everyday is like sunday

[sumner ( every little counts)]

  啊，好喜歡這首～（演唱會有聽到就很開心 ^^）
  恰巧最近 brit-pop 版也用這首作標題。
  這就是之前上那個曼城網站查到的，
  後面附上歌曲評論和其中提到的那首 John Betjeman 的詩 slough
  （是真的有像）

EVERYDAY IS LIKE SUNDAY

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Trudging slowly over wet sand
Back to the bench where your clothes were stolen
This is the coastal town
That they forgot to close down
Armageddon - come Armageddon!
Come, Armageddon! Come!

Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey


Hide on the promenade
Etch a postcard :
"How I Dearly Wish I Was Not Here"
In the seaside town
...that they forgot to bomb
Come, Come, Come - nuclear bomb


Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey


Trudging back over pebbles and sand
And a strange dust lands on your hands
(And on your face...)
(On your face ...)
(On your face ...)
(On your face ...)

Everyday is like Sunday
"Win Yourself A Cheap Tray"
Share some greased tea with me
Everyday is silent and grey

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An absolutely classic song and probably the highlight of Viva Hate.
Street's fine backing is transformed by Morrissey's incredibly
well-realised vocal, and what I would hold up as an example of
Morrissey's lyrical genius. Ironically enough, this song (as in the
other classic fool's gold track, Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now) is
often cited as an example of Mozzer's miserablism. Nothing could
really be further from the truth, when it comes to this song, at
least. None of the critics seem to have noticed that there is
deliberately no space between the words "every" and "day". I suggest
they look at the difference in meaning between "everyday" and "every
day". Rather than moping about his whole life being dull, this song
is a brilliant eulogy to finally escaping from an awful life best
left behind. It's almost as if Moz had purposefully set a trap for
the foot-in-mouth merchants, those who speak before even considering.
In the song, the protagonist is looking back at the bad old days when
he was stuck in a dead-end seaside town. The usual holiday cliches
are reversed, with Morrissey caustically commenting in a contempory
interview "The idea of a resort in Britain doesn't seem natural".
Regarding the strange dust, there are (of course) several theories as
to the symbolism. I believe it is deliberately left open-ended so the
listener may reach their own conclusions :)
The Cheap Tray mentioned is probably referring to the god-awful cheap
holiday gifts you get in poky little shops in Scarborough.
Greased tea could be exactly what it says - greasy horrible tea from
a "Greasy Spoon" beachfront cafe. Or a slightly more contrived theory
is that it is a clever pun on the greased poles seen in team sport
fun-day event things. The image of the nation's most comforting symbol,
our national drink, as a dangerous and slippery item, is quite
compelling. Or it could just mean tea with the attending sweet scones
and jam.
Many people have commented on this song's resemblance to John
Betjeman's poem "Slough".
Charles Blair suggests this song may be connected to the Neville Shute
book "On The Beach".
William Kurt has this to say :
the world of "Everyday is like Sunday" takes place in the town that
wasn't bombed. Life seems to be imprisoning and dreary without the
freedom and excitement that fearing the bomb had previously brought.
The lines "Trudging slowly over wet sand/Back to the bench where your
clothes were stolen" seem to clearly show this transition from freedom
and joy to a duller, more miserable world. It seems as if the protagonist
was formerly running joyously naked along the beach, as would be expected
of the protagonist in "Ask", but after the fun is gone, he returns to
find that his clothes have been stolen, leaving him naked and alone on
the beach on a cold grey day. The rest of the song seems to be describing
the walk of the protagonist hoping for the bomb to drop to put a quick
end to things. Then the "Strange dust lands". I feel that what this '
strange dust' is is pretty clear: it's the dust from nuclear fall out.
While the sudden flash of a nuclear bomb will eliminate your life in a
quick and brilliant flash, nuclear fall out will slowly give you
radiation poisoning, leaving you with a long painful death. That's also
what I believe the 'greased tea' is. The grease give the image that the
tea is tainted and sickly; basically it's radioactive tea, polluted and
dirty, leading to a slow miserable death.
Overall the entire song is much like when someone says 'life is long';
this is never viewed as something positive, as opposed to when someone
says 'life is short'. A short quick life means that one can do whatever
one wants and can ignore all the consequences, but a long life is full
of responsibility and consequences for every action.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Slough
by John Betjeman (1906 - 1984)

John Betjeman published his poem about Slough in 1937 in the collected
works Continual Dew. Slough was becoming increasingly industrial and
some housing conditions were very cramped. In willing the destruction
of Slough, Betjeman urges the bombs to pick out the vulgar profiteers
but to spare the bald young clerks. He really was very fond of his
fellow human beings. Slough is much improved nowadays and he might be
pleasantly surprised by a stroll there.


Slough

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.


--

  誠徵港版音樂殖民地 第 15/34 期....


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