B.C. Williamson - The Official Website
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THE ART OF B.C. WILLIAMSON
B.C. will always be remembered for his contributions to music, recorded in works like "Fatal Discharge", "Giraffe", and "Music For Factories". However, unbeknownst to many critics and fans, B.C. is also an avid painter, writer and poet. This page will attempt to supply some examples of B.C.'s art from the past decade, including his new poetry anthology, "Blue In Verse", and his art print collection, "Landscapes" soon to tour across select galleries in America.
Talking Lost New York Blues (excerpt from Blue in Verse)
Ain’t no poetry to save your soul now kid,
For your head exists only in swimming pools today.
I’m looking right at you but I can’t see anything,
No I can’t see straight today.
Tibetan Monks come and say good day to you and me,
With closed-eyes and open Bibles.
Never turned to read the moons ‘till now.
I can’t read their mode at the moment.
We’ll all come back to the highway someday,
But as long as I’m living in happy luxury,
Apollo is gone and I won't be staying forever.
Progressive thinkers come round sometimes.
Some of them call us fakes,
I just tell them to look on the other side of the sky,
Every now and then when the sun is out.
Beethoven knew it, look where he went.
There are seven kinds of human,
I only present three of them.
Their names we had forgotten,
But Chicago isn't what it used to be.
I still remember when Du Bois did his speech,
You were watching the radio.
I can’t call myself a philosopher,
But Louis Armstrong would.
Meanwhile I’m just sitting back reminiscing,
About times yet to come past yesterday.
There is no Great White Hope,
Unless it already came and went long ago.
It isn't snowing in the Greenwich Village this winter,
Certainly not in the Blaxploitation cinema.
I asked him to stop, but he rebuked
“It’s a nice cold March, let me keep on walking.”
I also wondered whatever happened to Count Basie,
Or Billie Holiday’s blues on a Sunday concert stage afternoon.
I keep on asking myself over and over,
But it just reminds me I’m just not a young man no more.
For your head exists only in swimming pools today.
I’m looking right at you but I can’t see anything,
No I can’t see straight today.
Tibetan Monks come and say good day to you and me,
With closed-eyes and open Bibles.
Never turned to read the moons ‘till now.
I can’t read their mode at the moment.
We’ll all come back to the highway someday,
But as long as I’m living in happy luxury,
Apollo is gone and I won't be staying forever.
Progressive thinkers come round sometimes.
Some of them call us fakes,
I just tell them to look on the other side of the sky,
Every now and then when the sun is out.
Beethoven knew it, look where he went.
There are seven kinds of human,
I only present three of them.
Their names we had forgotten,
But Chicago isn't what it used to be.
I still remember when Du Bois did his speech,
You were watching the radio.
I can’t call myself a philosopher,
But Louis Armstrong would.
Meanwhile I’m just sitting back reminiscing,
About times yet to come past yesterday.
There is no Great White Hope,
Unless it already came and went long ago.
It isn't snowing in the Greenwich Village this winter,
Certainly not in the Blaxploitation cinema.
I asked him to stop, but he rebuked
“It’s a nice cold March, let me keep on walking.”
I also wondered whatever happened to Count Basie,
Or Billie Holiday’s blues on a Sunday concert stage afternoon.
I keep on asking myself over and over,
But it just reminds me I’m just not a young man no more.
ART PRINTS (LANDSCAPES)
All music/lyrics © Rackermann Records 2009 unless otherwise specified.
Express permission must be sought to reproduce them in any form.
Express permission must be sought to reproduce them in any form.
