Magic Gramophone

woodhouseboy1985

prog rock, cinematic sci-fi rock, apocalyptic industrial/metallic soundscape

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[Verse 1]
Over the hill the first one lifted,
three-legged shadow in the dawn,
brass and iron, steam and lightning,
walking where the sheep had gone.
Every step a church bell shattering,
every turn a furnace glare,
and the people in the village
froze like pins in poisoned air.

[Verse 2]
Then the second rose behind it,
then the third out by the lane,
towering over roofs and chimneys,
striding through the summer grain.
Dogs were howling, horses screaming,
glass was running from the frames,
and the sacred little record
kept on whispering all their names.

[Pre-Chorus]
Run if you can,
pray if you must,
the fields are fire,
the roads are dust.

[Chorus]
Hear the red machines march,
hear the black earth break,
hear the heavens grind like gears
with every step they take.
The horn keeps singing doom,
the needle will not stop,
and all our proud bright little world
is turning to a drop.

[Spoken]
I carried the player with me.
Madness, perhaps.
But how else was I to know what came next?
It was no longer a machine.
It was a guide.
Or a jailer.

[Verse 3]
Down the street the baker stumbled,
through the ash and boiling rain,
while the vicar raised a useless cross
against a beam of pain.
Walls went white and then transparent,
men were shadows on the stones,
and the record sang in perfect time
with all the dying groans.

[Bridge]
Is this what waits beyond the starlight?
Is this mastery? Is this grace?
A dog that hears its master’s footsteps
while the world is stripped of face?
Turn, old platter, tell me truly,
what obedient souls are for,
if all devotion ever earns
is a boot against the door.

[Big Chorus]
Hear the red machines march,
through the smoke and flame,
calling every living creature
smaller than their name.
The horn becomes a siren,
the parlour turns to war,
and His Master's Voice now follows me
from field to shattered door.

[Breakdown - Spoken over music]
"They are not gods..."
I said.
But the record answered:
"No.
Gods can be reasoned with."

[Final Chorus]
Hear the red machines march,
hear the end begin,
hear the old world cracking open
to the thing that lies within.
And still that haunted record spins,
cold and bright and hoarse,
while all mankind is drowning
in the sermon of its source.

[Outro]
The night burned red...
and the needle never lifted.

2498/7500

[Intro - Spoken] They came not with banners, nor trumpets, nor any declaration fit for civilized ears. They came as heat, as metal, as certainty. And over it all, in my house, the magic gramophone played on. [Verse 1] Over the hill the first one lifted, three-legged shadow in the dawn, brass and iron, steam and lightning, walking where the sheep had gone. Every step a church bell shattering, every turn a furnace glare, and the people in the village froze like pins in poisoned air. [Verse 2] Then the second rose behind it, then the third out by the lane, towering over roofs and chimneys, striding through the summer grain. Dogs were howling, horses screaming, glass was running from the frames, and the sacred little record kept on whispering all their names. [Pre-Chorus] Run if you can, pray if you must, the fields are fire, the roads are dust. [Chorus] Hear the red machines march, hear the black earth break, hear the heavens grind like gears with every step they take. The horn keeps singing doom, the needle will not stop, and all our proud bright little world is turning to a drop. [Spoken] I carried the player with me. Madness, perhaps. But how else was I to know what came next? It was no longer a machine. It was a guide. Or a jailer. [Verse 3] Down the street the baker stumbled, through the ash and boiling rain, while the vicar raised a useless cross against a beam of pain. Walls went white and then transparent, men were shadows on the stones, and the record sang in perfect time with all the dying groans. [Bridge] Is this what waits beyond the starlight? Is this mastery? Is this grace? A dog that hears its master’s footsteps while the world is stripped of face? Turn, old platter, tell me truly, what obedient souls are for, if all devotion ever earns is a boot against the door. [Big Chorus] Hear the red machines march, through the smoke and flame, calling every living creature smaller than their name. The horn becomes a siren, the parlour turns to war, and His Master's Voice now follows me from field to shattered door. [Breakdown - Spoken over music] "They are not gods..." I said. But the record answered: "No. Gods can be reasoned with." [Final Chorus] Hear the red machines march, hear the end begin, hear the old world cracking open to the thing that lies within. And still that haunted record spins, cold and bright and hoarse, while all mankind is drowning in the sermon of its source. [Outro] The night burned red... and the needle never lifted.

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