LIE DOWNhelloprostitutewifethe showdream househomecraftobsession

(willcox) 1.20(willcox/sidelnyk) 2.58

(willcox) 3.46(willcox) 2.45

(willcox/sidelnyk) 4.29(willcox) 3.02(willcox) 3.44

THINK OF ENGLANDlet the power bleedrestlessfalling to earthjazz singers in the treesvale of eveshamghosts in the universe

(willcox/sidelnyk) 4.43(willcox/sidelnyk) 4.05

(willcox) 3.26(willcox/sidelnyk) 4.52

(willcox) 2.50(willcox/sidelnyk) 3.55

A: “A woman who engages in promiscuous sexual intercourse for payment”, if you want to be literal. But that is not the meaning in this case. For me, Prostitute is a word of great power, often misused and misinterpreted. It is a word that evokes poverty, a slavery and entrapment of the opposite sex. It is a word that says compromise has become exploitation. A word created by misogynists and applied to too many great women through the ages.

Q: What is a Prostitute?

The period in which Prostitute, the album became a concept in my head was a period of unavoidable change. I had lived through phenomenal popularity as an early Eighties icon, and I felt that all that was new and vibrant about me had become staid and predictable. I was desperate to change and move on and to express the real me that had become embedded in layer upon layer of images and misquotes.

I had recently married my husband, it was 1987. I made one fatal mistake. In private we were an ordinary couple who loved everything about the other. In public we were the odd couple that prompted ridicule and speculation about the longevity of the relationship. My husband Robert Fripp is a very intelligent man and considered an academic in music. I, on the other hand was

a pop star, shallow, an airhead in the eyes of the academics. This is how we were perceived and I had made the fatal mistake of believing love was enough to justify a bond between two people. Boy! I was f------ angry. All the scum of music journalism suddenly felt the right to play God and judge our private lives, instead of showing any form of decent human nature, all they did was display their mental fascism. At this time hubbie and I had the same management and they too treated me as the little woman who would retire and have babies. I was ready to kill!

By entering into this marriage I felt I had gone from all-powerful artist to invisible woman. My bank manager would discuss my bank accounts to my husband without even bringing me into the conversation. It goes without saying I was f------ fuming.

There was a great need to get this out of my system. Metaphorically I was ready to kill. A friend of mine at the time was Alex Paterson, he was a roadie when I knew him, and later went on to form The Orb. I mentioned to him that I was desperate to do an album of pure vocals, where the content of the lyric was the driving force and very little else interfered with it. Where the structures were basic but the words carried the impact. This fascinated Alex, where I saw vocal complexities, he saw vocal minimalism. It was a good meeting for both of us, he helped me sort my head out and after that I decided that for the first time in my career I was going to compose and produce an album where I would not compromise my ideas for

anyone. Alex went away and created “Little Fluffy Clouds”.I’m not a musician in the true sense of the word and I am the first to admit that, but on this album I wanted to play everything I could. There was no way I could play drums and I didn’t want to use samples because I wanted the backbone of the album to have immense strength and honesty. Steve Sidelnyk played all of the live drums and percussion. I would tell him to give me 22 bars of this and 16 bars of that. He was playing blind, as I was the only person who knew what the end result would be. Steve worked at night, I always worked in the afternoon, so by the time he came into the studio I’d have turned one of his drum tracks into a song.

My co-producer Tony Arnold, an ex-BBC man (always the best) was ingenious about creating sounds. I would get up at 4 in the morning and record the dawn chorus, record church bells, snippets of conversations and Tony would marry them into the tracks. We worked as if we were compiling a scrapbook with glue and paper, old newspaper cuttings, lost love letters, odd thoughts and tons of fractured emotions.

This album was an exorcism for me, an exercise in self-worth. In the UK when my management tried to sell it to the music reps, an awful lot got up and walked out of meetings; all male I hasten to add. In America, Billboard magazine said it was the dawning of a

new era for me as a producer and that it was an antidote to Madonna. I disagree as I feel Madonna is one of the greatest women of all time. I started to receive mail from professors at eminent universities telling me they played the album at their lectures as an example of the new way of thinking coming from contemporary women.

I could have made a career out of being angry in America alone, but why throw fuel onto an insatiable fire when change can be achieved in far subtler ways. This album struck a chord that never stopped resonating. It is the one album people ask me where they can replace their worn out copy time and time again. Well here it is.

