Wanted to call it “Michael Dean” remix, but there are 3 remixing artists already, 1 is Michael Dean, 1 is MWD, 1 is Mike Dean (the famous one), so didn’t want confusing on iTunes etc, so used my alter ego “Cash Newmann.” Sounds like a rapper anyway.
I never loved the old mix of this on the record “Brace Yourself for a Blast.” Couldn’t quite master it right, and was too quiet on the record. Is the only song I felt that way about in four records.
So I killed two birds with one stone: remixed this (with some additional sounds, some sax and synth). Then mastered on LANDR. The uploaded to DistroKid to try them out to review and write a tutorial for my upcoming second edition of the $30 Music School book. I like them. And I also like this new version much more. Kinda sounds like we’re actually playing it live at the Rusty Nail.
Fun note about the place where I say “Alpha-Centauri tonight” in a froggy voice. That was an accident. I opened this project from an archive on my E drive. It attached to the wrong file with the right name. Something like audio-3.wav. On the old version was me saying “or did you finally get called up to heaven?”
On this version, it grabbed some audio from the BipTunia song “On Approach to Alpha-Centauri” and substituted it. I added some echo and left it in. It not only worked musically, it worked thematically. And that’s also the one line I ever wrote that Phil didn’t love, because he was thinking Tony Yanik might be insulted. I said “It’s art, let’s go for it.”
I guess the universe decided to re-write the line in the remix.
Dynamite sale, 10 cents a stick!
Too many Molotov Cocktails can make you sick
Dark days, dead friends – memories condemned
Roaming bands of madmen
Drunken skeletons selling souvenirs
Dancing demons in the street – the slow death of time
A bar on every corner, a church to match
in the streets, the spirits clash
Pickets, scabs – missing fingers, missing hands
Shells of factories, shells of the men that worked ‘em
Tender young angels, no strangers to the pain
The stench of spilled-gut stains
Stale butts and lipstick
The freshness of a guilty conscience
Big-belted, barrel-bodied, thin-lipped Mick
Cursin’ his mom for ever havin’ ‘em
Shufflin’ thru the trash with the roaches and rats
Lookin’ for a dish to pass
He’s all soaked, an impish ass
She’s a lush tryin’ to fix herself up with a glass
The stripper, face-down on the bar, gets bigger tips
The preacher, drunk in his pulpit, goin’ out with a snake
Eatin’ off the collection plate
The lice at sunrise, a hiccup in the dirt
His halo’s bent
The crazed ol’ gent
His wife, she prays the misery’s worth it
While pigeons sit in judgment
The sign outside reads: “BIG ACE’S PLACE,
POKER SPOKEN HERE.”
Anthem were a pretty good band for classic rock.
Later Tony was our drummer,
But where is he now?
We looked under every rock
Tony brother, you out there?
Or did you finally get called up to Heaven?
Cash Newmann got a 7-dollar tattoo at Marty’s Archery
In the back room.
Still has it 35 years later.
Blurry little music note.
Girl left him for a biker
Who threatened him at the Rusty Nail
Where he saw the trail of blood in the snow
She later left the biker for a cop and
Moved to Toledo for the good life
Cash came back later on tour
And rocked the Rusty Nail.
Best thing that ever happened there.
Now the place is shuttered
Good end to bad vibes
But those vibes are ghosts
You cannot kill
They just move up the street