Brighton Rock - The appalling strangeness of the mercy of God

uk grime, industrial punk, trip-hop noir

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[Verse 1]
Brighton, all glare and rot on the salt-line,
funfair lights on a face that’s already half-dead.
pinkie with the pinched mouth, the catholic terror,
the Catholic guilt turned mean in the head.
he had a boy’s hands, but he moved like a threat,
like the whole town owed him a debt he could collect.
Hale took the name, took the fear, took the note,
then slipped in the crowd and got left with the wreck.

bottle in the pocket, vitriol in the glass,
not a grand plan, just panic with a blade in the grasp.
the race track, the jolt, the scrape of the queue,
and the taste of a life gone sour through and through.
spicer in the shadow, the gang in the rain,
cowering close to the clerk’s-eye chain.
Colleoni’s men in the bright-lit frame,
and the hard little king with a hunger for pain.

[Pre-Chorus]
“God is love,” he says, but he says it like law,
and love in this town is a knife in the draw.
rose with her scruffy, unguarded faith,
blind to the cold that’s coiled in the case.
he can’t wash the mark from the soul he wears,
can’t outrun the map that the gutter declares.

[Chorus]
“the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God” —
say it again for the boy in the fog.
you can’t sweeten the core if the centre is wrong,
Brighton Rock hard, bitter all along.
“love is all right in its place,” but the place is a lie,
when the smile is a snare and the prayer is a spy.
I’m the stain in the salt, I’m the cut in the gloss,
and the mercy of God is the weight of the loss.

[Verse 2]
Rose at the door with her faithful, small heart,
carrying his name like a flare in the dark.
he wed her for silence, for cover, for cover-up,
for the cold little shelter of keeping her stuck.
she don’t see the rot underneath every vow,
don’t hear the dead click of the trap as it’s snapped down.
the gramophone turn, the voice on the disc,
“i hate you” — but hate ain’t the whole of the risk.

he wrote what he meant with the room all alone,
then the words came back like a bone to the bone.
Hale on the floor, Spicer on edge,
fear in the backrooms, fear on the ledge.
and Ida on the trail like a weather-front blade,
not mercy, not love, just the hunt that she made.
the town keeps its secrets in rain and in spume,
while the boy with the gospel is walking to doom.

[Bridge]
“i’m not all bad,” he tells himself in the night,
but the voice in him curdles, all spite in the light.
the sea keeps its mouth, the pier keeps its stain,
and the whole of his conscience is dressed up as pain.
the bottle gets broke, the acid gets loose,
the small-faced devil can’t cut himself loose.
“the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God” —
not pardon for free, just the sky opening odd.

[Final Chorus]
“the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God” —
that’s the chorus, that’s the curse, that’s the law.
you can’t change the core of a Brighton Rock heart,
bitter at the centre, split clean from the start.
“God is love” in the mouth of the wreck,
sounds like a match struck right at the neck.
I’m the boy with the blade and the fear in the throat,
on the pier with the rain and the rot in the coat.

[Outro]
“the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.”

3373/7500

[Intro] “the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.” that’s the joke in the gutter, bruv. pinkie in the cheap suit, fourteen stone of fear in a boy’s frame, seventeen and still a child of the razor. watch the slick on the boardwalk. [Verse 1] Brighton, all glare and rot on the salt-line, funfair lights on a face that’s already half-dead. pinkie with the pinched mouth, the catholic terror, the Catholic guilt turned mean in the head. he had a boy’s hands, but he moved like a threat, like the whole town owed him a debt he could collect. Hale took the name, took the fear, took the note, then slipped in the crowd and got left with the wreck. bottle in the pocket, vitriol in the glass, not a grand plan, just panic with a blade in the grasp. the race track, the jolt, the scrape of the queue, and the taste of a life gone sour through and through. spicer in the shadow, the gang in the rain, cowering close to the clerk’s-eye chain. Colleoni’s men in the bright-lit frame, and the hard little king with a hunger for pain. [Pre-Chorus] “God is love,” he says, but he says it like law, and love in this town is a knife in the draw. rose with her scruffy, unguarded faith, blind to the cold that’s coiled in the case. he can’t wash the mark from the soul he wears, can’t outrun the map that the gutter declares. [Chorus] “the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God” — say it again for the boy in the fog. you can’t sweeten the core if the centre is wrong, Brighton Rock hard, bitter all along. “love is all right in its place,” but the place is a lie, when the smile is a snare and the prayer is a spy. I’m the stain in the salt, I’m the cut in the gloss, and the mercy of God is the weight of the loss. [Verse 2] Rose at the door with her faithful, small heart, carrying his name like a flare in the dark. he wed her for silence, for cover, for cover-up, for the cold little shelter of keeping her stuck. she don’t see the rot underneath every vow, don’t hear the dead click of the trap as it’s snapped down. the gramophone turn, the voice on the disc, “i hate you” — but hate ain’t the whole of the risk. he wrote what he meant with the room all alone, then the words came back like a bone to the bone. Hale on the floor, Spicer on edge, fear in the backrooms, fear on the ledge. and Ida on the trail like a weather-front blade, not mercy, not love, just the hunt that she made. the town keeps its secrets in rain and in spume, while the boy with the gospel is walking to doom. [Bridge] “i’m not all bad,” he tells himself in the night, but the voice in him curdles, all spite in the light. the sea keeps its mouth, the pier keeps its stain, and the whole of his conscience is dressed up as pain. the bottle gets broke, the acid gets loose, the small-faced devil can’t cut himself loose. “the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God” — not pardon for free, just the sky opening odd. [Final Chorus] “the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God” — that’s the chorus, that’s the curse, that’s the law. you can’t change the core of a Brighton Rock heart, bitter at the centre, split clean from the start. “God is love” in the mouth of the wreck, sounds like a match struck right at the neck. I’m the boy with the blade and the fear in the throat, on the pier with the rain and the rot in the coat. [Outro] “the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.”

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