Roman Gonzalez

Hotline

Concisely referred to as “(Hotline)”, this song was written under the influence of bologna sandwiches and Vladimir Nabokov. That in mind, this song is not about any thing, but many things; motivations, not messages; textures, not so much the text. Yet the text is loaded with a wealth of data and is about as direct a statement as my mind could muster. There is a method, or there is now, and it is in one or two senses “mad”. I cannot attribute any substantial metaphor or symbolic significance to this song, as those techniques are trite lions of literature, cracking church bells of a religion slowly growing out of fashion.

The song is tragicomic, so don’t be afraid to laugh. If at any point something seems to easy, I’m most likely mocking it, but I would be telling a pale lie if I told you that there was all mind and no heart in this song, no personal strings attached. But be careful. This song is for those who love and hate the virtues of boredom, the Gulf War, and equivocality — die by the pun!

A very special thanks to my musical comrade, Jonathan Leibovic, for his heart-rumbling vocals, seamless guitar skills, and input in the creation of the song. Thanks to Dean of the College Katherine Bergeron for your insights and for coming in with third part harmonies in the bridge of Hotline. Additional thanks to Professor Rovan and our TA Nate Sloan, who helped tremendously in my effort to learn more about music theory and composition this semester.

Lyrics

The Tragic Carousel Highway Accident To Come that Everybody Will Stop to Stare At Which Made Me Think About Deep Things
or (Hotline)

Hazel blankets, orange eyes,
Apples supine toward light.
The truth of the matter,
Is that you haven't mattered.

An old man took a drag and sighed
'Cause Clowns are eating time.
Dim empty statements.
You're sounding so stupid.

You don't understand the end
'Cause you were never part of it.
You were unlucky,
So stop asking questions.

I had never thought of that! Just
Get your ass into the back
Where you belong.
No, don't touch the radio.

Call me for a good time. Hotline.

I'm frequenting nursing home barbecues.
Stop watching how I do.
Now why are you yelling?
What did I ever do to you?

I'm writing Kafka! Thinking life
Like no bum's thought before!
We were unhappy.
You'll move on too quickly.

We never took the road less traveled.
Our drum feet beat the common gravel.
Our dumb hearts,
Yea, they paved the way.

You don't understand the end.
Fuck you and what wasn't said.
I am waiting,
Awaiting my carousel escape.

Call me for a good time. Hotline.

I'm sorry yet.
With ten regrets.
Lightly contrived.
Are you alive at all?

I am not at full to blame.
I'm reading trippy shit.
I am awaiting,
Awaiting a Mexicana harp.

No matter the distance and time that it takes to move along,
It's never it's never it's never it's never it's never gone.
(Call me for a good time. Hotline.)

Pondering the meaning of substance of all those things we felt,
Divulging our secrets in hopes of finding our better selves.
(Call me for a good time. Hotline.)

Repeating the phrases from movies and books that you never read,
Composite of person and reference because your self is dead.
(Call me for a good time. Hotline.)

No matter the distance and time that it takes to move along,
We're trying, we're trying, we're trying, I'm trying, I'm trying all wrong.
(Call me for a good time. Hotline.)

.

It doesn't matter anyway.
I've said more than I meant to say.