My 93rd Favorite Song of All-Time

My 93rd favorite song of all time is:

“For the Workforce, Drowning” by Thursday

The band Thursday is often associated with young, silly emo kids.  But that’s weird.  They’re an incredibly smart band, extremely talented musicians, with lyrical content that goes beyond just “socially conscious” and becomes brilliant human commentary within the framework of our existing culture.

Take “For the Workforce, Drowning”.  I’ve never heard another song in my life about the soul-deadening effects of life in our modern, cubicle workforce.  The song touches on many elements of this cattle-chute life: anonymity-inducing technology, a financial system that keeps us from ever really getting our feet under us, the effect of professional boredom, modern life adding up to many people wondering just when, really, their life will start.

I’ve included two videos; they both appear to be live videos, but the first one os the studio audio overtop images of the band playing the song live, while the second is an actual live video.  The lyrics are after the second video; they are astonishing.

 

 

 

 

Falling from the top floor, your lungs fill like parachutes, windows go rushing by; people inside dressed for the funeral in black and white. These ties strangle our necks, hanging in the closet, found in the cubicle; without a name, just numbers on the resume stored in the mainframe, marked for delete.

Please take these hands, throw them in the river! Wash away the things they never held! Please take these hands, throw me in the river! Dont let me drown before the workday ends.

9 to 5! 9 to 5!

And we’re up to our necks, drowning in the seconds, ingesting the morning commute (lost in a dead subway sleep). Now we lie wide awake in our parents beds, tossing and turning. Tomorrow we’ll get up, drive to work single file with everyday— it’s like the last. Waiting for the life to start, is it always just always ahead of the curve?

Just keep making copies of copies of copies! When will it end?

(it’ll never end, until it gets so bad that the ink fills in our fingerprints and the silouhette of your own face becomes the black cloud of war and even in our dreams we’re so afraid the weight will offset who we are; all those breaths that you took have now been canceled in your lungs. last night my teeth fell out like ivory typewriter keys and all the monuments and skyscrapers burned down and filled the sea)

Save our ship! The anchor is part of the desk. We can’t cut free. The water is flooding the decks, the memos sent through the currents, computers spark like flares. I can see them, they don’t touch me, touch me.

Please someone, teach me how to swim.

Please, don’t let me drown.

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