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Dec. 27, 2018 - Radio Free Nortwest - H.A. Covington
01:57:22
20181227_rfn
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Oh, then tell me, Sean O 'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so.
Hush, O 'Farrell, hush and listen, and his cheeks were all aglow.
I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon, for the bikes must be together by the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon.
By the rising of the moon For the pikes will stay together By the rising of the moon Oh, then tell me, Sean O 'Farrell, where the gathering is to be.
In the old spot by the river, right well known to you and me.
One word more for signal, token, whistle, out the marching tune.
Pour your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon.
By the rising of the moon.
By the rising of the moon.
Switch your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon.
Out from many a maud war Greetings from the Northwest homeland, comrades.
The date is Thursday, December 27th, 2018.
I'm Andy Donner, and you're listening to Radio Free Northwest.
...
Thank you.
This being the final show for the calendar year 2018, you're all expecting a two-hour music special, and that's what you're going to get, but I want you to understand, I'm replaying 2010s.
Now that might seem like I'm phoning it in, but I'm not, and I want to explain to you why.
Harold Covington was, if nothing else, a living treasure trove of critically important Aryan historical information, and the truly fun parts of these two-hour music specials...
were, in fact, his explanation of his choices for the pieces he played and the way he conglomerated them into relevant segments.
The fact of the matter is, I am not a Harold Covington replacement, I'm sure you've all noticed.
The other fact of the matter is that we're not likely to replace his capabilities anytime soon.
My plan for this year's show was to take segments I really liked out of all of the other shows, put them together for this episode, and we would start fresh next year.
As I listened to all the other shows, everything I really wanted to play, with the exception of a segment on, say, Northwest Novel theme music, was in 2010's show.
And, quite frankly, I enjoy some of Harold's commentary from that show the most.
So here it is.
I'm replaying it.
It's also the case that it's coming to the end of December, and I'm still wrapping up some administrative things that have kept me distracted the entire month, and I want to keep wrapping them up because they're critically important.
So, again, you might consider this a phone-in, but there's a very good reason, and this is in fact the responsible choice at this time.
Having said all that, I'll shut up after I wish you all a very happy 2019.
Be well, friends.
I'd like to see if I can start a tradition here in that the last podcast of every year will be an all-music program, wherein I play some of the musical cuts that have gotten the best reception over the last year, as well as some new ones, with little running commentaries by myself talking about the songs and the artists and why Aryan music as a whole is such a vital part of our heritage, and why it's so important in bringing our own people back to an understanding of that heritage.
Sometimes I do get criticism from Radio Free Northwest listeners who are scared that I'm going to get sued.
And granted, I do tend to avoid playing cuts from major stars whose contracts are held by Jewish record companies that have battalions of litigation attorneys at their command.
But sometimes I also get criticism from people who seem to feel that I shouldn't be playing any music at all.
As one guy put it, I'm supposed to be a racist leader and not a disc jockey.
So let me get briefly into why I play music at all on this show.
First off, to be honest, it's largely to provide a break from my hoarse droning voice every 15 or 20 minutes or so.
There's nothing on earth more excruciatingly boring, to me anyway, than sitting there listening to some guy rabbiting on and on and on about things that most of you know already or you agree with anyway.
Like everyone in the movement, I do a lot of preaching to the choir.
It reminds me of the old John Burt Society, where after the tea and cookies, the chapter leader would set up a boombox on a table, and all the little old men and blue-haired ladies would listen like mesmerized zombies to Robert Welch on a cassette tape, bloviating on and on in this droning voice about communism and insiders and mattoids and bizarre world conspiracies, including the Queen of England, or maybe that was Lyndon LaRouche.
Anyway, you get the idea.
I don't want these podcasts to turn into that.
You need to get a break from the sound of my voice.
We don't have ads from our sponsors like Snapple or whatever Rush Limbaugh is peddling this week to break things up, and so I use music.
