The Royal Scam

"Bring me some bandages and there'll be sex" -girl in a Bruce Jay Friedman story "If the 1960's can be seen as a decade largely characterized by musical alienation, with its more radical manifestations often directed explicity against the status quo, against traditional concert music, and against the concert situation itself, the 1970's represented a period of widespread reconciliation." -Robert P. Morgan, "20th Century Music" It was the hippest of times, it was the squarest of times - mostly the latter. And while it was certainly true that we found ourselves in the unenviable position of being labelmates with the likes of Tommy Roe and Freddie Fender, we yet aspired to see our own names written on the stars alongside the greats, near greats, and ingrates of jazz, funk, and/or rhythm and blues, depending. The dim half light of near-quasi-celebrity in which we basked notwithstanding, as the seventies wore on, we found ourselves feeling kind of empty inside - as though driving home from a sodden one-nighter with some eminently forgettable made-for-TV-movie queen, say Sharon Farrell or even Susan St. James. Blinded by the as-always-too-bright L.A. skyscape, at once faintly hungry and vaguely nauseated, we switch on the scratchy car radio to soothe our weary psyches, and lo - we are mocked and assaulted by the tinny bleat of our own recorded music, its every flaw hideously magnified, its every shortcoming laid bare. O cosmic hipsters, flipsters, fingerpopping daddies - ye mighty gods of jump music - why hast thou forsaken us? Well, probably for lots of good reasons, both known and unknown, but we come away from this soul wringing thought experiment convinced of two things - 1) this town is Going Down With The Beast, and 2) these L.A. cats are making us sound like a couple of goddamn pussies. Having recently relocated in the 457 zone (that's out Malibu way, babies) and as we began work on a new collection of fresh and ultra-hard-hitting material designed to redeem ourselves on the public airwaves, it so happens that on a certain magic night both of your humble narrators had strangely similar precognitive dreams involving a) the Brill Building, b) Larry de Tourette, doorman/mascot of same, and c) fear of lifetime employment at Colony Records, located on the ground floor of same. Even allowing for a brief cameo by an unidentified pair of teenage Eurasian deaf mute babysitters towards the end of Act 3 (Becker) or an extended scenario involving amateur theatricals, a tank of nitrous oxide and a snooty upper eastside middle school for French girls (Fagen), the effect of these apocalyptic visions was much as though we had both drawn "The Hanged Man" during Bard College stoner seance on All Hallow's Eve.

In other words, we were, according to these distressing prognostications, well and truly fucked - unless we took heed and reinvented ourselves on the streets of the City of Class, and pronto. A period of research and reconnaissance ensued, the chief purpose being to determine a) who exactly played the drums on a certain Laura Nyro record (Bernard Purdie? Herb Lovell? Artie Schneck?) and b) whether the EMT echo chambers at A&R Studios on Seventh Avenue were still the grandest in the land. Was the roast beef still rare, the corned beef lean, the skies still blue, the cab drivers loony - in short, did they remember us still on the Great White Way? Was it possible for food to taste other than it did at the Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset Boulevard? Or was it too late for us to reclaim our rich cultural birthright as citizens of the Greater Metropolitan Area? The results of our inquiries were encouraging. Passages were booked, leaves taken, rhythm charts passed around, and the rest is musical history, of a sort (see enclosed CD). Fast forward to mixdown, back in L.A. Comfortably configured in our customary listening positions at ABC Records Studio C, we find ourselves feeling all fat and sassy. Seretonin receptors sipping at a seemingly inexhaustible supply of whatever, we feel as though we are strolling down a realer-than-real virtual Broadway, past the City Squire and on into the groovingest Broadway nightclub you can ever imagine, with the bugaloo band of your dreams up on the stand wailing away. Instead of the usual make-mine-vanilla scrubbers, we find ourselves rocking out to the soul-stirring sounds of some fiercely funkadelic and deeply righteous Bernard Purdie grooves, Chuck Rainey bass lines, Paul Griffin piano riffs, and the like. Here comes a guitar solo - Larry Carlton, no problem there. Don Grolnick keyboard vamps so solid you could set your watch by them. Background vocals, blaring trumpets, wah wah guitar solos, ha-ha lyrics - it's all there. Our happiness at this particular point in time would be ultracomplete save for one thing - namely, we have not as yet found a cover shot for the album. None of our much-prized souvenirs of Springtime in the Big City - gold faucets from the St. Regis, Polaroids from the Metropole, sixpack of thick terry bathrobes with various hotel monograms, empty pack of Delicado Olivados, hecho en Mexico - our copious stash of colorful Big Apple swag leaves us still wanting for suitable thematic material pertaining to the desperately needed cover art. Luckily for us, we are in Los Angeles where, more than anywhere else in the known universe, bad taste abhors a vacuum, and before long we find ourselves staring into the maw of the most hideous album cover of the seventies, bar none (excepting perhaps Can't Buy A Thrill). Why are those buildings turning into reptilian horrors, or vice versa? What squalid back alley of the human condition is meant to be invoked by this contused nightmare palette? What manner of man - ill-shod, unshaven - dares sleep peacefully through this fearsome and repulsive protomorph? (to be continued) -Donald Fagen & Walter Becker, 1999