Toyah Willcox

HELLO “do i improvise this?” / “just be obscure. hello doctor...” / “hello sweetie, how are you today. oh, hello patient, how are you today?” / “oh, i’m somewhat o.k.” / “good” / “well really, to be honest with you, i have this little problem” / “and i have this answer... where is it?” / “yes, but my problem’s just here, can you see it? just where the suspender belt starts...” / “oh, that little problem. oh, look at this...” / “that little problem, yes, just where my suspender belt starts... do you always wear that rubber mask?” / “how about some st. michael strong gussetted corsets... this isn’t going to go too far... i’m embarrassed... libertine!” / “what’s libertine mean?” “one who’s free” / “and...” / “free with themselves and others” PROSTITUTE fingers cross my lips drawing pretty maps with my bright red lipstickpictures of deviation i read in the dictionary that i’m a miscreation a nonconformistmake it quick i make a livin’ off-a this “this is your fifteen minute call ladies and gentlemen fifteen minutes... thank you... darling your beautiful” don’t use the back breaks honey forget my lips just let the muscle fix fit prostitute now don’t quote karl marx to me what’s yours is yours what’s mine is ours when you touch me i feel the media printing words across my female form cigarette burns on your jacksaw chin come on man i need a girl if you can’t do what she can man they say when something begins there is no sin prostitute come on baby reach my maturity no bones about it slow burn speed car racing three point turn upper body tracingexcuse me, we’re heading for that wall WIFE this is your five minute call... five minutes ladies & gentlemen, thank you “where’s my lunch...come here - where’s my fucking lunch?” big, big tears by the bright blue sea as deep as forever, oh, shirley if only mother found what you found, i wouldn’t be here dreaming salutations dear listener this is a comedy in three acts; breakfast, lunch, & tea and they better not be late here he comes through the bordello

LIE DOWN

doors i kowtow to my pimp i’m a good little whore big, big tears by the bright blue sea hello wall, nice to see you wall good day at the office wall? your dinner’s on the floor darling and scrape me off the ceiling well i’m a mercenary wife where it complies i compromise i only wear this skin ‘cause i sinned in my past life i want war and you want me i want war and you want breakfast, lunch, tea “on stage please, on stage thank you” sweat drips off my brow i know my lines, my moves, my place in life and it is ticking away i’m not going on tonight that insecure feeling it’s my nerves a void of nothingness i’m dripping away well i’m a mercenary wife i want what money buys i only wear this skin ‘cause i sinned in my past life i want war and you want me THE SHOW as you sleep in our bed in my arms i see a dying man you will always be what you will be ready to take waiting to receive i’m the object in your life called wife struggling for existence while all around glides by you will always be what you will beready to take waiting to receive hope pride will a hand break the ice? pull me from the sea if i don’t ask i don’t receive you will always be what you will be ready to takewaiting to receive just remove the hook from my mouth let me go free DREAM HOUSE there’s a house on the outskirts of marlborough past the polly tea rooms hidden in the trees that watch your every move consumed by birdsong over the bunker, below radar away from the sports centre city tip and parked cars perched on a hillside an undiscovered u.f.o. a time thief in mechanical conversation flashing, beaming, winking, gleaming with seductive surfaces at the gaping sky throbbing with generation while stalling your car burning all circuits among the standing stones and old sarum real estate owner occupied a growing concern attractive moods in the woodwork subsidence tolerated the blinds hide the blushes fading adds maturityprime investment for the voyeur only jealously guarded the paint never peels and the dust doesn’t settle on the linoleum-like substance across walls and floor dark is the stage no children live here and no old die only silence prevails paranoid actors hide on the stairs

little creatures caught in the thorns of the rose arbor helicopters, jets and siren wail reciting every word that has ever bought a tree down and bounce off the walls of the dream home whispering obscenities HOMECRAFT i must i must not homecraft i must be a bad cook i must not bath homecraft i must wear dirty clothing i must be anti-social homecraft i must (f.b.i) i must not (s.s.) i must (s.a.s.) i must not (c.i.a) i must not i must not be quiet i must answer back homecraft i must be foul tempered in company homecraft i must bury the vacuum cleaner somewhere in the garden homecraft i must remove the sheep notches off my husband’s wellies homecraft i must i must not OBSESSION pressing at the heel of my shoe into your paintwork shattering determination brick thoughts crumble we’ve stood under this sky far too longcome on baby meet your soul wife now i don’t believe you don’t want to see mecome on baby flash bulbs squeeze light from metal veins across the blistering nighti arrest your image and detain we’re not walking on safe land we’re sinking in quicksand obsession “good god, have you seen that weirdo in the car behind?no, no don’t look don’t make it obvious anyway, as i was saying... envy scratches all down the side of the car” you’re in the car in front i think with someone else her cigarette glows in the dark i see my arm on the wheel in the oncoming lights mascara black tears trickle down it’s not me it’s just meat that drives born by man captive and damned i shed this skin and enter you in the bliss of death a soul bathed in fur a heart robed in flesh whichever way you wear yourself i’ll get in obsession “everytime i venture out i leave a note in my pocket or on the table or posted to a friend to respect fate to let you know where i stand with you” if not in life, perhaps another time obsession england, this burning land sensuality of tone twenty-two miles til the earth curves then you’re out of sight baby i’ll be clothed in confusion when i woke in this body by my mother’s side born from all seeing to one sight i am all i am in a microcosm of time before i become one and all again i want to experience i want to walk all over you