But there's a lot more important reason that I play music on here, specifically the music I choose to play.
Now, this is not just Harold spinning his CDs here like a DJ.
Every now and then I'll play something just because I like it, but usually there is a specific reason why I choose to play a particular cut.
As trite and as cliche as this sounds, A people's music is the soul of that people revealed for all to hear.
This is why nigger music consists largely of booming drums, or in these electronic days, booming bass, and a string of howled or shouted obscenities and sexual innuendos, from the Supremes to Isaac Hayes to modern-day gangster rap.
Nigger music sounds the way it does because that's what's going on in the Negro soul.
Deep down inside, they're all jumping and jiving back in the jungle while some coon beats on a hollow log.
They haven't progressed beyond that level, musically or any other way.
The music of the white man in Europe and in this country is infinitely deep and varied.
It's the heart and the history and the soul of every white nation translated into sine waves that tell a story without words.
I'm not going to go on and on here because I think every one of you listening to this understands what I'm saying.
Our people's entire history is written down not only in words but in music.
Or at least approximately since the 12th century it's been written down in music.
I think that's the oldest written musical tablature that can be identified and understood by today's paleographers and historians.
The Bardic tradition of the ancient Celts and Germans seems to have been completely oral as far as the actual music goes, although eventually the words to things like Beowulf and the Battle of Malden were written down around the turn of the first millennium.
It's believed by many historians that the ancient Greeks and Romans must have had some way of writing music down.
It's just that no one has found any examples yet, and if we did, we probably wouldn't know what we were looking at.
That's not surprising, since actual documents from classical times are very rare due to deterioration of paper and parchment over the centuries.
Anyway, who knows, maybe someday there'll be a break on that front and we may actually be able to listen to the songs and the music that Pericles and Julius Caesar played at their orgies.
But for now, the earliest surviving, authenticated, historic Aryan music comes from the early Middle Ages, the 1100s, and it's mostly religious and church music.
A lot of it's in Latin.
I've played a number of these songs on Radio Free Northwest over the past year, and I've gotten some favorable responses from a lot of people who thought that music, like American history, began in the days of electronic devices, and anything before sound and film recording didn't exist in their frames of reference until I started playing some of this stuff on here.
I've gotten a lot of feedback from people who have thanked me for waking them up to the fact that the white man does, in fact, have a musical tradition at all.
You'd be amazed how many people's musical world begins with 1960s golden oldies from their childhood and ends with Supertramp, even people who are starting to experience racial awakening.
On October 25, 1415, an army of about 9,000 Englishmen commanded by their king, Henry V, fought a battle with a much larger army of between 30,000 and 50,000 French.
At a place called Agincourt.
It's almost impossible to figure out an accurate estimate of how many men fought in any medieval battle, but everybody agrees the Brits were wildly outnumbered and everybody figured the armored French knights were going to crush them like a bug.
But because most of the English army consisted of skilled archers armed with heavy longbows...
And because the dumbass French insisted on charging straight across a muddy field that turned into an impassable quagmire, where all those heavy-armored horses and men sank into the mire, the English won an upset victory over an army which realistically outnumbered them at least four to one.
It was not only a brilliant military feat, but it was probably the source of this immense superiority complex that the British seem to hang on to even today, when their national heroes aren't Henry V or Francis Drake anymore, but Benny Hill and Boyd George.
Anyway, I'm going to begin by playing for you one of the most famous passages ever written by William Shakespeare, the St. Crispin's Day speech from the play Henry V. I'll follow it with the Agincourt carol, which was top of the pops back in 1415, and then there'll be a selection of medieval mellows for you.
Oh, my fair cousin, if we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss, and if to live...
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will, I pray thee, wish not one man more.
Rather, proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, that he which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart.
His passport shall be made, and crowns for convoy put into his purse.
