#Chemical Workers Song

[doolallymagpie]

ashford singing chemical worker’s song in lang belta save me

ashford singing chemical worker’s song in lang belta

save me ashford singing chemical worker’s song in lang belta

[talvin-muircastle]

Cover Monday: Chemical Worker’s Song

Normally I don’t include the original, but this song is often misattributed as “The Chemical Worker’s Song by Great Big Sea”.  It is true that GBS made it popular under that name, but it is also known as “Process Man” and “The ICI Song”, the original name.  It was written by Ron Angel, and I am going to start with his original rendition before sharing four of my favorite covers. There are others out there as well, look for them!

Now this is the one by GBS that many people know:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=edAxujKev1I

A solo cover by David Coffin:

Seth Staton Watkins does a fine version of it:

And last but not least, C.D.N.’s cover:

[primmsfairytale]

i am spending my winter break Wisely and Productively (mashing up break my heart by dua lipa with the chemical worker's song, a labor song from 1964)

[caesarsaladinn]

”grad student shanties” is probably an enormous untapped market. people whose lives are miserable slogs, and are educated/pretentious enough to enjoy dated music styles

[royaltea000]

ohh chillcuck…. (chackchack)

[ladyshinga]

YES YES YES YES YES I’VE BEEN PRAYING FOR A COLM COVER OF THIS EXACT SONG THIS DAY IS BLESSED

[the-herdier]

Viktor listening to the Chemical Worker's Song: "You guys are getting paid?"

[scarlettcryptid]

i was telling myself it was okay that i sucked at guitar hero's easy mode at the arcade earlier and that no one was even paying attention to me but then my mom said there were 3 dudes watching me when she walked in

[wouldyourfavepaychildsupport]

Would the Chemical Worker's Song pay child support?

(Art of the Great Big Sea album their cover was on)

[themummersfolly]

Octoboss content: chapter 2

This is posted on my AO3 under the title Highflyer, btw.

“460 cc’s, four stroke, air cooled.” The sun was down, and the woman sat cross-legged with the bikers at their campfire. “Machined up north, me pa’s design. Ain’t nobody can make an ultralight like he could.”

“How much guzzoline’s it drink?” Tyro wanted to know. Beside him, Sketch had gotten over his disappointment and leaned in, listening with interest.

“I don’t feed her straight guzzoline; mix it with oil. But she’ll drink a lot of things. I’ll pick up old cook oil from over at Bugtown, swap it for dry fish coming south and bullet lead coming north.”

“Where’s Bugtown?” VW asked, stirring the stewpot with a ladle. Tonight’s fare was made from lizards, mystery meat jerky, and the last of the crumbled up hardtack. The woman had contributed a packet of crusty-looking dried blobs; a lifetime in the Wasteland had taught the men not to question what they ate as long as it was food, and no one asked what they were. Huxley had tried one before they went in the pot and said it was sweet, that it would go well with the lizard.

“That way.” The woman pointed northeast. “About a day and a half flying. But there’s a big patch of salt between here and there. Don’t see nobody riding on it, so I don’t think you can cross it except by air.”

The Octoboss had taken off his helmet and leaned one elbow on it. “What kind of mileage you get?”

“She’ll go for about four hours on one tank of fuel. I can go longer if I glide and use thermals.”

He pondered this for a moment. “That what you were doing when you landed? Why we didn’t hear no motors?”

“Yeah. Can’t fly with a blown motor. So I switched it off and glided till I found a good spot to land.”

VW gave the pot another stir and lifted a ladleful out to sniff. “Think it’s done.”

It was a custom the Octoboss had established years ago: his point riders ate first, then any sick or wounded. Then the rest of his crew got their share. He himself ate last. Tonight, he nodded his head toward their guest.

“Let the lady eat first.”

She fished a tin cup out of her pack and held it out to receive the first ladleful. The others followed in their usual order, then he took the ladle from VW and filled his own cup. The following silence was broken only by slurping and by Brakeline swearing when he burned his mouth. Finally, when they had all licked the last of the grease from their fingers, the woman reached into her gear and pulled out a small round drum.

“You like music?”

“Know any metal rocks?” Huxley leaned forward. The old songs were a favorite in the Horde, and Dementus was known to reward anyone who could play a banger about fast cars, pretty women, and good times. It was a good way to cool tempers and get everyone’s engines revving together. The woman thumped her drum thoughtfully.