Kid Charlemagne While the music played You worked by candlelight Those San Fransisco nights You were the best in town Just by chance you crossed The diamond with the pearl You turned it on the world That's when you turned the world around Did you feel like Jesus Did you realise That you were a champion in their eyes On the hill the stuff Was laced with kerosene But yours was kitchen clean Everyone stopped to stare At your technicolor motorhome Every A-Frame had your Number on the wall You must have had it all You'd go to LA on dare And you'd go it alone Could you live forever Could you see the day Could you feel your whole world Fall apart and fade away Get along Get along Kid Charlemagne Get along Kid Charlemagne Now the patrons have all Left you in the red Your low rent friends are dead This life can be very strange All those day-glow freaks Who used to paint the face They've joined the human race Somethings will never change Son you were mistaken You are obsolete Look at all the white men On the street [chorus] Clean this mess up Or we'll all end up in jail. Those test-tubes and the scale Just get them all out of here Is there gas in the car (Yes, there's gas in the car) I think the people down the hall Know who you are Careful what you carry 'Cause the man is wise You are still an outlaw in their eyes. [chorus] Drums: Bernard Purdie Bass: Chuck Rainey Guitar: Larry Carlton Keyboards: Don Grolnick, Paul Griffin Backup Vocals: Donald Fagen, Michael McDonald, Venetta Fields, Clydie King, Sherlie Matthews

 

Caves of Altamira I recall, when I has small How I spent my days alone The busy world was not for me So I went and found my own I would climb the garden wall With a candle in my hand I'd hide inside a hall of rock and sand On the stone in ancient hand In a faded yellow-green Made alive a worldly wonder Often told but never seen Now and ever bound to labor On the sea and in the sky Every man and beast appeared A friend as real as I [Chorus:] Before the fall When they wrote it on the wall When there wasn't even any Hollywood They heard the call And they wrote it on the wall For you and me we understood Can it be this sad design Could be the very same A wooly man without a face And a beast without a name Nothing here but history Can you see what has been done Memory rush over me Now I step into the sun [Chorus] [chorus]

 

Don't Take Me Alive Agents of the law Luckless Pedestrian I know you're out there With rage in your eyes and your megaphones Saying all is forgiven Mad dog surrender How can I answer A man of my mind can do anything I'm a bookkeeper's son I don't want to shoot no one Well I crossed my old man back in Oregon Don't take me alive Got a case of dynamite I could hold out here all night Yes, I crossed my old man back in Oregon Don't take me alive Can you hear the evil crowd the lies and the laughter I hear my inside The mechanized hum of another world Where no sun is shining No red light flashing Here in this darkness I know what I've done I know all at once who I am [Chorus] [solo]

 

