Believe it or not, there was a time when terrorism had a kind of allure among counter-culture types. Carlos the Jackal was the terrorist non plus ultra in the '70s. The Weathermen, the Japanese Red Army, the Baader-Meinhof gang... God knows why, but activists often extolled their gruesome, fatuous deeds. The waltz time and the song's lyrics are a kind of whimsical gesture toward an era when terrorists landed hijacked airplanes in the Jordanian desert rather than fly them into buildings. At the same time, they're just a string of pleasing images (pleasing to me, at any rate).
Several were shot to hell, brought through the back door, they sat down and plucked out their eyes.
Shut up and bring me the head of the Spaniard on acid who stole every filling of gold that they dropped in my teeth,
Notice how much she keeps tabs on the past-
-six miles, we've seen no signs of life,
She laughed and stuck her gum
Against the side of my thumb.
On the gearstick, passion is measured in Kelvin.
You and your Icelandic ancestors' eyes.
Too much exposure is likely to rip you from
laurels that no one deserved,
Least of all, you and your feeble desire for a million admirers who dote on dead and their corpulent filth.
Notice how much she keeps tabs on the past.
Oh, my traveling days cut short by the grave,
Dismantled by fear and Japanese trains that fly through the air,
And land on the hoods of Indian rickshaws,
Their motors dissolved by all of the salt,
That's gathered in Texas, where Portuguese widows
Eat catfish and curse us,
American fruitcake she left on the doorstep,
So foreigners hate us.
released February 22, 2005
Music, lyrics: Greg Giles
Kelly played accordion
Nils played pedal steel and rhodes