through.’

 

 So he sat me on his couch and I hummed my funky music,

And his face lit at once and he said, ‘YEAH, I can use it!’

He left the room for hours, but then when he returned,

He played me the result, a CD that he’d burned.

 

He’d mixed guitars and drums with my groovy little bass,

And my syncopated rhythm had finally found its place.

But no sooner had I left him, I was once again afflicted,

With a catchy little bassline, it seems that I’m addicted.

 

I hear music all the time and it comes from everywhere

And new rhythms make me nervous and it doesn’t seem quite fair,

That I get funky tunes appearing, and the Funkster soothes my soul,

And I’m fated to be tortured by the gods of rock’n’roll.

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