ROCK / Lyric Sheets: White-label Christmas: Carols for a rock'n'roll Yule

THE 12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my record company

Sent . . .

Twelve drummers filling

Eleven ravers chilling

Ten lawyers ligging

Nine roadies rigging

Eight agents phoning

Seven sponsors moaning

Six compliment'ries

Five go-ld discs

Four call girls

Three yes men

Two purple drugs

And some garbage about my CD

AWAY WITH A MAJOR

Away with a major

No gig for his cred

Disgruntled George Michael

Lays on his neat bed

The stars on his Hi-Fi

Play on MiniDisc

A court case now looming

With millions at risk

HARK THE HERALD AGENTS SING

Hark the herald agents sing

Glory to the Next Big Thing

Slot it in for Friday's Word

Bands of whom you've never heard

Catapulted out of limbo

Terry Christian and some bimbo

Serve to make you glad you stayed

Nicely out of fashion's way

Hark the herald agents sing

Next year's Elvis comes from Tring

Christ, by highest heav'n I'm bored

And, besides, I can't afford

In recession to keep buying

All these things 'the kidz' are trying

Bands the NME espouses

Let alone their stupid trousers

Drinks and drugs with silly names

And of course those video games

Hark the Herald Agents Sing

This year's Seal is next year's Bing

HIP KING WENCESLAS

Hip King Wenceslas looked mean

Temper far from even

'Bloody Cliff and bloody Queen

Bloody Shakin' Stevens

Same old brain rot every Yule

Saturation airplay

Interspersed with DJ drool

Only thing they dare play.

'Hither Page let's both get monged

Rip this joint and cruise now

Maybe catch some indy band

Gazing at their shoes now.'

In the end they found a place

Though the time was draggin'

Doormen knew the Page's face

So they got to blag in

Raddled band with loud guitars

Slightly rasping vocals

'Hey, these blokes could end up stars

Tell me - are they locals?'

'No sire, I'm afraid they're not

Though the club is pokey

This band is Keith Richards' lot

Keeping matters low-key.'

SACK THE FALL

Sack the Fall and PiL, by golly

Fa-la-la-la-lah, la-lah lah lah

Time for record comp'ny folly

Fa-la-la-la-lah, la-lah lah lah

All the joy that Yule can foster

Fa-la-lah, fa-la-lah, lah lah lah

Trim the deadwood from the roster

Fa la-la-la-lah, la-lah lah lah

WHILE ROCKERS SCHLEP THEIR STOCKS ALL NIGHT

While rockers watched their step all night

And rumour did abound

An A&R man came backstage

And liked what he had found

'Fear not,' said he, 'I've done my sums

I am your biggest fan

With certain changes here and there

We'll break you in Japan

'I love the raw guitars and beat

A basic, honest sound

I'll call a good producer in

And change it all around

'With horns and strings and sampled drums

A change of clothes and hair

Some girlie vocals, different name

I'll have you almost there.'

Thus spake the prat and in 12 months

A turkey had been born

And what had been a decent band

Was now held up in scorn.

All glory be to A&R

And to the drug cocaine

Which makes the average seem divine

And keeps pop songs inane.