Good Morning, Midnight

by Becky Becky

  • Pre-order of Good Morning, Midnight including immediate download of 2 tracks in the high-quality format of your choice (MP3, FLAC, and more), plus unlimited mobile access using the free Bandcamp listening app. You'll also get the complete album the moment it’s released.
    releases 01 May 2014

     £8 GBP  or more


Quite Like Old Times
I Remember, I Remember...
Tigers Are Better-Looking
When The Dead Come Alive
Let Them Call It Jazz


Written, recorded & produced by Becky Becky, inspired by the work of Jean Rhys.
Written and recorded in Stockholm, Linkoping & Malmo, Sweden, Hamburg & Berlin, Germany; Prague, The Czech Republic; Edinburgh & Anstruther, Scotland; Brighton, England & Seythenex, France.


releases 01 May 2014



all rights reserved


feeds for this album, this artist
Track Name: House Of The Black Madonna
At the House of the Black Madonna, I cry like I knew I would. At the House of the Black Madonna, I say, “it’s something I remembered.” And it comes to me like a dog: I am standing in a white-washed room. You standing with your back to me. You cleaning your shoes. You sometimes bring home other women and I have to wait on them. It’s now that you betray me and I don’t like that, but I’m not unhappy. She looks at the tears in my eyes. I say, “it’s just an old memory.” She says, “sometimes I feel the same. That’s not to say I let everybody see.” Her voice is cold and clean. Like the nurse’s uniform in the hospital where our baby lay, freshly born. Still warm. Tag round it’s foot. I didn’t feel much. I didn’t feel a thing then. I haven’t again. At the House of the Black Madonna, my memories sing, “Let us live. When we give, let us give. While we live, let us live.” It comes to me like a vision. I finally make my decision. I will wear my little black dress. I will drink myself to death.
Track Name: Fire & Wings
I order another drink. I feel like a goddess. I’ve made my decision: I will drink myself to death and tomorrow I will dye my hair. Maybe blonde, for a change. On my passport, it still reads your name. I said I didn’t love you anymore. I wanted it to be true, but I wasn’t sure. I still love you from this cheap hotel. What happened? Didn’t I treat you well? He is not a young man, but not quite old enough to be my father. I ask him what it’s like to have money and he says, “well, it’s murder.” Outside in the fresh air, I can’t walk, I’m so drunk. He laughs and says, “O, you young women. You dance too much.” You were staring at the floor when you said you didn’t love me any more. Goddamn, I love you madly. Goddamn, you treat me badly. I need money for my hair. I need money for my teeth. I need money for shoes that won’t deform my feet. There are bars where they like me. There are bars where they don’t. There are looking glasses I look nice in and looking glasses where I don’t. There are dresses that will be lucky and men that will make me happy and those that won’t and so on and so on and so on and so on. They come in a glass, these lovely little things. Give me more of this feeling. Give me fire and wings.