Discover the poetic beauty in ‘I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous’ by A. Turner. This lyric breakdown takes you on a journey through the artist’s thoughts, emotions, and the story they aim to tell. From clever metaphors to evocative imagery, we delve into the nuances that make this song a lyrical masterpiece. Whether you’re a fan of A. Turner or a lover of well-crafted words, our detailed analysis will give you a deeper understanding and appreciation of this song.
Let’s begin at the beginning:
We’re lovers and we’re losers,
We’re heroes and we’re pioneers,
And we’re beggars and we’re choosers.
We’re skirting round the edges
Of the ideal demographic.
We’re almost on the guestlist,
But we’re always stuck in traffic.
We’ve watched our close associates
Up and play their parts;
They’re chatting up the it girls,
And they’re tearing up the charts,
While we were paying with coppers
To get our round in at the bar.
We’re the see-Team, we’re the almost famous
Old friends of the stars.
Justin is the last
Of the great romantic poets,
And he’s the only one among us
Who is ever going to make it.
We planned a revolution
From a cheap Southampton bistro.
I don’t remember details
But there were English boys with banjos.
Jay is our St George, and he’s standing on a wooden chair,
And he sings songs and he slays dragons, and he’s losing all his hair.
Adam is the resurrected spirit of Gram Parsons, In plaid instead of rhinestone and living in South London.
And no one’s really clear about Tommy’s job description,
But it’s pretty clear he’s vital to the whole damn operation.
Dave Danger smiles at strangers, Tre’s the safest girl I know,
Zo and Harps will skamper up to victory in the city we call home.
We won’t change our ways, we will proud remain when the glory fades.
I am sick and tired of people
Who are living on the be-list.
They’re waiting to be famous
And they’re wondering why they do this.
And I know I’m not the one who is habitually optimistic,
But I’m the one who’s got the microphone here so just remember this:
Life is about love, last minutes and lost evenings,
About fire in our bellies and furtive little feelings,
And the aching amplitudes that set our needles all a-flickering,
And help us with remembering that the only thing that’s left to do is live.
After all the loving and the losing,
For the heroes and the pioneers,
The only thing that’s left to do
Is get another round in at the bar.