“How ‘bout Paradise City?”

The song was practically sacred to the bikers of the Wasteland. The woman’s voice rose over them, backed by her hand drum and the growl of the others singing along, then Tyro, who was the only one of the crew who could carry a tune in a bucket, took over with a couple lesser-known verses. Paradise City was followed by Highway To Hell, the Immigrant Song, and Manic Mechanic; the woman’s voice rose like a kite or rumbled like wheels on a good smooth road, and she belted out the words with the confidence of a History Man. When Huxley suggested a song she didn’t know, Tyro sang a few bars to give her the beat and she accompanied him on the drum while he sang Back In Black. As they wound down, she shifted to a slower beat and two songs they’d never heard before: one about hard work and choking chemicals, the other a wistful number about dreams and visions and rain. The Octoboss stretched out his long legs to the fire, watching her, as lost in the song as she was in the singing. The fire died down to embers; the last notes of the song drifted up with the sparks. Sketch and VW were already asleep; Huxley was curled up under Tyro’s arm, and Brakeline lay on his back, gazing up at the stars. Quietly, the woman tucked her drum into her pack. She glanced once at the Octoboss, then turned toward her plane. He rose to his feet as she did.

“I’ll walk you back.”

The silence of the desert seemed almost benevolent in the wake of her singing. The moon was full tonight, and he studied her as they walked down the slope.

“You got some pipes on you. Like a bird.” They were almost to the plane. She glanced up at him, quizzical, and he fumbled a little. “Not a crow, I mean, something nicer…” Something he hadn’t heard since he was young, and had never learned the name of.

“A lark.” She caught the fumbled thought and tossed it back to him. “’Least that’s what we say back home.”

“Yeah. Lark.”

She returned his gaze, didn’t look away, didn’t flinch. The derringer was in the thigh pocket of her coveralls; she had crossed her arms, tucking her fingers into her armpits. He took as step towards her. She didn’t step back.

“That was a slick move you pulled back there.” His voice was low, appreciative.

“What, pulling a gun on you?”

“Pick the one the others look to and cap him. You knew they’d back down.”

“I figured you’d stop ‘em. Or else I’d give a good accounting of myself on the way out.”

“They’ve got my back. Or my front, as the case may be.”

“They gonna leave me alone?”

“They will. I told ‘em not to bother you.”

“You got a lot of faith in your boys.”

Something almost like a smile pulled at his mouth. “Yeah.” She was a full foot shorter than him; if they stood toe-to-toe, he could rest his chin on top of her head. He was tempted to try, just to see how far her fearlessness went. Instead he broke the moment off and turned back to his camp. “Watch out for camel spiders. They’re bad around here.”

“Yeah. You too.”

He couldn’t resist one last look over his shoulder, at the plane, at its pilot. “G’night, Lark.”

[your-fav-song-is-an-avatar]

The Chemical Worker's Song (Process Man) by Great Big Sea is an Avatar of the Corruption.

A process man am I and I’m telling you no lie,

I work and breath among the fumes that trail across the sky.

There’s thunder all around me and a poison in the air,

There’s a lousy smell that smacks o’ hell and dust all in me hair.

[rawr-monsters]

Sometimes I listen to a song and the person just does not have the right voice for it, and usually it's because it's too pretty. It happens most often with working songs, though. I'm sorry but if you have a pretty voice you should not be singing the chemical workers song. The line "well a process man am I, and I'm telling you no lie" sounds like a goddamn lie outta some of these mouths.

[auressea]

from their 2nd album. "UP".

this arrangement of The Chemical Worker's Song- launched this work song into the public consciousness...

[daily-brain-worms]

Current songs in the brain:

- Come Out Ye Black and Tans

- The Foggy Dew

- The Chemical Workers Song

(Each one has been covered by Colm R. McGuinness and each one is fantastic.)

[magpiesbones]

LIKE. the AMOUNT to which Alex is a VERY well executed and concise argument for mental healthcare and systemic failure and better sexual violence justice systems and the WAYS that people can just. Fall out of society and keep falling. that’s SO important. She’s not just a character she’s an argument!! She’s a VERY GOOD ARGUMENT.

Darlington also!! ALSO an argument!! His is a little less obvious but look the book isn’t about him it’s fine.