We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day and comes safe home will stand at tiptoe when this day is named and arouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day and live old age will yearly, on the vigil, Feast his neighbors and say, "Tomorrow is Saint Crispin's." Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars and say, "These wounds I had on Crispin's day." Old men forget, yet all shall be forgot, but he'll remember with advantages what feats he did that day.
Then shall our names, familiar in their mouths as household words, Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son, and Crispin Crispian shall ne 'er go by from this day to the ending of the world.
But we in it shall be remembered.
We few.
We happy few.
We band of brothers.
For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.
Be he ne 'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England, now abed!
Shall think themselves a curse they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap, whilst any speaks that thought with us upon St. Crescent's day!
My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed.
The French are bravely in their battle set and will with all expedience march upon us.
All things are ready if our minds be so.
Purish the man whose mind is backward now.
That does not wish more help from England, cuz.
God's will, my liege.
Would you and I alone, without more help, can fight this royal battle?
You know your places.
God be with you all!
Yeah!
Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry, if for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, before thy most assured overthrow.
Who hath sent thee now?
The Constable of France.
I pray thee bear my former answer back.
Bid them achieve me, and then sell my bones.
God!
God!
Why should they mock poor fellows thus?
Let me speak proudly.
Tell the constable, we are but warriors for the working day.
Our gayness and our guilt are all besmirched with rainy marching in the painful field.
But by the mass, our hearts are in the trim.
Herald, save thou thy labor.
Come thou no more for ransom, gentle Herald.
They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints, which, if they have, as I shall leave them, shall yield them little.
Tell the constable.
I shall, King Harry.
And so fare thee well.
Thou never shalt hear Harold anymore.
*music*
*music* Our King went forth to Normandy With grace and might of chivalry The God for him wrought marvelously Where poor England may
call and cry Deo gratias, Deo gratias Anglia, Red April, Victoria Now
gracious God He saved our King His people and His well-willing Grant Him good life and good ending That we on earth may safely sing Deo
gratias, Deo gratias Anglia, Red April, Victoria
Ready pro Victoria.
With grace and might of chivalry.
The God for him wrought marvelously.
Where poor England may call and cry.
Deo gratias.
Deo gratias.
Anglia.
Ready pro Victoria.
The God for you.
CHOIR SINGS
CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS
CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS CHOIR SINGS
Oh, my God.
Oh, my God.
Thank you.
She leaned her back against the phone.
There she had to find babes born down by the Greenwood side, yo.
She took out her weep and die for the Lee and Lonnie.
There she took those sweet-faced lye Down by the greenwood side, yo She wiped the blade against her shoe All of the antelone More she rubbed the redder it grew Down by the greenwood
side, yo She went back to her father's hall All of the antelone He saw two babes a-planet ball Down by the greenwood side, yo Oh babes, oh babes, if you were mine All of the antelone I'd dress you up in Scotland
Oh, mother, oh, mother, when we were yours, all a-lee and lone-ee, Scarlet was our own heart's blood down by the greenwood side-ee-oh.
Oh, babes, oh, babes, it's heaven for you, all a-lee and lone-ee.
Mother, oh, mother, it's hell for you, down by the greenwood side-ee-oh.
Oh, oh.
you That was Kenneth Branagh from the movie Henry V, the Agincourt Carol by the Silly Sisters.
O Viridissima Verga, by the 12th century German abbess Hildegard von Bingen, and that number was arranged by Richard Southern on the Vision CD.
Then we had Congaudet Hodii, which is a 13th century liturgical piece from Provence, performed by the Sequentia Ensemble.
And finally, the gruesome medieval murder ballad was The Cruel Mother, sung by Ian and Sylvia.
Kind of one of the first anti-abortion songs there.
Guys, I admit, I have got a real taste for both Irish and Scottish music of various kinds, having lived in Ireland in the Isle of Man for five years.
And you really can't appreciate some of this music until you hear it live in a pub.
Not a tourist pub, but one where the locals actually go to get pissed and hear music.
