The Mothers of Invention - Trouble Every Day video free download

SIDE THREE (Track 01) - written by Frank Zappa

"Freak Out!" is the mainstream debut of studio musician Frank Zappa and his band The Mothers of Invention. It is considered as one of the first concept albums in rock music, as well as being the second double-album (Bob Dylan's "Blonde on Blonde" being the first).

The album is notable for its satirical and experimental content that would be the bedrock of many Mothers albums (and future Zappa solo releases) to come.

Originally issued on Verve Records in June 1966.

LYRICS:

Well I'm about to get upset

From watchin' my TV.

Been checkin' out the news

Until my eyeballs fail to see.

I mean, they say that every day

Is just another rotten mess;

And when it's gonna change, my friends,

Is anybody's guess.

So I'm watchin' and I'm waitin',

Hopin' for the best.

Even think I'll go to prayin'

Every time I hear 'em sayin'

That there's no way to delay

That trouble comin' every day.

No way to delay

That trouble comin' every day.

Wednesday I watched the riot.

I seen the cops out on the street.

Watched 'em throwin' rocks and stuff

And chokin' in the heat.

Listened to reports

About the whisky passin' 'round.

Seen the smoke and fire

And the market burnin' down.

Watched while everybody

On his street would take a turn

To stomp and smash and bash and crash

And slash and bust and burn.

And I'm watchin' and I'm waitin',

Hopin' for the best.

Even think I'll go to prayin'

Every time I hear 'em sayin'

That there's no way to delay

That trouble comin' every day.

No way to delay

That trouble comin' every day.

Well, you can cool it,

You can heat it.

'Cause, baby, I don't need it.

Take your TV tube and eat it

An' all that phony stuff on sports

An' all those unconfirmed reports.

You know I watched that rotten box

Until my head began to hurt

From checkin' out the way

The newsmen say they get the dirt

Before the guys on channel so-and-so,

And further they assert

That any show they'll interrupt

To bring you news if it comes up.

They say that if the place blows up,

They'll be the first to tell;

Because the boys they got downtown

Are workin' hard and doin' swell.

And if anybody gets the news

Before it hits the street,

They say that no one blabs it faster

Their coverage can't be beat.

And if another woman driver

Gets machine-gunned from her seat,

They'll send some joker with a brownie

And you'll see it all complete.

So I'm watchin' and I'm waitin',

Hopin' for the best.

Even think I'll go to prayin'

Every time I hear 'em sayin'

That there's no way to delay

That trouble comin' every day.

No way to delay

That trouble comin' every day.

Hey, you know something people?

I'm not black,

But there's a whole lots a times

I wish I could say I'm not white!

Well, I seen the fires burnin'

And the local people turnin'

On the merchants and the shops

Who used to sell their brooms and mops

And every other household item.

Watched the mob just turn and bite 'em

And they say it served 'em right

Because a few of them are white,

And it's the same across the nation

Black-and-white discrimination.

They're yellin', "You can't understand me!"

And all the other crap they hand me

In the papers and TV

An' all that mass stupidity

That seems to grow more every day

Each time you hear some nitwit say

He wants to go and do you in

Because the color of your skin

Just don't appeal to him

No matter if it's black or white,

Because he's out for blood tonight.

You know we gotta sit around at home

And watch this thing begin.

But I bet there won't be many left

To see it really end,

'Cause the fire in the street

Ain't like the fire in my heart;

And in the eyes of all these people,

Don't you know that this could start

On any street in any town,

In any state if any clown

Decides that now's the time to fight

For some ideal he thinks is right.

And if a million more agree,

There ain't no great society

As it applies to you and me.

Our country isn't free,

And the law refuses to see

If all that you can ever be

Is just a lousy janitor.

Unless your uncle owns a store,

You know that five in every four

Won't amount to nothin' more

Than watch the rats go across the floor

And make up songs about being poor.

Blow your harmonica, son!