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JOE LEVI

Bewitching Folk and Baroque Pop Music

NEW ALBUM 'ENGLISH LITERATURE' OUT NOW...

 
 
 
 

'DANCE WITH THE STRANGE CONGREGATION...'

BIOGRAPHY

'THE SOUND OF A SKYLARK THAT SINGS IN THE DARK...'

Joe Levi is an New York based songsmith originally from the rural English countryside: 
Raised in the pagan community of Cumberworth, an old Lincolnshire hamlet with a population of 50 people, and fed on a diet of the weird and wonderful, mythology and magick, Joe moved to L.A  in 2015 bringing his obscure and imaginative songs to many of the cities best loved music venues, before switching coasts for New York in 2021. His sound is a blend of witchy folk, baroque pop, soaring balladry and celestial psychedelia. His magnum opus 'The Raining Day Parade' was released on February 1st 2020, followed by the lofi psych of 'Life in a Doll's House' later that year.  His next album 'English Literature' is scheduled for release in Summer 2021.

'ENGLISH LITERATURE'

New Album Released on July 30th 2021

'English Literature' is a hazy little journey through pastoral countryside, misplaced childhood memories, loss of innocence and war.  Across its 9 short songs you will find yourself in the mind of a solider pining for home comforts, back in the dog days of a young summer finding suspicious things in the woodlands, waking from a fever dream haunted by past lovers and caring for something or someone that you know will eventually perish.  Recorded in South Pasadena and featuring the gorgeous lilting instrumentation of Will Alvarado on flutes, clarinet, saxophone and violin, 'English Literature' is an evocative and nostalgic trip.  Like a lost relic from the golden age of songwriting.

 
 
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'ENGLISH LITERATURE' - COMPLETE LYRICS

 
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MURDER IN THE MORNING

Stone the crows from hedgerows; murder in the morning.  Choose the path that takes you back, light a fire for warning.  Poppies grow on paper snow, hang them up like rabbits.  The Queen will say these are the days you'll be glad you had.

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SALISBURY PLAIN

That day on Salisbury Plain, under the fog and the rain.  The bastard said "hand him over, hand him over, hand him over!"  That night I was in bed, under a blanket of the dead praying they won't hand me over, hand me over, send me over.  I've seen the red, white and the spew, and all the young lads huffing glue.  I don't know what to do, they don't know what to do.  Give me my beer and my crisps.  Take me away from all of this!  Give me the literature of England, hand me over send me over.

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SHRINE SONG

They'll build a statue in her name, and paint a picture of her face.  They'll stand patiently in line, to lay their flowers at the crowded shrine.  And though the paintings they look nice, they don't do justice to the sorrow in her eyes.  And though the sentiments were right, they fixed her picture with a made up smile.  I'll find her breathing underneath the battered bark of a chattering cherry tree.  memories like blossom spill on tiny ornaments and miniature windmills.  The float away into violet haze.  Go see the man who guards the grief, he's seen much more than you would care to believe.  But this one it cuts deep, so lay your wreath and keep the line moving please.  I'll find her breathing underneath, the battered bark of a chattering cherry tree, memories like blossom spill on tiny onaments and miniature windmills.  They float away into yesterday.

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RIVERSIDE SONG

Take me back down to the riverside, where I can live the simple life wrapped in June.  Childlike tranquility in my room.  Show me a secret where I can hide, and hibernate in the arms of another time. Hot Cross Buns in clingfilm, pack your things for school.  The hanging cloud!  Distorted view...Dragonflies like marmalade and dead bodies in the glade.  Find a stick and poke its eyes and smack it with a spade.  Take me back down to the riverside where I can life the quiet life in the quiet room of my skeleton and apple juice.  There's magazines in the ditch and a door on the floor as in Jamboree Sand Witches. I found a small box down there, filled up with paraphernalia. Wrapped in June and a silver spoon.  Take me back down by the riverside, where I can live the simple life.

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BEAUTY FROM THE KINGDOM OF INSIDE

Carnivals and cotton candy, that you see through clouds of dirt. It can't be that bad if it don't hurt.  Chrysanthemum's and Snap Dragons grow in the garden of the mind, but maybe I am just that way inclined.  With their torch and pitchforks they will find you, carrying the weights to drag you down. A mangle for the spangled they will bind you, inclined to frown.  Dancing lights and butterflies glide from the cracks of a humdrum life, beauty's from the kingdom of inside.  Magic rings and soaring strings drown out the traffic and squabbling, whats the point if you can't hear them sing? Don't let in Old Mr Grim he'll find you, trying to catch the monkey on your back.  A sedative of hatred with a mind to confine you.

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LITTLE SEEDS

Basil, oregano, dill, thyme, parsley and chives.  My children have begun their lives!  Nineteen little seedlings waiting for the sun to arrive.  My children have begun their lives!  And I hope that this song is soothing, to help them grow strong.  Because soon I'll be choosing the one, and discarding the one's that went wrong.  Slowly they'll awaken, stretch themselves out to the sky.  My children have begun their lives!  Basil, Oregon, dill, thyme, parsley and chives.  My children have begun their lives!

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VANISHING ROAD

Life in constant twilight, there's a bleeding in the sky.  There's ash all over the cenotaph and animals reflecting in my eyes.  Wading through the courtyard, in some awful type of soup.  Drowning like a fish in a paint can.  And nobody wants to go to school, there's no bodies floating in the pool.  Pack your bags because we're leaving town, on a vanishing road.  Life in constant twilight, is something I can see.  That butterfly feeling when the trees start squaring and the first is living in the city.  The birds cannot be signing, when it's difficult to breathe.  And the man with the hair said "there's magic in the air" but he's hiding something tragic up his sleeve, depending on what you believe.  Pack your bags because we're leaving town, in an extraordinary way.

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EROS MOVED THE GHOST CHAIR

Natasia, I woke up from a dream of you wondering if you were dreaming of me too..And Eros moved the ghost chair when you were a teenager, laughing at the moonlight in the afternoon.  I fell into your Scottish tummy, above a chip shop out in Leith.  Bunching like the flower on a clown of the underground.  now she's living in my TV. Anon, anon, anon, anon, anon...Then it was Christmas out of nowhere, for the third time in a week.  The rabid got caught by the fox who got caught by the eagle.  Don't put your new shoes on the table.  A certain kind of terror, makes him stiff like mashed potato.  A beautiful shade of yellow, on the body of a traitor.  And all the boys and all the girls will comb their hair and put on their pearls.  To fight each other in the streets paved with cigarettes and teeth.  Backwards just appeals to me.  A broken door without a key.  Love is just a fallacy, as we make love to batteries. Anon, anon, anon, anon, anon...

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THE NIGHTMARE IS OVER...FOR NOW

I should be leaving my love, gather my humble belongings.  Tell them I'm fled, or better still dead!  And keep them from blood thirsty longing.  The Captain will order my head, The General will put out the bounty.  the town will awake to all my mistakes, but I'll be half way up that mountain. I wouldn't last without all these spells I can cats, but it's only a DREAM.  The nightmare is over for now, but I'll fall asleep in a moment.  That's when they'll attack, shove a knife in my back, and ride me around until morning.

 
 

'IF YOU CALL, AND I DON'T ANSWER...'

(323) 829 6750

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