There's nothing like the sound of the Dubliners in the Wexford Inn on a Sunday afternoon when you're half-tanked on Smithick's Irish Ale, which back in my drinking days I considered to be the true nectar of the gods.
Now, if it was up to me, I'd fill up this whole podcast with nothing but Irish music, but I'm going to try and keep it down to about two hours.
So what I'll do is, for our Celtic section here, I'll mix it in with the Scots stuff.
I'll play two of each, Irish and Scots, and then for the last two in this set, I'll give you a couple of what I suppose you might call fusion numbers, a mixture of Irish and Southern folk and country performers.
Now, a lot of American country and bluegrass stars have really gotten into Irish and Scots music.
And some of the results are pretty inspiring, I think.
Since most traditional Southern Appalachian ballads and folk music are based on Scottish folk songs and pipe tunes, and were brought to this country by the largely Protestant Scotch-Irish, as they were called, I view this as a kind of return and reunification of Ireland's two tribes, musically if not politically.
We play a tune now, a reel.
Like The Kid on the Mountain, I was saying earlier, The Kid on the Mountain being one of our best-loved double jigs, this is one of our best-loved and oft-played reels.
It's a tune called Farewell to Aaron.
Kevin will take us away with it.
PIANO PLAYS
PIANO
PLAYS PIANO
PLAYS PIANO PLAYS
Oh, Bonington, Edinburgh, Edinburgh.
T'waad call the mills, oh, Bonington, forever and forever.
If all the tears that thou hast gratt, Edinburgh, Edinburgh.
If all the tears that thou hast gratt, Edinburgh, Edinburgh.
The Dow has gratt Where's Shedding Day the Sea Where would you find another rat Edinburgh, Edinburgh Where would you find another rat Free that fell flood to flee If all the sounds sung in nightcats
Edinburgh, Edinburgh Here for the sounds sung in nightcats Where githa then the wind T'witch of the
taps, oh Rosalind's births Edinburgh, Edinburgh T'witch of the taps, oh Rosalind's births Till time was a little mine Here for the broken hearts of thee
Edinburgh, Edinburgh Here for the broken hearts of thee Where keep it and how There would be neither land nor sea
Edinburgh, Edinburgh There would be neither land nor sea But yon reed, break and thou If it hadn't been forgotten I'd do I'd been married a long time ago Where did you come from?
Where did you go?
From Cotton Eye Joe
*Music*
*Music*
*Music* *Music* *Music* Get out to Vitter Ross and
up your bow Play an old tune called Cotton Eye Joe Where did you come from, where did you go Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe
Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Where did you come
from, Cotton Eye Joe Cotton Eye Joe Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come
from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe Who do you come from, Cotton Eye Joe I met a little girl and we stopped to talk about her
Find something I And I ask your friend What's a fella to do Cause her hair is black And her eyes are blue And I knew right then I've been taking a whirl And a saw till crumb With a Galway girl Ho!
We're halfway there When the rain came down Over the day She asked me up To her flat downtown On a fine soft day And I ask your friend What's a fella to do Cause her hair is black And
her eyes are blue I took her hand And I gave her a twirl Oh, and I lost my heart To a Galway girl Ho!
When I woke up I was on the lawn With a broken heart I took it home And I ask her
now Tell me what would you do If her hair is black And her eyes are blue Cause I travel to Ram I've been all over this world Boys, I ain't never seen Nothing like a Galway girl Hey!
Hey!
you you We started off there with the Bothy Band from Ireland, with a song called Farewell to Aaron, and then we heard the Rocky Road to Dublin from Waxy's Dargal.
After that came the Tannehill Weavers with the Gypsy Laddy, and a group called Capernaum, or Capernaum, singing about all the bloody and horrible things that have happened in Edinburgh, the capital city of Scotland, which actually has a pretty grim history of violence and plagues and general gruesomeness, perhaps more so than any city in Europe, except for maybe Rome.
