Creed was an American post-grunge band from Tallahassee, Florida that became popular in the late 1990s and early 2000s.
Creed formed after Scott Stapp and Mark Tremonti, friends at Florida State University and high school classmates at Orlando’s Lake Highland Preparatory School, decided to form a band, recruiting Brian Marshall and Scott Phillips to complete the quartet in late 1995. The band was originally called “Naked Toddler”, then was called “Maddox Creed” but was changed to “Creed” by suggestion of Marshall and agreed to be the final naming. The four members had already written and collaborated three of the songs that would go on to become tracks on their chart-topping debut album My Own Prison. The songs were “One”, “Sister” and “What’s This Life For”.
The band broke up in 2004, but there have been some rumors of a 2009 reunion sparked by a new Creed website and a teaser video up on the Wind Up Records website. There has been no official announcement, but for the first time since their split, their MySpace profile has been updated.
Higher
http://djallyn.org/media/Creed-Higher.flv
When dreaming I’m guided through another world
Time and time again
At sunrise I fight to stay asleep
‘Cause I don’t want to leave the comfort of this place
‘Cause there’s a hunger, a longing to escape
From the life I live when I’m awake
So let’s go there
Let’s make our escape
Come on, let’s go there
Let’s ask can we stay?
Can you take me higher?
To a place where blind men see
Can you take me higher?
To a place with golden streets
Although I would like our world to change
It helps me to appreciate
Those nights and those dreams
But, my friend, I’d sacrifice all those nights
If I could make the Earth and my dreams the same
The only difference is
To let love replace all our hate
So let’s go there
Let’s make our escape
Come on, let’s go there
Let’s ask can we stay?
Can you take me higher?
To a place where blind men see
Can you take me higher?
To a place with golden streets
So let’s go there (let’s go there)
Let’s go there (let’s go there) Come on,
let’s go there
Let’s ask can we stay?
Up high I feel like I’m alive for the very first time
Still up high I’m strong enough to take these dreams
And make them mine
Still up high I’m strong enough to take these dreams
And make them mine
Can you take me higher?
To a place where blind men see
Can you take me higher?
To a place with golden streets
Can you take me higher?
To a place where blind men see
Can you take me higher?
To a place with golden streets
- Audio from the 1999 album, Human Clay:
Tagged as:
Creed
The Decemberists are an indie rock band from Portland, Oregon, United States, fronted by singer/songwriter Colin Meloy. The other members of the band are Chris Funk (guitar, multi-instrumentalist), Jenny Conlee (hammond organ, accordion, melodica, piano, keyboards), Nate Query (bass guitar, string bass), and John Moen (drums, backing vocals, melodica).
The band’s songs range from upbeat pop to instrumentally lush ballads, and often employ instruments like the accordion, Hammond organ, Wurlitzer organ, and upright bass. In its lyrics, the band eschews the angst and introspection common to modern rock, instead favoring a storytelling approach, as evidenced in songs such as “My Mother Was A Chinese Trapeze Artist” from the 5 Songs EP and “The Mariner’s Revenge Song” on Picaresque. The band’s songs convey tales ranging from whimsical (“The Sporting Life“) to epic (“The Tain”) to dark (“Odalisque”), and often invoke historical events and themes from around the world. Early in their career, The Decemberists’ musical and lyrical aesthetics frequently prompted critics to compare them to Neutral Milk Hotel.
On The Bus Mall
http://djallyn.org/media/Decemberists-On_The_Bus_Mall.flv
In matching blue raincoats
Our shoes were our show boats
We kicked around.
From stairway to station
We made a sensation
With the gadabout crowd.
And oh, what a bargain,
We’re two easy targets
For the old men at the off-tracks,
Who’ve paid in palaver
And crumpled old dollars,
Which we squirreled away
In our rat trap hotel by the freeway.
And we slept-in Sundays.
Your parents were anxious,
Your cool was contagious
At the old school.
You left without leaving
A note for your grieving
Sweet mother, while
Your brother was so cruel.
And here in the alleys
Your spirits were rallied
As you learned quick to make a fast buck.
In bathrooms and barrooms,
On dumpsters and heirlooms,
We bit our tongues.
Sucked our lips into our lungs
’til we were falling.
Such was our calling.
And here in our hovel we fuse like a family,
But I will not mourn for you.
So take off your makeup
And pocket your pills away.
We’re kings among runaways
On the bus mall.
We’re down
On the bus mall.
Among all the urchins and old Chinese merchants
Of the old town,
We reigned at the pool hall
With one iron cue ball
And we never let the bastards get us down.
And we laughed off the quick tricks–
The old men with limp dicks–
On the colonnades of the waterfront park.
As 4 in the morning came on, cold and boring,
We huddled close
In the bus stop enclosure enfolding.
Our hands tightly holding.
But here in our hovel we fuse like a family,
But I will not mourn for you.
So take off your makeup
And pocket your pills away.
We’re kings among runaways
On the bus mall.
We’re down
On the bus mall.
We’re down
On the bus mall.
Down on the bus mall.
Oh ooh oh
From their 2005 Picaresque album:
Tagged as:
The Decemberists
Al Stewart is a British singer-songwriter and folk rock musician.
He is best known for his 1976 single “Year of the Cat” and its 1978 follow-up “Time Passages” (both of which were produced by Alan Parsons), although albums such as Past, Present and Future [1973] and Modern Times [1975] are seen as more representative of Stewart’s talent as a historical wordsmith and lyrical balladeer.
On The Border
http://djallyn.org/media/Al_Stewart-On_the_Border.flv
The fishing boats go out across the evening water,
Smuggling guns and arms across the Spanish border.
The wind whips up the waves so loud,
The ghost moon sails among the clouds,
And turns the rifles into silver,
On the border.
On my wall, the colors of the maps are running.
From Africa, the winds, they talk of changes coming.
The torches flare up in the night,
The hand that sets the farms alight,
Has spread the word to those who’re waiting
On the border.
In the village where I grew up
Nothing seems the same.
Still you never see the change
From day to day.
No one notices the customs slip away.
Late last night the rain was knocking on my window,
I moved across the darkened room, and in the lamp-glow,
I thought I saw down in the street,
The spirit of the century
Telling us that we’re all standing
On the border.
In the islands where I grew up,
Nothing seems the same.
It’s just the patterns that remain,
An empty shell.
But there’s a strangeness in the air you feel too well.
The fishing boats go out across the evening water,
Smuggling guns and arms across the Spanish border.
The wind whips up the waves so loud,
The ghost moon sails among the clouds,
And turns the rifles into silver,
On the border,
On the border,
On the border,
On the border.
- Audio from 1976 Year of the Cat album:
Tagged as:
Al Stewart
Break