LET THE POWER BLEED cut the sky with a hopeless cry let the power bleed bleed down on me i feel dreadfully torn like a new-born deep unrest beneath the great, great undressed stigmatism of flesh disenchantment little little lady grow little little lady grow tall stand before it all and roar the door before you grew from a seed to a tree with timber cut life drained away a barrier was made fly away phoenix love, love me do ya gotta hold me close to you break my inhibitions let the kudos wake little little lady grow little little lady grow tall stand before it all and roar let the power bleed the cut beneath the skin never heals a furtive glance from a stranger existence recognized body immortalized yes, there’s a woman in those flames yes, that wreckage has a soul and just a little self respect now will make this baby whole again fly away phoenix RESTLESS well you know i’ve been floating here for hours just like this, suspended gently swaying like a pendulum look, no strings attached there’s the odd insect it don’t worry traffic control but i just don’t seem to wake up i gotta wake up i’ve been all the way to budapest seen riots, yes, riots in tibet smell the burning monks crackling in pain saw bombs in gibraltar fear in christ’s eyes frozen in concrete as all of europe fries i wanna wake up a mother’s son lynched in a graveyard bullets in mcdonalds mottos “born to kill”, tattooed on children’s skin and when i saw the hole in the sky at the north pole i really wanted to wake up i heard the last breath of the dolphin behind the doors on the fourth floor of a manchester morgue little fingers on the durex machine god bless them, yes, god bless them and god bless milton keynes now i’ve been floating here for thirty years from the mid west to the north sea seen nothing but soot covered misery witnessed crossbreeding giving birth to bad dreams now i want to wake up, really want to wake up now i’m floating here on the outer atmosphere and i’ve

THINK OF ENGLAND

brushed aside the waste paper there’s a sign, it says “self destruct in ‘99” evacuate FALLING TO EARTH i cannot sleep the saint in me eludes me this man is not what i think he is a halo of thorns, spear in his side coaxing me to earth a parachute eclipses the sun hovers on the slipstream hangs on every note he denies me his knowledge eyes piercing and eagle bright lifts me from my dull existence hurls me off the cliff in clumsy flight falling to earth, i’m falling the air’s so good it gives nutrients and your presence builds as you rumble on down the corridor it’s rockin’ and i feel as if i’m floating in water but i’m not drowning i must be there in every moment ten thousand decibels so mean it pins me to all four walls opening up my secrets i’m exposing myself - so uncool i’m storm-torn, but it’s really exciting spread-eagle in the air this telekinetic hold christ, he’s the mirror that reflects my thoughts and he’s pulling me from the firmament and the sun goes behind the mountain and the night eclipses, oh god falling to earth, i’m falling i thought i was supposed to feel prepared can you hear me? i’m calling on the e.s.p. telephone is there anyone there? falling JAZZ SINGERS IN THE TREES jazz singers in the trees now shiny projectiles with beebop beaks remote in the key of green perched high in the citadel scaping the land claiming the world throwing scoring ripples across the sky here I am over here find me where’s the scalpel? o.k., I think we’ve successfully removed the tumor well, what does the astrologer say today Ronnie? voices in the brilliant dawn rejuvenate the archer the moment’s aim is in his hands the sorcerer spewing over the brim of the world you pay your debts to the reaper o.k. h.q. we’re over the designated target we await your instructions “hi there, your cheque’s in the post” o.k. boys, we’ve got the go ahead open bomb bays Nancy, I swear I can hear jazz singers in the trees jazz singers in the trees shiny projectiles with bee-bop beaks VALE OF EVESHAM i can feel summer at last from the heat in the red brick city the evening light pulls a veil of linen over night time life’s a gas will i walk there again? in the sleeping vale of evesham lies a shady town in market garden land the abbey demonic provoking

i have laid across its stones the back street pub where bowie sang “is there life on mars?” while the boys in the back rooms pumped heroin into their veins oh, ‘73 the girls, my friends, determined not to succeed pregnant by unknown fathers by fourteen mocked me, my ambition the tramp, we thought we killed, had us running scared deeper into night from flight to flight the transport café from which we’d steal our golden dreams so few survived and those who have, have disappeared just the flowers on their graves born with broken hearts yes, thank you world for my crucified icons lovers of the impossible dream t.v.’s suicides mass sacrifice we’re just buzzing in the hive born with broken hearts GHOSTS IN THE UNIVERSE here i stand on a large lump of rock floatin’ in the pisspot part of the firmament we all push me pull you fuck chuck a buck you wall to wall vermin piss points pointing in these city shells hovel hotels grovel habits in bedsit habitats it’s cowdung disneyland tip toe ting-a-ling gathering at the meeting cardboard people yappin’ top table currency ghosts in the universe hiding in the architecture drawing up big plans bang to bang designing i buy this you buy that they build this here then knock it down shoppin’ mall propagatin’ paradise is waitin’ it’s all in the handshake expand the big gland ghosts in the universe hiding in the architecture drawing up big plans bang to bang designing

toyah willcox: vocals, keyboards, guitar, akaisteve sidelnyk: drums, percussion, keyboard, akai

produced by tony arnold & toyah willcox

p 1988 toyah willcox © 2015 vertical species

songs published by bmg music ltd.the copyright in these sound recordings is owned by toyah willcox

front sleeve performance and photograph by stuart brisley the game nov 1969, ica.

original sleeve: bill smith studiophotography of toyah: richard butchins

archive, editorial & release coordination: craig astleydigital artwork: alan sawyers & nic sawyers

toyahwillcox.com