Lyrics
Ahhh… f*!*!*k
It’s so much easier to just sing it Universally loved by British toddlers: («Yaangbluh Brah Blah!»)
By homeless French tuba players: («Youengbluud Bress Baend!»)
By stoned American coeds: («Yungbludd Braas Baand!»)
…Uh-huh.
Let’s see: 6 albums, 15 years, 22 countries --
Who am I?
Try not to love me I know, right?
For the people coming night after night
My whole life here
Maybe why I don’t have a wife
My lone vice
Kill a drummer, light up a mic
It’s so nice
Youngblood banging some brass
Happened so fast
Summer of lovin', my ass
We got more hot shit than you can shake a dick at So ill, at the door you get a stamp and a sick bag
You coming to the gig?
I think your lady is I think she’s having thoughts of having David’s kids
You coming to the gig?
I think your man knows
We got two fully-automatic trombones
You coming to the gig?
I think it’s worth the price
I think the saxophone section dresses awful nice
You coming to the gig?
I heard your mom say:
«I could sit and listen to the trumpets all day!»
Here’s the part where y’all play:
WHO AM I?
…aaand back!
Where you been for the last, like, decade?
Last night? Sex tape, right hand --
Nahhh, I mean, how could you think that we could quit this sound?
«Well, Nat left the band, it really let me down.»
Understandable
His mandible alone will handle all the tones your band could know
Intangible, like, how you make it danceable?
Hey, bands thinking you can do this: your hands are full.
There’s your answer, folks
You can have the notes
But it doesn’t mean your music’s not a joke
And I don’t care what kind of funny hat you’re tipping, friend
Just because you play a horn, you ain’t sitting in
«Don't be mean! That’s my boyfriend Vincent!»
Listen: asshole is my preexisting condition
I rap, it’s my job description
Well, that and dissin'
But for real, kids:
You coming to the gig?
I heard it’s so bomb
I heard they got not one but two dudes on the floor toms
You coming to the gig?
It’s not a lot of cash
I’d cut off a nut to get the tuba’s autograph
You coming to the gig?
Well France is kinda far…
Too bad, you shoulda seen the staff dancing on the bar
You coming to the gig?
Don’t wanna miss the boat
You can tell your crew that one time Mr. Skogen missed a note
Hey mister tenor saxophone
WHO AM I?
WHO AM I?
Couple things:
We don’t listen to anyone else’s say-so
We don’t got stage clothes
We don’t make great dough
We don’t play lame shows
We don’t do tame prose
And if you’re trying to break our balls, you better aim low
We do blaze foes
We do flame-throw
We do maim those sticking with the same old lame-o play-dough preschool-age flow
Don’t know 'bout fame though
You know my name, though
You coming to the gig?
It’s off the hook, right?
I’ll play your kindergarten graduation, book flights!
You coming to the gig?
There’s no one else to call!
These ten dudes unplugged trump 'em all!
You coming to the gig?
Yup
Three letters: Y… B… B!
(…forever!)
All night, all day
Getting down, getting loud
WHO AM I?
(YOUNGBLOOD BRASS BAND!)
For the kids, for their heads
Every breath till I’m dead
WHO AM I?
(YOUNGBLOOD BRASS BAND!)
For the past, for the now
For the fire, for the sound
WHO AM I?
(YOUNGBLOOD BRASS BAND!)
For the shows, for the fans
For the love for the band
WHO AM I?
(YOUNGBLOOD BRASS BAND!)
WHO AM I?
(YOUNG! BLOOD! BRASS! BAND!)
(YOUNG! BLOOD! BRASS! BAND!)
(YOUNG! BLOOD! BRASS! BAND!)
(YOUNG! BLOOD! BRASS! BAND!)
(I don’t know what that was… but it was a miracle.)