Rockabilly Rough-House

When punk'd had its better days dragged screaming through the muck
and New Wave hit the 80s like a 44-ton truck,
Hanging on its coat-tails came the time of laissez faire
When money wrote the music, and most bands just did their hair.
But ghosting right among them all, a band stayed quite well hidden
The band were called The Lost Boys, they were good at what they did
But other bands went for the cash while these just went for broke
The problem was that resolution all went up in smoke.
They couldn’t quite get out of bed to catch the gravy-train
Their talent was a driving force, they just failed to attain
The dizzy heights of stardom where the air was pure and clear
Of any sign of conscience that could cost a band so dear

Downbeat broken-hearted tears turned into New Romantic ‘s blood
When Rockabilly rough-house turned a trickle to a flood.
There were quiffs & stiffs & blaring riffs, all colouring the scene
The bouncers bounced, & girlfriends pounced, the language was obscene.

So, when they hit the nightclub on the same bill as King Kurt
They played about as upbeat as a penitent’s hair-shirt.
Exactly what you shouldn’t do to a Psychobilly crowd,
Whose cries of disapproval were about to get quite loud.
It was sounding like a séance much more than a great night out
With a cheerless New Romantic mood about to get snuffed out.
There were bottles, beer, and barstools flying graceful through the air
With oaths & screams, & barely teens. Each one with too much hair.
I was introducing someone’s head to the floor quite forcibly
When a mountain of a bouncer said, “Oi! Leave that work to me.”
He showed me quite precisely what I hadn’t known ‘til then
with his hand so tight around my throat I thought it was the end.

He said in such a friendly tone “I think you need some air.”
And then without a goodbye kiss he threw me down the stairs.
The Lost Boys were all bleeding as they picked up their guitars.
They’d been surprised that their demise was written in the stars
The time for mournful tedium was buried in the past
The Psychobilly rebels had just kicked its skinny arse.
They combed & preened & Brylcreemed every quiff & every curl
Ttheir duck-arsed necks were unperplexed by an ever-changing world.
The moral of this story is “Shit or get off the pot!”
The revolution’s coming whether you like it or not
It’s no good wearing last year’s style or playing last year’s riffs
The music scene won’t hang around for moribund old stiffs.