A Little Westbrook Music

by The Westbrook Trio

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L’Égalité des sexes Paul ÉLUARD Tes yeux sont revenus d’un pays arbitraire Où nul n’a jamais su ce que c’est qu’un regard Ni connu la beauté des yeux, beauté des pierres, Celle des gouttes d’eau, des perles en placards, Des pierres nues et sans squelette, ô ma statue. Le soleil aveuglant te tient lieu de miroir Et s’il semble obéir aux puissance du soir C’est que ma tête est close, ô statue abattue Par mon amour et par mes ruses de sauvage. Mon désir immobile est ton dernier soutien Et je t’emporte sans bataille, ô mon image, Rompue à ma faiblesse et prise dans mes liens.
Apple Pie 04:11
Apple Pie Adrian Mitchell The wench sold you an apple pie A hot and mushy apple pie And she was eating apple pie With a teaspoon made of tin You laughed at her inviting words Embarrassed her about her words Till she denied her eager words And you laughed at her again You had to eat it with a spoon And so you asked her for a spoon So from her mouth she took her spoon And she offered it to you
Enfance 04:37
Enfance Arthur Rimbaud Cette idole, yeux noirs et crin jaune, sans parents ni cour, plus noble que la fable, mexicaine et flamande; son domaine, azur et verdure insolents, court sur des plages nommées, par des vagues sans vaisseaux, de noms férocement grecs, slaves, celtiques. À la lisière de la forêt - les fleurs de rêve tintent, éclatent, éclairent, - la fille à lèvre d'orange, les genoux croisés dans le clair déluge qui sourd des prés, nudité qu'ombrent, traversent et habillent les arcs-en-ciel, la flore, la mer. Dames qui tournoient sur les terrasses voisines de la mer; enfantes et géantes, superbes noires dans la mousse vert-de-gris, bijoux debout sur le sol gras des bosquets et des jardinets dégelés - jeunes mères et grandes sœurs aux regards pleins de pèlerinages, sultanes, princesses de démarche et de costume tyranniques, petites étrangères et personnes doucement malheureuses. Quel ennui, l'heure du "cher corps" et "cher cœur". English: That idol, black eyes and yellow mop, without parents or court, nobler than Mexican and Flemish fables; his domain, insolent azure and verdure, runs over beaches called by the shipless waves, names ferociously Greek, Slav, Celt. At the border of the forest - dream flowers tinkle, flash and flare - the girl with orange lips, knees crossed in the clear flood that gushes from the fields, nakedness shaded, traversed, dressed by rainbow, flora, sea. Ladies who stroll on terraces adjacent to the sea; baby girls and giantesses, superb blacks in the verdigris moss, jewels upright on the rich ground of groves and little thawed gardens - young mothers and big sisters with eyes full of pilgrimages, sultanas, princesses tyrannical of costume and carriage, little foreign misses and young ladies gently unhappy. What boredom, the hour of the “dear body” and “dear heart’
Heart Throb 06:46
Bordeaux Lady Kate Westbrook My Bordeaux Lady Standing stately With hair dyed black Dyed black quite lately In smock of blue Musk rose and caribou Blood red cherries Lapwings in adoration too The exotic story That your smock tells me Of dreams, of strangeness And it sets you free Free from this cafe To some Hollywood lover Where those turquoise eyelids Fit a secret fantasy Nice bourgeois lady In her domain I paid, I thanked her So fine, so vain Her touching dignity Seems good, seems rare to me Her image lingers My Bordeaux Lady
Kanonensong 03:35
The Ballad Of Billy Hughes Kate Westbrook Back to lyric index Billy Hughes the killer Billy Hughes the slain Billy's body lies in Chesterfield In a grave that bears no name The church spire of Chesterfield Like an arthritic limb Twists, it twisted so they say When a virgin bride walked in Billy went to Chesterfield To find his woman there "That Billy will kill one day" she said, She spoke it like a prayer Billy went out killing Killed a family of four A policeman trapped and shot him down In remote Eastmoor "Mass murderer" they called him As they laid him out in grace And bore him to the churchyard To a sacred resting place The market place was shuttered, Rain fell on flint and stone, On coffin bearers and police As that winter day drew on From the gate her voice cried out "He'll not be buried here, In Chesterfield churchyard Lie the bones I Hold most dear." She entered in the churchyard then Down she knelt in rain and mire Clawed the dirt from off his coffin Beneath the crooked spire She pulled the earth and called his name Gravedigger and priest Had to halt their Holy office In the face of that wild beast All looked askance at this macabre Arms all caked with mud "You look amazed at me" she cried, "His arms were caked with blood."
Titanic Song 05:15


The Westbrook Trio's first album issued in 1983 on vinyl & cassette. Now issued for the first time as a digital download. Taken from the digital master.


released October 14, 2019

Kate Westbrook - voice, tenor horn, piccolo, bamboo flute
Mike Westbrook - piano
Chris Biscoe - soprano & alto saxophones, alto clarinet

Produced by Fiachra Trench
photo by Kate Westbrook


all rights reserved



Mike Westbrook London, UK

Mike Westbrook, composer and pianist, has received many honours and his outpouring of work in a career stretching over 50 years, ranges from scores for full orchestra to solo piano improvisation.

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