"Amphetamine for the TV" genre: Classic Rock
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	CD: The Aesthetics of Drowning   Label: Over Due Records Credits: Kristian Fjellstad: Vocals, Frode Kvisvik: Guitars, Kyrre Saetran: Bass, Freddy Bolsoe: Drums, Martin Bakken: Backing Vocals
	Story Behind the Song This particular song took more than one year to get right and I will not, for obvious reasons, comment too extensively on it ;) It's supposed to be a kind of quirky, delerious paranoia trip. Have a listen and see if it works. I started taking notes for it during a rather excessive tour of Finland, followed by a stint hanging out in Austin, TX. The lyrics finally came together as is on a hungover early morning flight from Oslo to Copenhagen. We didn't really have a handle on how to play it effectively until two days before we were due to cut it in Sierra Studios, Athens, when a wah-wah pedal somehow found it's way int our rehersal studio and the rythm section went kind of chilli peppers on us. K. Fjellstad Lyrics AMPHETAMINE FOR THE TV Words and Music by Kristian Fjellstad There’s a man outside my hotel-room door Packing two pints of kerosene He wants to talk about football, afternoon TV And the weather in the Philippines And me, I’m running towards the window, half my brain on my sleeve, Screaming “Can’t you hear I’m not alone!” But my bottles are empty, my legs are gone and the cactus ate the telephone I need a month by the sea to get my head unstraight Somewhere I can freely bleed I need a six-foot blonde sprawled across my bed To satisfy my every need Anything to kill my DT’s and amphetamine for the TV “Just one question” says he “I’ve heard tales of drugs And casual designer sex Between the brothers and sisters and over sisterly brothers Whose souls are marked with generation X” First he’d said he was my lawyer, now he’s a self-taught shrink With a background from the French police I whimper “Gaway, bothaya!” but it’s hard to scream when your hands are glued to the table fan-breeze A punch-drunk Isis wakes up and she whispers quite slow “Y’know he’s the pope or at least they’re in cahoots” She’s sporting leather bra, hot pants and blue-suede, high-heeled, Silver-studded combat boots She pinches my cheek, says I’m a very naughty boy And if she could she’d probably buy me free And she lounges on my bed like some Venetian baron’s daughter sometime back in Sixteen sixty three My friends have brought me gifts like woollen mittens, cobwebs And hand woven Indian throws They say I always looked my best with a pool-cue down my pocket And an eight-ball up my nose And if I had them all here, I’d line ‘em up at the bar And have them fire at the count of three And to yer man at the door with his karmic receipts I’d yell “No, you dunno WHAT you’d do if you were me!” You’d need a Sherman tank when every evening ends To drive me through this pool of greed You’d need a big, fat degree to analyse myself and find exactly what I mean Anything to kill my DT’s and amphetamine for the TV

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