An ille­gal copy of Destroyer’s Streethawk: A Seduc­tion has occu­pied slot 3 of my car’s 6-disc changer going on seven months now. In that time it has prob­a­bly become my most listened-to album ever. Because the album com­pels me to sing, and because Dan Bejar’s voice isn’t always so intel­li­gi­ble, I was look­ing for­ward to the lyric sheet I expected to come with the real copy I ordered from Merge a few weeks ago. And because his lyrics are some­times a lit­tle embar­rass­ing, I was also wor­ried that I might end up wish­ing I had never learned them.

The liner notes lacked lyrics entirely, but for­tu­nately some­one answered my des­per­ate plea on the Merge forum. Also for­tu­nate: rather than suck­ing, they’re pretty awesome.

Streethawk I

Hey girl, come on and take a whirl in my machine.
Though I’m telling you now, it leaves scars on the wan­ton.
Behind these bars there’s a house built for haunt­ing.
Now, go!! Or don’t go.
Just don’t say no.
Cause the lis­ten­ers of the world are on her side.
The lis­ten­ers of the world are on her side.
She said the city was dead and gut­less I cried for the city.
You gotta move to stay alive.
You do the very mod­ern jive.
Oh, once I knew what that wis­dom was for.
Sep­tem­ber Girls think those pearls just wash upon the shore.
Now, go!! Or don’t go.
Just don’t say no.
With the lis­ten­ers of the world all on her side, the lis­ten­ers of the
world all on her side, she said the city was dead and gut­less I
cried for the city.
She said the city was dead and gut­less I cried for the city.
She said the city was dead and gut­less I cried for the city.
Streethawk tempts the huntress: “Let the girls go insane!” -
as we lay down our weapons and, sure enough, we are slain
by that stuff.

The Bad Arts

Absolve, absolve, absolve…
We spent the bet­ter part of a day wait­ing for the wave to hit our side of
town. It didn’t.
Absolve, absolve, absolve…
I wash my hands of the stuff of leg­ends.
And what news of the hori­zon?
I hear it’s all just a hor­i­zon­tal myth so stop your cruis­ing, start your
crit­i­ciz­ing!
Or indulge your­self for once — feel medium between them.
And god­damn your eyes.
They just had to be twin prizes wait­ing for the sun.
And god­damn your eyes.
They just had to be twin prizes wait­ing for the sun.
They just had to be twin prizes wait­ing for the sun.
See them sport­ing those eagle iron-ons you made me swear never to wear.
Why did you spend the 90’s cow­er­ing (why did you spend the 90’s cow­er­ing)?
And they’re singing those inspi­ra­tionals you penned back in ’72.
And the hotels of choice are now toast­ing your voice, as the spas ring out -
“What’s another word for sacra­ment?“
The world woke up one day to pro­claim — “Thou shalt not take part in, or
make, bad art.“
In these tough tough times friends like mine would rather dash than dine on
the bones of what’s thrown to them…
When a wave of her wand has us back at the pond tak­ing notes for a crooked
under­ground!
The world woke up one day to pro­claim — “Thou shalt not make or take part in
the bad art.“
You see, the Singer sold us out. The Gui­tarist lost his clout on
Life-Of-The-Mind Day.
When signs become impure again the crowd doesn’t know where or when to let
it all hang out.
Blood­let your­self, street style!!
You got the spirit.
Don’t lose the feeling.

Beg­gars Might Ride

Beg­gars might ride you into doing one thing.
When humil­i­a­tion gets taught and humil­ity does not have the abil­ity to move
a mus­cle, don’t do The Hus­tle.
Beg­gars might ride.
You’ve heard of the sea ver­sus the scenery, where every­time a man goes
over­board it sounds like somebody’s scor­ing…
on beg­gars night.
Hey, Dis­tro. king for the hear­ing impaired, I’m start­ing to think I know why
you were spared:
Par­adise felt fine.
What’s yours was mine.
Col­lab­o­ra­tors fuck us every time…
beg­gars might ride.
You’re tak­ing rides with the Sen­si­tive Miser, tak­ing sides with the New
Sym­pa­thiz­ers.
Girl, what could have been till you gave up the vio­lin for a slight but
dis­taste­ful pen­chant for men!
Beg­gars might ride.
You’ve heard it said and it’s true, for some­one so beau­ti­fully scarred I
imag­ine it must be hard to stay away from a life of pub­lic rela­tions but
try! Girl, you’ve got to try! You’ve got to stay crit­i­cal or die! Stay
crit­i­cal or die!

