Dust-Remembered Gramophone

woodhouseboy1985

sci-fi rock opera, gothic rock, orchestral cinematic, theatrical rock opera

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[Verse 1]
Under rafters, under moonlight,
under sheets of ghostly lace,
sat a box of blackened walnut
like a relic out of place.
Brass was gleaming through the cobwebs,
gold against the rotting beams,
and the dog upon the label
seemed to listen through my dreams.

[Verse 2]
I wound the handle, slow and careful,
felt the spring begin to wake,
and the silence of the attic
shivered like a brittle lake.
Then the needle kissed the record,
and the room began to bend,
as if time itself were listening
for a voice not meant for men.

[Pre-Chorus]
It hummed before it sang,
it breathed before it spoke,
and all the dust around me rose
like incense, ash, and smoke.

[Chorus]
Oh, His Master's Voice is calling through the horn,
from a groove where dead tomorrows are reborn.
Turn the handle, drop the needle, let the dark rejoice,
there is something in the parlour of His Master's Voice.

[Spoken]
At first I thought it was static...
the harmless crackle of age.
But static does not whisper your name.
Static does not know the hour of your birth.
Static does not warn you
to lock the doors before the red light comes.

[Verse 3]
Every note was bent and broken,
like a choir drowned in tin,
yet beneath the hiss and thunder
was a language pushing in.
Not a song of human longing,
not a waltz or drinking rhyme,
but a message cut in spirals
from some other age than mine.

[Bridge]
And the horn became a lighthouse,
and the needle was a knife,
cutting open hidden chambers
in the shell of common life.
All the portraits on the wall stared,
all the floorboards seemed to breathe,
and the night outside the window
wore a red eye in the heath.

[Big Chorus]
Oh, His Master's Voice is calling through the horn,
from a groove where dead tomorrows are reborn.
Every crackle is a prophecy, every tone a choice,
and the house began to tremble at His Master's Voice.

[Outro - Spoken]
It said:
"Play me again...
and hear what is coming."
So I played it again.

2240/7500

[Intro - Spoken] There are some objects that do not merely play music... they remember. In the attic of my father's house, beneath dust, velvet, and old regret, I found a machine with a brass horn, a record player marked... "His Master's Voice." But no master I knew had ever spoken through it. [Verse 1] Under rafters, under moonlight, under sheets of ghostly lace, sat a box of blackened walnut like a relic out of place. Brass was gleaming through the cobwebs, gold against the rotting beams, and the dog upon the label seemed to listen through my dreams. [Verse 2] I wound the handle, slow and careful, felt the spring begin to wake, and the silence of the attic shivered like a brittle lake. Then the needle kissed the record, and the room began to bend, as if time itself were listening for a voice not meant for men. [Pre-Chorus] It hummed before it sang, it breathed before it spoke, and all the dust around me rose like incense, ash, and smoke. [Chorus] Oh, His Master's Voice is calling through the horn, from a groove where dead tomorrows are reborn. Turn the handle, drop the needle, let the dark rejoice, there is something in the parlour of His Master's Voice. [Spoken] At first I thought it was static... the harmless crackle of age. But static does not whisper your name. Static does not know the hour of your birth. Static does not warn you to lock the doors before the red light comes. [Verse 3] Every note was bent and broken, like a choir drowned in tin, yet beneath the hiss and thunder was a language pushing in. Not a song of human longing, not a waltz or drinking rhyme, but a message cut in spirals from some other age than mine. [Bridge] And the horn became a lighthouse, and the needle was a knife, cutting open hidden chambers in the shell of common life. All the portraits on the wall stared, all the floorboards seemed to breathe, and the night outside the window wore a red eye in the heath. [Big Chorus] Oh, His Master's Voice is calling through the horn, from a groove where dead tomorrows are reborn. Every crackle is a prophecy, every tone a choice, and the house began to tremble at His Master's Voice. [Outro - Spoken] It said: "Play me again... and hear what is coming." So I played it again.

0/500