Sign in Stranger Have you heard about the boom on Mizar-5 People got to shout to stay alive They don't even have policeman one Doesn't matter where you been or                                            what you've done Do you have a dark spot on your past Leave it to my man he'll fix it fast Pepe has a scar from ear to ear He will make your mug shots disappear. [Chorus:] You zombie Be born again my friend Won't you sign in stranger Do you like to take a yo-yo for a ride Zombie I can see you're qualified Walk around collecting Turkish Union dues They will call you Sir and shine your shoes Or maybe you would like to see the show You'll enjoy the Cafe D'Escargot Folks are in a line around the block Just to see her do the conch-con-Jacques [Chorus] Love or leave her Yellow fever sure It's all in the game And who are you Just another scurvy brother [piano solo] [Chorus]

The Fez Written by Donald Fagen, Walter Becker and Paul Griffin I'm never gonna do it Without the fez on Oh no Don't make me do it Without the fez on Oh no That's what I am Please understand I wanna be your holy man.

 

Green Earrings Cold Daring No Flies on me Sorry Angel I must take What I see [Chorus:] Green earrings I remember The rings of rare design I remember The look in your eyes I don't mind Greek Medallion Sparkles When you smile. Sorry Angel  I get hungry Like a child [Chorus] [solo] [Chorus] Drums: Bernard Purdie Bass: Chuck Rainey Lead guitar: Elliot Randall Guitar: Larry Carlton Rhodes piano: Don Grolnick Clavinet: Paul Griffin Synthesizer: Donald Fagen Backup Vocals: Tim Schmit

 

Haitian Divorce Babs and Clean Willie were in love they said So in love the preacher's face turned red Soon everybody knew the thing was dead He shouts She bites They wrangle through the night She go crazy Got to make a getaway Papa say [Chorus:] O No hesitation No tears and no hearts breaking No remorse O Congratulations This is your Haitian Divorce She takes the taxi to the good hotel Bon marché as far as she can tell She drinks the zombie from the cocoa shell She feels Alright She get it on tonight Mister driver Take me where the music play Papa say [Chorus] At the Grotto In the greasy chair Sits the Charlie with the lotion And the kinky hair When she smiled she said it all The band was hot so They danced the famous merango Now we dolly back Now we fade to black [solo] Tearful reunion in the USA Day by day those memories fade away Some babies grow in a peculiar way It changed it grew And everybody knew Semi-mojo Who's this kinky so-and-so Papa go [Chorus]

 

Everything You Did Where did the Bastard run Is he still around Now you gotta tell me everything You did baby I'm gonna get a gun Shoot the lover down Are you gonna tell me ev'rything You did baby Traces are everywhere In our happy home Now you better tell me everything You did baby I jumped out of my easy chair It was not my own Now I wanna hear about everything I never knew you You were a roller skater You gonna show me later Turn up the Eagles The neighbors are listening. You know how people talk I wonder what they say I think you better tell me everything You did baby [solo] [chorus] You never came to me When you were so inclined Yes you could have told me everything You did baby I know where baby's at I know your filthy mind Now you're gonna do me everything You did baby You did baby

 

The Royal Scam And they wandered in from the city Of St. John without a dime Wearing coats that shined both red and green Colors from their sunny island From their boats of iron they looked upon The promised land where surely life was sweet On the rising tide to New York City Did they ride into the street [Chorus:] See the glory (See the glory of) Of the royal scam They are hounded down to the bottom Of a bad town amid the ruins Where they learn to fear an angry race Of fallen kings their dark companions While the memory of their southern sky Was clouded by a savage winter Every patron saint hung on the wall Shared the room with twenty sinners [Chorus] By the blackened wall he does it all He thinks he's died and gone to heaven Now the tale is told by the old man Back home he reads the letter How they are paid in gold just to babble In the back room all night and waste the time And they wandered in from the city Of St. John without a dime [Chorus] [Chorus]

The Midi-sequense , on this page is The Fez.

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Revision of January 27, 2023 - A Lost Wages Production..

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