At first glance Martyn Joseph is (just) another gifted singer songwriter. First impressions are there to mislead of course: Joseph's ambition is broader than entertainment, deeper than commerce. Some musicians want to move your feet, some just want to move you: Martyn Joseph wants to move heaven and earth. Somewhere back in the middle distance Martyn Joseph emerged from the pack and we began to notice. For a moment there he might have been a pop-star, certainly a protest-singer, a balladeer now and then, a Celtic rock star before they were in vogue, a folk troubadour and then, just, Martyn Joseph. Darkness on the edge of Cardiff. If he has a reputation onstage as a raconteur, extemporizing lyrics to fit every occasion, his songs have always been infected with a discreet but defiant god bothering, music more interested in the forgotten than the remembered, the way things might be than the way they have become. It is less the ghost of Tom Jones than a Holy Ghost music, an aching and a longing for another way, another place, where you can treasure the questions that have no answers. Depending on where he was at the time, some of these songs have had a fortune spent on colouring them in while others are the second-take line drawings from the home studio or Polaroid's snapped live in the back of beyond.
The consistency is the voice the place where he stands, from where he chooses to look at life. This is music that articulates a yearning for another world that is yet to be born, songs of sorrow acquainted with grief but, nevertheless, melodies carried in sunlight, thunder and rainbows from the same sky. And as his 'Best Of' collection illustrates, Joseph's work matures with age. If these songs are already word-perfect to fans, in the future they will be covered by Britain's two leading contemporary music magazines Q, and, MoJo, respectively, describe Martyn Joseph as having 'a depth, resonance and emotional punch, which belies comparisons', and as being 'an artist of enduring worth'. Meanwhile The Guardian was transfixed by this gifted and gracious Welshman's 'burnished voice' whilst Tom Robinson of BBC 6 Music and iconic songwriter himself, regards Martyn as one of Britain's 'most charismatic and electrifying performers'. The Boston Globe concluded that the man was a 'profound experience'. Such press plaudits, and there are many more to choose from, would make any publicist purr with pleasure, but for Martyn Joseph, he regards them in a detached, almost incidental kind of way. For Martyn, 'it's the song that matters'. Yet such is Martyn's stature as an acoustic artist of almost hypnotic ability that BBC Radio 2, Britain's most listened to radio network, featured Martyn in their peak-time series on Singer/Songwriters. To be awarded the garland of your own programme on the Sony 'Station Of The Year', and placed alongside the likes of Elvis Costello, Richard Thompson and Mary Chapin Carpenter really says it all about Martyn's abilities.
Martyn's 20 year career has embraced some notable achievements including 5 Top 50 UK chart positions, with such songs as 'Dolphins Make Me Cry', 'Working Mother' and 'Let's Talk About It In The Morning', and appearances and tours with, amongst others, Suzanne Vega, Marc Cohn, Joan Armatrading, Clannad, Chris De Burgh, Jools Holland, Art Garfunkel, and even, Celine Dion. However, for Martyn, these various accomplishments, satisfying though they are, count as just part of the process, the necessary presentation aspect. As he says, 'Really what I do is try and write songs that might make a difference'.
His touring work and appearances over the years, on both sides of the Atlantic, have helped to establish this gifted and gracious Welshman as one of the foremost singer/songwriters of his generation. As Janis Ian said of sharing a stage with Martyn 'I loved working with him. I loved listening to him, I'd love to work with him again, anytime, anyplace'. Martyn's particular strength is in the lyrical narrative of his songs, be they contemporary protests against injustice and inhumanity, a musical psalm to the fulfillment and fragilities of love, or a piercing précis of social history, 'it's the song that can soothe, explain, and even in a small way save us'. In this manner he carries on in the tradition of the six string balladeer as both catalyst and interpreter of our raddled and rewarding times, our personal and communal stories sung out loud in the spirit of Woody Guthrie, Ewan MacColl, Hank Williams and Bruce Springsteen. That tradition, and sound, that thankfully still emerges from The Hallowed Hobo's Hall of Fame.
Across a 10 year cycle of albums from the Sony days of 'Being There' to his recent two volume live compilation 'Don't Talk About Love, Martyn's song catalogue is an awesomely impressive archive of our times, our tribulations, our wonder and our wounds. Amongst the considerable collection of positive reviews of Martyn's recording and live work, the two regularly recurring words describing, in particular, his performances are 'passion' and 'humour'. One observer after seeing Martyn in concert likened the experience and content to 'the beautiful business of being alive with all its jokes, absurdity and sadness, seared by music for the heart and head'. When you encounter Martyn Joseph, you'll hear likewise...