And then we had the old fiddle tune, Cotton Eye Joe, from country singer Ricky Skaggs, in combination with the Irish group, The Chieftains.
Finally, there was Steve Earle singing Galway Girl.
Okay, by now I'm sure you guys out there are saying to yourselves, play this, Harold!
Come on, play that!
You gotta play this, Harold!
You gotta play that!
Unfortunately, this program is pre-recorded and I can't actually take requests, but don't worry.
All you Saga and Ian Stewart fans out there, your time will come.
Next up, I'm going to play a set of my own down-home music.
Back porch music, so to speak.
Southern and Appalachian old time, whatever you want to call it.
Now, as I mentioned earlier, the traditional music of the American South comes very largely from pipe and fiddle tunes from Ireland and Scotland.
And no, the banjo is not a nigger instrument, as the liberal eggheads have tried to rewrite musical history.
The banjo in its present form, with five strings, was invented in the 1830s by a mountain man from Buckingham County, Virginia, named Joel Walker Sweeney.
Mr. Sweeney survived into the age of photography, and so we have some pictures of him in old age.
And no, Joel Walker Sweeney was not a nigger.
He was, however, an early vaudeville-type performer in blackface, which is now, of course, completely politically incorrect.
Under our new masters, the only historic figure in the entertainment industry who is allowed to have performed in blackface without being torn to shreds as a racist is Al Jolson.
And he was a Jew, so he's privileged.
Country music and its cousin, bluegrass, of course evolve out of traditional southern folk and instrumental music.
I like some country and some country singers, and there's a good many fine bluegrass players and performers as well.
But, to be honest, I've always preferred the old-time original.
What I'll do now is I'll lay a couple of old-time numbers on you first, and then some bluegrass and country, and maybe a little of what's called rockabilly.
Thank you.
It's late Well, here's Christmas dinner for families on relief.
As through this life you travel, you'll meet some funny men.
Some will rob you with a six-gun and some with a thousand men.
As through this life you ramble, as through this life you roam, you'll never see an outlawed big family from your home.
It was in the merry month of May when all gay flowers were blooming.
Sweet William won his deathbed lay for the love of Barbara.
He sent his servant to the town to the place where she was dwelling.
Said, "You must come to my master's house, if your name be Barbara Helen." So slowly, slowly she gets up, and to his bedside going.
She drew the curtains to one side, and says, "Young man, you're dying." "I know I'm sick and sorrow dwells within me.
No better, no better, no better, no better, I never will be.
Till I have far away." Don't you remember last time, when I was at the town?
You gave your dreams to the ladies alone, but you slighted Barbara Helen.
You gave her a chance to the man who was at the time.
She turned away from the man who was at the time.
She turned his cheek into the wall, and bursted out a-crying.
She turned his cheek into the man who was at the time.
She had not more than reached the town.
She heard the death bells ringing.
And as they run, they seemed to see.
Hard-hearted Barbara Helen.
"Oh, Mother, oh, Mother, go make my bed.
Make it both long and narrow.
Sweet William died for me today.
I'll die for him tomorrow." Sweet William was buried in the old churchyard.
And Barbara they laid night.
And out of his grave grew a red red rose.
And out of hers a briar.
They grew and grew to the old churchyard.
Where they could grow no higher.
And there they died.
And the true love nodded.
The rose wrapped'round the grind.
The rose wrapped up in the new churchyard.
The rose wrapped in the new churchyard.
And the rose wrapped in the new churchyard.
The rose wrapped in the new churchyard.
The rose wrapped in the new churchyard.
And the rose wrapped in the new churchyard.
The rose wrapped in the new churchyard.
I was born with my papa's son.
Wanderin'out of a smokin'gun.
Now some of you would live through me.
Then light me up and throw away the key.
Or just find a place to hide away.
And hope that I'll just go away.
Ha!
But I feel alright.
I feel alright tonight.
I feel alright.
I feel alright.
I feel alright tonight.
