1980

I think "Flight" can be placed in one row with such great prog epics as "Karn Evil 9" (ELP), "Close To The Edge" (Yes), "Supper's Ready" (Genesis), "A Plague Of Lighthouse Keepers" (VdGG) and a few others. With the only difference that those famous pieces were written in the early 70's, and "Flight" in 1980.. That was bravely, I can say, to write such piece in 1980, when the general wave of music was very different. It was even "punky", in a way!

I just can't see why you can't see what I mean,
but I can't make things any plainer,
the words get in the way -
is that quite what I mean?
If not now, then certainly sooner or later
we've got a problem with communication -
look, I scrabble with my hands
I try to get some head-room from the elevation
but you just don't understand

Most of the things we say mean we most of the time
treat our speech with derision,
flap our hands in body-telegram - I know that gets through
so much better than anything said with precision.
We've got a problem with communication

Killers, Angels, Refugees book it is a collection of lyrics, poems, fables and figments, first published in Great Britain by Charisma Books in 1974. A second edition was later released in October of 1974, then the 1980 reprint is by newly formed Sofa Sound.
The back cover photo of the Sofa Sound edition done by Anton Corbijn

dedication: For Guy, Hugh, David and Chris Judge Smith

First edition blurb on the back:

Dance the dance
till show time
the show goes on
Dance the dance
in slow time
if that's what you want

Dance the dance
in the back of the car
in the cocktail bar
till show time let it ride
Dance the dance
I feel I've been here before,
this could be anywhere at all
in slow time.

Danced the dance, or it soon will be;
danced the dance, I'll be back here with me
in no time.

In no time danced the dance
It's show time dance the dance
in slow time.

He prescribes the subject
he proscribes outsiders
his terms have a golden ring.
He wants to find some order
quantifying chaos
in words that all the children sing.
He tabulates the lexicon
vocabulary minimised
bow down to the Jargon King.

All questions become so simple
if we eat the inane answer
if we all agree to ju-ju speak
we fit into the formula
we all without exception
approve the rule.

We don't understand
he must be clever
he must be clever
he must be right
he must be right
we don't understand

Closed the ranks and barricades

Besieged in the battlements of Babylon,
still looking for a hat-peg you can hang your head upon -
now you've found a place you think is Avalon:
you can talk to anyone here.
You can throw your arms around your nearest neighbour
and the smiling ones'll tell you that you've saved her,
that she's saved you....
They offer the golden promises,
the instantly divine;
you swallow the golden promises
hook, sinker and line.

If you choose to throw your soul around the attitude
reasoning and independent thought go down the tube
as you go slavering after every inane platitude -

Such distance to the tips of the fingers,
the ganglion loom jerks inside;
the body grows steadily stranger
but the spirit won't be denied.

That sharp halogen flash jars the eyeball,
the limbs pump in overdrive;
the body grows seemingly weaker
but the spirit won't be denied.

Yeah, the ash-mark stands out on the forehead
as the vacuum sneaks up on the eyes;
the body becomes a constant traitor
but the spirit won't be denied.

And they call that living a normal life,
but normality's not standardised.
Though the body gets ever more root-bound

Everything clumsy slow-motion,
I look for the source.
Buildings loom up like icebergs
on collision course.
I don't want to go in there,
I just want to be alone,
unpick the stitches of time
in London
in the no-go zone.

I've been kicking around like a dog,
lost myself in the blank mass of fog,
it's some kind of service.
All humanity's fall-out is there,
slumped in doorways
and mouthing cold air -
I have heard this.

Fogwalking, fogwalking.

Since the curfew
the streets are half-dead,
all the good folk asleep in their beds,

I just can't see why you can't see what I mean,
but I can't make things any plainer,
the words get in the way -
is that quite what I mean?
If not now, then certainly sooner or later
we've got a problem with communication -
look, I scrabble with my hands
I try to get some head-room from the elevation
but you just don't understand

Most of the things we say mean we most of the time
treat our speech with derision,
flap our hands in body-telegram - I know that gets through
so much better than anything said with precision.
We've got a problem with communication

Flying Blind

I always forget how crazy things are
so sometimes it catches me off my guard
when they make sense.
The line on the road trail the arrow in the sky,
I search for the mote in my brother's eye
beneath the pence...
a time of blunt instruments.
Still uncertain when I've woken
or what constitutes a conscious mind,
though the thought remains unspoken
I know I'm flying blind.

Breaking into cold sweat on the white-hot coals
the pennies from heaven drop through my soul:
it don't relent.