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The Aeroplane Flies High Liner Notes, 1996 - 1996-??-??
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The Aeroplane Flies High Liner Notes By Billy Corgan and James Iha, Summer 1996

the aeroplane flies high, turns left, looks right. the aeroplane knows that it is alone it int's drama bones. madness, preconceptions, ray gun logics run and spit and rationalized until a whole chorus of mug wumps, blue in the face from yelling their divisive mantras, run out of young breath and just plain give in to the spirit of the whole damn apple. face it, you love it, it's fun for one and all, and for all you know the earth spins on it's rusty axis just because of it. the aeroplane moves whether you want it to or not. cram packed with fuel injected jet missile action, this is war motherfucker and don't you forget it for one second. it is us versus them, and if you're giving in then you are giving up. all the names don't mean shit. ugly, beautiful, pretentious, arrogant, old, tired, happy, sell outs, careerists, transcendent, hypnotic, trippy, spellbinding, numb, egocentric, solipsistic, empty, hollow, shallow, lost, 70′s, 60′s, 80′s, 20′s, long winded, phony, grand, the worst, the best, creepy, cranky, desperate…. the aeroplane just flies higher, faster, stronger. there isn't much time for maybes, even goodbyes sometimes. dust settles, the arcwelders come out and reconstruct the obvious, and we are all left holding the blur. life will always be a sentimental way, you can vivisect it all you want. blood and will are indivisible. the aeroplane flies high, turns left, looks right. the world pisses a silver stream to let you know it is there. on the other side of the slipstream of countless thoughtless thoughts. it shatters and divides into a million fragments because life is not a lifestyle choice. we are not a fashion accessory. music is god's bones creaking pleasure, amusement, even occasional approval. we salut you all with a crack of the back, a baseball bat and a smile. god bless us all, for what we think and feel is all we really have. but when is too far far enough. no limit that i ever knew really matters. there is strength in the dirt of your garden sorrows, there are no more tomorrows, only blissed todays, purple and immeasurable in stature and stealth, because the sun is always sneaking around behind your sneaky back, can you hear us because if you can't we will turn it up till your ears bleed nascent approving harmony. it's all good, and don't you forget it. the fourth wall is down and deserves to stay down, because all you are really watching in others is yourself, the third generation t.v. reflection. time is never time at all. there is no time, no heartbeats, no babies, no frnech fries, just spider webs strung to oscillate the fever pitch of blandkind, oops i mean mankind. once the sonic dart leaves your fingers, it is hard to get back. scratch, sniff, observe, obey, deceive, distort, disarm it all, the bomb is on and ticking. we know but we ain't telling anyone anything, because we know nothing. "t.v. generation x.y.u.," zero and is playing on a single bill, one night only at the bottom of the ocean. once it is gone there is no going back, and it is never ever the same. wave to the magic balloons with your names attached, 5 zillion strong circling the precious earth in search of a friend in search of another. i hope you all find what you need in whatever hole you peer down, whatever cloud you peek behind, let the disaster dukes masticate on the green grass of hope and love. this year is the most joyous and happy, mournful and sad year i have known. life is good bleats the bleating heart, and it keeps on bleating like an 808. never ever forever tomorrow comes, new dawns blister, new songs to be sung. the aeroplane flies high, turns left, looks right.the aeroplane knows you know, sings the song of truth, of redemption, of sorrow. look no further than your dirty feet. -billy

so from the house of loneliness, we slept, we ate, we dreamed of nothing, played music ceaselessly for 8 1/2 years climbing up a hill, still in a warm cloudy sleep we awoke, all numb fingers and dumb lips. the river fled, the meadow opened, the mountain woke, coloured lights strewn from city to city, under the trees, under the stars, under the traveling moon we played and slept. so much has happened and things are changing so fast that looking over the cebris and tarnished medals it seems like so many years. the dim lights, loud music, getting lost in the van, watching for UFO's, arguing, watching butch vig microwave bacon, bugg, people actually coming to see us play, more arguing, lollapalooza, more music, endless boring hours listening to guitar "tones" with alan, doom, harmony strings, flood with the classic saying, "we're in the trenches with our tin hats on," songs, releasing a double cd under the jaundiced eye of business acumen and winking hipsters, relief, elation, tragedy, then reticence… at the end of this you flip back to the beginning or maybe open it up somewhere in the middle and you always find the same thing: music. so that's what you might take away from this – and all this from an empty room. cheery, ta! -james, summer '96

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