The Sub­li­ma­tion Hour

So you had the best legs in a busi­ness built for kicks,
but was this chang­ing of the guards really sup­posed to make you sick…
It’s alright — The Sub­li­ma­tion Hour!
Medium Rota­tion, the Shock of the New,
and a memo from Feld­man say­ing — “every­thing is true.
It’s alright — The Sub­li­ma­tion Hour!
Don’t spend your life con­ceiv­ing
that the wid­ows won’t get sick of their griev­ing
till every­one walks out.
Hey, isn’t that what rock ‘n’ roll is all about?
Princess, express your bloated self, will­ful and indig­nant in the face of
somebody’s lord.
You try to sum­mon up the spir­its live on Face the Nation,
but the Port Author­ity just taxed incan­ta­tions.
It’s alright — The Sub­li­mate Hour!
Auc­tion off the tem­ple. It’s money well-spent.
Hey, are those tears in your eyes as the wind cries enlarge­ment?
It’s alright — The Sub­li­mate Hour.
Don’t spend your life con­ceiv­ing
that the wid­ows won’t get sick of their griev­ing
till every­one walks out.
Hey, isn’t that what rock ‘n’ roll is all about, princess?
Con­fess your bloated self, will­ful and indig­nant, in the face of somebody’s
lord.
So put your hands together. I hear it’s a ‘must’,
until this phoney Beat­le­ma­nia has bit­ten the dust.
It’s alright — The Sub­li­ma­tion Hour.
I guess the streets will suf­fice till every­body makes nice,
but there’s a rumor going round even Destroyer has a price…
Don’t spend your life conceiving…

Eng­lish Music

Sol­dier, you got to get out more.
There is life after prop­erty.
Every­one has got a finder’s fee.
Find some­thing dif­fi­cult to do and do it.
Write your eng­lish music, write your eng­lish music…
Write your eng­lish music. Run free.
She tasted of the Christ­mas wines and said — “So many things have run
through me. I know the altar boys, they just want to do me and that’s
fine… You got to have faith. Yeah, you got to have it…“
Once again, it’s a quarter-to-three by Ambleside-By-The-Sea and something’s
telling you — “Boy, it’s time to take sides.“
And something’s telling you — “Boy, it’s time to take sides.“
And something’s telling you — “Boy, it’s time to take sides…and write your
Eng­lish Music, though you know it will come to no good when bril­liance has a
taste for suf­fer­ing and you’re softer than the west­ern world…”

Vir­gin With A Memory

Was it the movie or the mak­ing of Fitz­car­raldo where some­one learned to love
again? ‘I can’t remem­ber’ is not the same as ‘I don’t know,’ vir­gin with a
mem­ory.
Was it the movie or the mak­ing of Fitz­car­raldo where your mother decided to
fash­ion her­self after the sad deity we left on the shelf.
She wanted blood, all she got was sac­ri­fice.
She wanted blood, all she got was sac­ri­fice.
She wanted blood, all she got was sac­ri­fice.
Vir­gin with­out a mem­ory, now is your chance to be free of all those favorite
bands you ditched for one that’s grander: No Use For A Name to the Make-up
– it’s all the same.
The singer not the song, no!
The singer not the song, no!
The singer not the song, no!
For­ma­tive years — wasted. In love with our peers — we tasted life with the
stars. Anti­cli­mac­tic as Mars was, still…
A red earth with no way of know­ing this sil­ver colos­sus exists just to be
grow­ing.
A red earth with no way of know­ing this sil­ver colos­sus exists just to be
grow­ing…
Was it the movie or the mak­ing of Fitz­car­raldo where some­one learned to
love again?
Where some­one learned to love again…
Where some­one learned to love again…

The Very Mod­ern Dance

Screwed on the chem­i­cal floors of the Dance World, now you see why I’ll
always be a dancer.
Plucked by the tran­scen­den­tal brats to the Trance World, but desertscapes on
the face of a girl were not the answer…
And we are not the answer.
We are not the answer.
No, we are not the answer.
No, don’t worry my dear, nothing’s been sold.
It’s just a golden bridge I’m burn­ing whose fire is the real gold.
No, don’t worry my dear, nothing’s been sold.
It’s just a golden bridge I’m burn­ing whose fire is the real goal,
fire is the real goal…
So, there’ll be moon­light over Michelle tonight, and another west coast
morn­ing. Fuck it, I’m warn­ing you can look you can touch but, no, not that
much.
What’s one more police action when I’m can­celling the truce again!?!