I'll bring you precious contraband and ancient tales and distant lands.
Conquerors and concubines and conjurers and conjurers from darker times.
Conquerors and concubines and conjurers from darker times.
I got everything you want, need your locksmith, your fondest dreams Ask your questions, tell your lies, criticize and sympathize
Yeah, but be careful what you wish for, Frank Cause I've been to hell and now I'm back again I feel alright Yeah, I feel alright tonight
Yeah, I feel alright I feel alright tonight I feel alright I feel alright I feel alright We started off that set with Bill Wellington shaking down the acorns.
Then came the Pine Creek String Band picking out Salt Creek for us.
Then Tony Ellis with Doc Mongol's Brews, and after that it was The Birds with the old Woody Guthrie song Pretty Boy Floyd.
Then we heard Emmylou Harris singing the old Appalachian ballad Barbara Allen, and we closed with Steve Earle.
Okay, military and fascist history freaks, your turn now.
I still have not been able to discover a version of the Horstwessel song which I consider to be of sufficient technical and musical quality for inclusion on this program.
All the versions I can find, or at least all the ones I can download, are from the time of the Third Reich itself, and by modern standards they sound scratchy, tinny, and they simply do not convey properly the musical and moral power of the anthem of National Socialism.
I've asked in the past if anyone could guide me to a complete, i.e.
all four verses, stand-alone version of the song, i.e.
nothing where we have to edit around a movie or a TV soundtrack or a liberal commentary voiceover, nothing like that, and performed by a modern band, a modern male chorus or singer, and with modern recording equipment, at least to the point of being stereophonic.
Apparently, no such version of the Horstwessel song exists, which isn't surprising since in most of Europe, and especially in Germany, anybody connected with producing or singing such a version of the song would probably get about a 10-year prison sentence.
I have, however, picked up a number of nice, inspiring military-type marches from a number of Aryan nations over the past year, and we'll kick off with the Fuhrer's personal favorite, the Badenweiler Marsh.
The Badenweiler Marsh
The Badenweiler
Marsh The Badenweiler
Marsh The
Badenweiler Marsh The
Badenweiler Marsh
The Badenweiler Marsh
The Red Bulls
The Red Bulls
The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red Bulls The Red
Bulls Turn off the crewود Then came Panzerleid, from the movie Battle of the Bulge.
Then Kara al Sol, which means face to the sun, and which was the anthem of the Spanish Phalanges Party back in the 1930s, and later on, kind of the overall theme song for all of Franco's Spain.
Then came Sari Marais, based on folk song from the Boer people of South Africa.
Then La Regimente de la Sambre Muse from France, which actually I think I played a few weeks ago.
And finally, back to Germany for the Florian Geyer song, or Florian Geyer lead, celebrating the prowess of a German knight of the 16th century who fought against the rule of nobles and priests during the peasant uprising of 1525.
Okay, okay, enough with what some of you call egghead music.
Without further ado, here's a modern-day set from the Swedish nationalist singer Saga and Ian Stewart from Screwdriver.
The sun on the meadow is summer we walk, and the stagnant night
The forest runs free But gathered together to greet the storm Tomorrow belongs to me Tomorrow belongs to me Tomorrow
belongs to me.
Tomorrow belongs to me The baby
And it's grey all is closing his eyes And the blossom embraces the bee But soon sets the whisper rise
I surprise, tomorrow belongs to me Tomorrow belongs to me Now
fatherland, fatherland show was the sign Your children have been waiting to see The morning will come when the world is mine Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me you And tomorrow belongs to me Tomorrow belongs to you.
He sat in a room, in a square, the color of blood.
He drew the world If there was a way that he could He'd sit and he'd stare At the minarets on top of the towers For he was the beast As he hatched his new plans to gain power And the snow fell Covering the dreams and ideals And
the snow fell Freezing the blood and the wheels And the snow fell They had to keep warm for survival And the snow fell And defeated the beast's only rival They took the old roads That Napoleon had taken before
The forces of light against the darkness in a holy war.
