New York Nights lyrics

Artist  : Recoil 
Song : New York Nights
 


Mind numbing, mentally crushing, membrane
sloshing noise. Manhattan rumbled through night
and I never knew that. Had suspected, had read it
on t–shirts: ‘The city that never sleeps.' But
didn't need to believe it. The onliest sound I
believed was the train pulling out, heard from
'bout 6 blocks away. That was an all night sound.
Smooth not chatter. The noise was too noisy. I
mean noisier than noise had to be. Noisier than
the splash sound of the shore upon the roar of a
757 taking the summer route. Upon mom vex cause
little kids don't listen. Noise bigger than
blockbuster videos playing in the next room at
the 4am matinee and the phone...that was just
noise. I mean noisier than noise should be. Not
ear deafening, mind numbing, mentally crushing,
membrane sloshing noise. Keithie and his boys
walked and talked shit nights but it was always
distinct, not chatter.. 'n' jersey girls didn't
giggle at the freaks, 'talianos sucking Corona
bottles making crashes fill the street, never
plugged the void of my nights because the void
was silence. Over in Bushwick, the ice cream man
pulled his truck over while, shall we say, he got
his popsickle sucked. He pulled over his truck but
the song kept on, all day, all night. The song
means the ice cream guy’s gettin' some - it
don't even mean ice cream. 'Cause they hear the
song and there’s no guy selling ice cream from
the truck. 'Sides, who got money to be giving
kids every time they hear the song woven between
the sounds of car horns and latin rhythms. And
the ice cream guy gets death threats. Gotta get
me a token, make the rumble of the ‘A’ my
lullaby. Gotta escape to the womb of my room. I
never believed in New York nights. I never slept
in Manhattan before. 21 years, 16 by the shore.
It may have taken a while to get used to the
silence, the absence of sound through night at my
home but I’ve never slept in Manhattan before.
It hurts. It is hurting my head as I write this.
It is making my mind squeeze itself through a
tiny doorway onto a massive stage where sound is
disconnected from action. Each render themselves
tiles in the mosaic. Pretty is the picture from
far away. Gotta get me a token, make the rumble
of the ‘A’ my lullaby. Gotta escape to the
womb of my room. I never believed in New York
nights. Each tone drifts against the next with
nowhere it would rather be. No desire of
dominance, no call to signify nothing. Gotta get
me a token, make the rumble of the ‘A’ my
lullaby. Gotta escape to the womb of my room. I
never believed in New York nights.