The Crossover

You come down from the moun­tain.
They lose your scent in the foun­tain.
You cross over, you cross over, and make it big.
Women whis­tle while they work, and men make sense when they pre­vail.
From debtor’s jail, you have never looked so beau­ti­ful.
“Tread lightly through the fog,” said the Apothecary’s daugh­ter.
“You don’t want to go, but you gotta, into the half –light of dawn.“
The ele­gant attack… the omniver­ous, but care­ful, strokes… the forger’s
folks are proud of their son: he has traded beauty in for fun.
From a sick bed I read the nurse’s notes you took the night before. They
made the signs come alive. They made me strive for the door.
Tread lightly…(chorus repeats twice)
You come down from the moun­tain.
You lose the dogs through the foun­tain.
You cross over, you crossover, and you win.

Helena

Helena, the ram­i­fi­ca­tions are very large tonight. The stars say don’t pick
a fight or barge things around.
See, appar­ently our blood­line is botched beyond redemp­tion. Luck­ily, you
don’t believe in redemp­tion. (This may work in your favor, I’m told.)
So throw the old fur­ni­ture in the fire as the chil­dren go bar­baric behind
the wire. They’re just chil­dren.
It’s a drag the way your flag had to come down, with one of the above amer­i­cas so
fero­ciously in bloom.
But pis­tols at dawn can only work for so long.
Curved appetites took flight when you decided to call the song
“A Pacific-Northwest bitch gets shown to her room.“
So throw the old fur­ni­ture in the fire as the chil­dren go bar­baric behind
the wire. They’re just chil­dren.
And this one goes out, just like the one before, to the 17th ver­sion of How
I Won The War.
Oh, first Destroyer! And, oh, now the Under­ground!“
Helena, the ram­i­fi­ca­tions are very large tonight.
The stars say don’t pick a fight or barge things around.
Just throw… (chorus)

Far­rar, Straus, And Giroux (Sea Of Tears)

It was back amongst the liv­ing, your smile was giv­ing me a thrill.
Enough to come so close to clos­ing the deal — the steal of a cen­tury… A
cen­tury stolen from our hearts to a house on the hill.
But if that is what it takes, if that is what it takes, if that is what it
takes…
To be a stone, a stone’s throw from your throne.
No man has ever hung from the rafters of a sec­ond home.
No man has ever hung from the rafters of a sec­ond home.
It’s true, I needed you more back when I was poor: the wealthy dowa­ger (the
patroness), she guessed it — the answer wasn’t yes. But her max­ims were
fine, the ethos that flew about her mind like swal­lows in search of a
burnt-down bell-towered church.
But if that is what it takes, if that is what it takes, if that is what it
takes…
To be a stone, a stone’s throw from your throne.
No man has ever hung at the tem­po­rary age of 24, both feet on the floor,
lis­ten­ing to the bonafide sta­sis of sound, the eaves drip­ping yesterday’s
ill-timed August rain, if there is such a thing as ill-timed August rain…

Strike

Why do you work when you’re sick of lift­ing, when you’re sick of lift­ing?
The fes­tiv­i­ties left you on the shelf. Why’re you always try­ing to please
every­body but your­self: “That which bears wit­ness to it’s own fail­ure” -
are you so sure?
Why do you work for the fes­ti­val when you’re sick of lift­ing spir­its,
spir­its, to the sky: Body and Soul — two words for that same name­less thing
you have never known?
Why do you work in place of bear­ing wit­ness to your own inclu­sion,
inclu­sion, inclusion…and strike!?!!
Strike!!!

Streethawk II

There ought to be a law — there ought to be a rail­road — to take me away, to
take me away.
There ought to be a law — an ocean of escape — to take me away, to take me
away.
There ought to be a law — there ought to be a rail­road — that takes you away,
that takes you away.
There ought to be a law — an order of restraint — that takes you away, that
takes you away.
I heard those sym­phonies come quick, now that you are sick of breath­ing new
life into the form.
Hey Streethawk, you’ve been spot­ted hang­ing out out­side the storm.
Why don’t you fly?