啊，好喜欢这首～（演唱会有听到就很开心 ^^） 恰巧最近 brit-pop 版也用这首作标题。 这就是之前上那个曼城网站查到的， 後面附上歌曲评论和其中提到的那首 John Betjeman 的诗 slough （是真的有像） EVERYDAY IS LIKE SUNDAY -------------------------------------------------------------------- Trudging slowly over wet sand Back to the bench where your clothes were stolen This is the coastal town That they forgot to close down Armageddon - come Armageddon! Come, Armageddon! Come! Everyday is like Sunday Everyday is silent and grey Hide on the promenade Etch a postcard : "How I Dearly Wish I Was Not Here" In the seaside town ...that they forgot to bomb Come, Come, Come - nuclear bomb Everyday is like Sunday Everyday is silent and grey Trudging back over pebbles and sand And a strange dust lands on your hands (And on your face...) (On your face ...) (On your face ...) (On your face ...) Everyday is like Sunday "Win Yourself A Cheap Tray" Share some greased tea with me Everyday is silent and grey ---------------------------------------------------------------------- An absolutely classic song and probably the highlight of Viva Hate. Street's fine backing is transformed by Morrissey's incredibly well-realised vocal, and what I would hold up as an example of Morrissey's lyrical genius. Ironically enough, this song (as in the other classic fool's gold track, Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now) is often cited as an example of Mozzer's miserablism. Nothing could really be further from the truth, when it comes to this song, at least. None of the critics seem to have noticed that there is deliberately no space between the words "every" and "day". I suggest they look at the difference in meaning between "everyday" and "every day". Rather than moping about his whole life being dull, this song is a brilliant eulogy to finally escaping from an awful life best left behind. It's almost as if Moz had purposefully set a trap for the foot-in-mouth merchants, those who speak before even considering. In the song, the protagonist is looking back at the bad old days when he was stuck in a dead-end seaside town. The usual holiday cliches are reversed, with Morrissey caustically commenting in a contempory interview "The idea of a resort in Britain doesn't seem natural". Regarding the strange dust, there are (of course) several theories as to the symbolism. I believe it is deliberately left open-ended so the listener may reach their own conclusions :) The Cheap Tray mentioned is probably referring to the god-awful cheap holiday gifts you get in poky little shops in Scarborough. Greased tea could be exactly what it says - greasy horrible tea from a "Greasy Spoon" beachfront cafe. Or a slightly more contrived theory is that it is a clever pun on the greased poles seen in team sport fun-day event things. The image of the nation's most comforting symbol, our national drink, as a dangerous and slippery item, is quite compelling. Or it could just mean tea with the attending sweet scones and jam. Many people have commented on this song's resemblance to John Betjeman's poem "Slough". Charles Blair suggests this song may be connected to the Neville Shute book "On The Beach". William Kurt has this to say : the world of "Everyday is like Sunday" takes place in the town that wasn't bombed. Life seems to be imprisoning and dreary without the freedom and excitement that fearing the bomb had previously brought. The lines "Trudging slowly over wet sand/Back to the bench where your clothes were stolen" seem to clearly show this transition from freedom and joy to a duller, more miserable world. It seems as if the protagonist was formerly running joyously naked along the beach, as would be expected of the protagonist in "Ask", but after the fun is gone, he returns to find that his clothes have been stolen, leaving him naked and alone on the beach on a cold grey day. The rest of the song seems to be describing the walk of the protagonist hoping for the bomb to drop to put a quick end to things. Then the "Strange dust lands". I feel that what this ' strange dust' is is pretty clear: it's the dust from nuclear fall out. While the sudden flash of a nuclear bomb will eliminate your life in a quick and brilliant flash, nuclear fall out will slowly give you radiation poisoning, leaving you with a long painful death. That's also what I believe the 'greased tea' is. The grease give the image that the tea is tainted and sickly; basically it's radioactive tea, polluted and dirty, leading to a slow miserable death. Overall the entire song is much like when someone says 'life is long'; this is never viewed as something positive, as opposed to when someone says 'life is short'. A short quick life means that one can do whatever one wants and can ignore all the consequences, but a long life is full of responsibility and consequences for every action. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Slough by John Betjeman (1906 - 1984) John Betjeman published his poem about Slough in 1937 in the collected works Continual Dew. Slough was becoming increasingly industrial and some housing conditions were very cramped. In willing the destruction of Slough, Betjeman urges the bombs to pick out the vulgar profiteers but to spare the bald young clerks. He really was very fond of his fellow human beings. Slough is much improved nowadays and he might be pleasantly surprised by a stroll there. Slough Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! It isn't fit for humans now, There isn't grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death! Come, bombs and blow to smithereens Those air -conditioned, bright canteens, Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, Tinned minds, tinned breath. Mess up the mess they call a town- A house for ninety-seven down And once a week a half a crown For twenty years. And get that man with double chin Who'll always cheat and always win, Who washes his repulsive skin In women's tears: And smash his desk of polished oak And smash his hands so used to stroke And stop his boring dirty joke And make him yell. But spare the bald young clerks who add The profits of the stinking cad; It's not their fault that they are mad, They've tasted Hell. It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, It's not their fault they often go To Maidenhead And talk of sport and makes of cars In various bogus-Tudor bars And daren't look up and see the stars But belch instead. In labour-saving homes, with care Their wives frizz out peroxide hair And dry it in synthetic air And paint their nails. Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough To get it ready for the plough. The cabbages are coming now; The earth exhales. -- 诚徵港版音乐殖民地 第 15/34 期.... --

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