The Good in Me is Dead
Martyn Joseph Lyrics
Jump to: Overall Meaning ↴ Line by Line Meaning ↴
I wait for my sister, I wait for my mother
The rain it is falling, but I do not feel it
I cant feel nothing, any more
The village was asleep
Put a Russian gun to his temple
And put him in a jeep...(didn't get his breakfast)
If you put that lens in my face again
I swear I'll break your head
Sir the good in me is dead
In the hills of Prestina, my family worked the land
The images flow through my ticking mind, and fall like grains of sand
My brothers in those hills now, I saw him lying there
His eyes they did not see me, as my fingers touched his hair
As I kissed his dirty hair
If this is all that's left now
There's nothing to be said
And the good in me is dead
Last night the bombs came raining, I swear I saw his face
He came running cross the fields to me, in a safe and peaceful place
I woke shaking and thinking
About love that's in the world
And if there is no bigger picture
How its all obscene, absurd
So pass me a revolver
Pass me a book I've read
Pass me a fresh cut flower
And ask me what I dread
That the good in me is dead
I sit at the border, this blanket my cover
I wait for my sister, I wait for my mother
I wait for my mother
I must wait for my mother
The lyrics of Martyn Joseph's song The Good in Me is Dead portray the devastating effects of war on a family. The singer describes waiting at the border for his sister and mother while the rain falls down upon him. The traumatic loss of his father is still fresh in his mind, as he was taken by soldiers and placed in a jeep after being held at gunpoint. The singer's brother is also gone, as he is now lying dead on the hills of Prestina. The lyrics are raw and real, as they depict the horrors of war and the loss of innocence that accompany them.
The singer's sense of hopelessness and despair is evident in his words as he declares the "good in me is dead." His experiences have left him broken, and he cannot feel anything anymore. The line "If this is all that's left now, there's nothing to be said" captures the pain and grief that must be felt by countless individuals affected by war. The singer is unable to find meaning in his experiences and is left to wait for his mother and sister, unsure of what the future holds.
In the last verse, the singer experiences a moment of clarity as he contemplates the bigger picture. The bombs raining down on him force him to question the absurdity and obscenity of war. He is left to reflect on what is truly important in life and what he truly fears. The song ends with the singer still waiting for his mother, unable to escape the trauma of war.
Overall, Martyn Joseph's The Good in Me is Dead is a haunting and powerful depiction of war's devastating effects on individuals and families. The raw emotion and desolation present in the lyrics are a testament to the horrors faced by countless individuals worldwide.
Line by Line Meaning
I sit at the border, this blanket my cover
I am hiding under my blanket near the border
I wait for my sister, I wait for my mother
I am waiting for my family to join me
The rain it is falling, but I do not feel it
I am numb to everything around me
I cant feel nothing, any more
I have lost my ability to feel emotions
A month ago they took my father
My father was taken away from me a month ago
The village was asleep
The village was unaware of what happened to my father
Put a Russian gun to his temple
My father was threatened with a gun
And put him in a jeep...(didn't get his breakfast)
My father was taken away without being able to eat breakfast
If you put that lens in my face again
If you point your camera at me again
I swear I'll break your head
I will hurt you if you take my picture without my permission
Sir the good in me is dead
I have lost my kindness and compassion
In the hills of Prestina, my family worked the land
My family used to farm in Prestina
The images flow through my ticking mind, and fall like grains of sand
I keep remembering the past and it fades away quickly
My brothers in those hills now, I saw him lying there
I saw my brother dead in the hills of Prestina
His eyes they did not see me, as my fingers touched his hair
When I touched my dead brother's hair, he did not respond
As I kissed his dirty hair
I kissed my brother's dirty hair to show my love
If this is all that's left now
If this is all that remains
There's nothing to be said
There's nothing more that can be done
And the good in me is dead
I have lost my decency and morality
Last night the bombs came raining, I swear I saw his face
I saw my dead brother's face in my dreams amidst the bombing
He came running cross the fields to me, in a safe and peaceful place
I dreamed of my brother running towards me in a peaceful setting
I woke shaking and thinking
I woke up scared and anxious
About love that's in the world
I am thinking about the existence of love in this world
And if there is no bigger picture
If there is no grand plan
How its all obscene, absurd
Everything seems senseless and illogical
So pass me a revolver
Give me a gun
Pass me a book I've read
Give me a book I've already read
Pass me a fresh cut flower
Give me a fresh flower
And ask me what I dread
Ask me what I fear the most
That the good in me is dead
I fear that I have lost my goodness and decency
I sit at the border, this blanket my cover
I am still concealing myself near the border
I wait for my sister, I wait for my mother
I am still waiting for my family to arrive
I wait for my mother
I am specifically waiting for my mother
Contributed by Bentley F. Suggest a correction in the comments below.