I wrote this song almost exactly a year ago in the second lockdown. For want of something to do I took a copy of the New Yorker and decided to write a song for every article that appeared in it, taking only the title and letting myself fill in the details. I gave myself seven days to write these songs and worked non-stop in that time. This song was a product of that exercise, and so I’d like to hide behind that concept and assure you all that it has nothing to do with myself or my life. However, I do recall a feeling of bleakness and heaviness from the time I was writing, which I hope comes through.
This song came to fruition a few months later when Deathcrash, a band I am very fond of, very kindly agreed to play on the track, lifting it from my bedroom-production demo into a more expansive and heavy song. We recorded it with Nina at Laylow and it was mixed by Jude Woodhead
lyrics
Each day I wait to be written and end up at your door
I’m qualified and patronised, ‘cause it’s you I’m working for
I’ll give you sunshine for today, and the weather for the week
I use so many pretty words that I make good words look cheap
And I’ll tell you the things that you want and it’s fine
I’m the New Yorker, I’m the Sunday Times
And I’ll do anything for the last word it’s mine
I’m Revelation, I’m the New York Times
In the evening radios sing a song that I sang first
I have the eye for corporate beauty, I’m shiny and rehearsed
Some say there’s more vapid stories, but I may tell the worst
And I’ll tell you the things that you want and it’s fine
I’m the New Yorker, I’m the Sunday Times
And I do anything for the last word, it’s mine
I’m Revelation, I’m the New York Times
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