One day they were looking around at the sun shining on the cold flowers.
The next day they were freezing to death in the snow when the ice cold showers and the snow fell.
Covering the dreams and ideals and the snow fell Freezing the blood and the wheels and the
And the snow fell They had to keep warm for survival And the snow fell And defeated the beast's only rival They came the deadly road back From the steps of their retreat The coal raked their bodies But worse was the pain of defeat.
Many people who had held them once now turned and looked away.
Well, these people now knew that the beast was on its way.
And the snow fell, covering the dreams and ideals And the snow fell, freezing the blood and the wheels
And the snow fell They had to keep warm for survival And the snow fell And defeated the beast's only rival You finally came back To the borders of your fatherland Now enemies came Traitors everywhere Many
people who had fought and died knowing that they had to win.
Well, yet still it sickens my heart to see the picture of the red flag in Berlin.
And the snow fell.
Cumbering the dreams and ideals and the snow fell Freezing the blood in the wheels
And the snow fell They had to keep warm for survival And the snow fell And defeated the beast's only rival And defeated the beast's only rival And defeated the beast's only rival It
calls to me Yesterday's gone I'm all alone The long boat it sails Into the sunset You finally found Your place to rest I
can see the lucky Take me with you Take me so far away I can see the lucky Now you have joined The ranks of the fallen My
Valhalla's calling Now battle by day And feast by night The glories you've seen Come into the light Sleep,
oh my brother Do not be afraid I can see Take me so far away Ooh,
I can see And
rest with the chosen And rest in peace I've picked up the standards And I will release All that you fought for And all that you loved Watch over me,
brother And guide from above I can see the Valkyrie Take me with you Take me so far away Oh,
I can see Listen
to me He said Hey boy, what's in life in you Doesn't mean no I can't look crying he's blue He said if that's true what it means to you He said well that's a wasted life and I've nothing more to say to
you I quit my job baby I went out and I woke my first guitar then
I started learning So the problem Put up some of my heart Shining tape Got our contract Baby's all so glad Then you started messing around When love's alive Life's just as bad Just as bad now Now
guitar solo
guitar solo Our saga songs there were Tomorrow Belongs to Me from the movie Cabaret, The Snowfell, which is actually a screwdriver song originally, but which was performed by Our Lady from Sweden as a tribute to Ian Stewart, and Nobody Cries for You.
Then we brought in the main man from Old Blighty himself with Built Up, Knocked Down, After the Fire, and Pride of a Nation, which, in case you couldn't follow the lyrics, was Ian Stewart's personal tribute to the SS.
We're almost out of time now.
I think we have room for one more song.
One I'm going to pick purely on the grounds that it's one of my favorites.
This is Steve Earle.
You hardly ever saw a granddaddy down here You only come to town about twice a year You buy a hundred pounds a year, you stance a copper line Everybody knew that you made me shine
I'm a revolution man, want a granddaddy bad Heady left a holler of everything he had For my time, but I've been told You'll never come back from copper
Head Road Had a daddy ran a whiskey In a big black dot Bought at an auction At the place was like Shots of candy Shirt painted on the side
Just shot a coat of primer And looked inside Well him and my uncle Tore that engine down I still remember That rumbling sound And then the sheriff came around In the middle of the night Heard mama crying If something was right He was headed down to Knoxville With a weekly
load You can smell a whiskey burning down Copperhead Road Outro
Music Outro
Music Actually, we will do one final song.
I get frequent emails asking me what the theme song to Radio Free Northwest is, and who does it.
Our theme is an old Irish freedom song from the 1798 Rebellion called The Rising of the Moon, and it's performed by a group from Donegal called Nicosity, which means the Casey's.
What I'll do is I'll play the whole song from beginning to end as soon as I sign off here.
Sasha on the bond.
Freedom.
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