THE BREAD SONG by Randall Stephen Hall

THE BREAD SONG. (Materialism Blues).

I wrote this song when I played in a group called “MUDSI MUNTU”. (MOODZI MOON TWO). These African words mean “Men of the Village”. You couldn’t call it work, really. We didn’t play anywhere. We just wrote and recorded songs (three albums worth),  using very simple equipment and multi-tracking to build up the sound of our band. 1980-1983/4 up in North Belfast. Influenced by music coming out of Soweto, South Africa.

https://soundcloud.com/randall-stephen-hall/the-bread-song-circa-1980  (If this link is unavailable, just look for Randall Stephen Hall on Sound Cloud).

We mostly met up on a Sunday afternoon to develop ideas in a bedroom/studio.  Julian Fowler did all the mixing and Derek McCullough played guitar and sang too. It was a very positive experience and the music kept me going.

It was Derek who came up with the first two chords of the song. He was, and still is, a great man for a riff or a groove. He spent his formative years in Africa.  Julian was, and still is, a fine bass player. Time flies like a seagull. Where will it land?

The words seem as relevant as ever. In some ways, more so.
 I sang it for the first time, live, at the Sunflower Folk Club. Union Street, Belfast. 28.8.14 The time difference is only about 31 years since I wrote the words and melody.  I’m still very proud of the guitar solo. Every simple note counted (ha ha!). Speed isn’t everything. Here are the lyrics.

Sometimes it takes a long time for songs to escape out there.

THE BREAD SONG.

Crazy people.
 Sitting at their desks in work all day.
 Lazy people.
 Living routine the rodent way.
 Got to have my job.
 Got to have my roof over my head
. We owe so much to so many.
We owe so much bread . . .

Little rodents.
 Climbing up their ladders to success.
 Blind and blinkered.
 Cutting all the corners 
in the race to the right address. 
Got to have my car.
 Got to be seen in the right sort of place.
 Got to have the right shoes.
 Got to have the right walk.
 Got to have the right sort of face.

Chorus.
 Bread.
 Bread.
 Bread.

Now bread may sound a silly thing
. A mere trifle in disguise.
 But if I took your cake away, 
you’d open up your eyes.
 Everyone has got enough
, but everyone wants more.
 We bite and chew the hand that feeds, 
then spit it on the floor.
 Because of Bread . . .

Chorus.

Take your ice pick.
 Hammer on the rock and hold on tight.
 But rock can crumble. 
Ice can melt
. And you could tumble out of life’s light.
 Did you look around?
 Did you reason why?
 Was it all worth that pain?
 You’ve won the game. 
Lost the dice.
 But the ladder still remains. 
Because of Bread.

Chorus.

End