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1972: “Blondie” — demo single — Hugh Volk
1978: “The Prose” — audiocassette — The Prose
1981: “Mass Medium” — vinyl LP — Hugh Volk
1982: “Surreal Photos” — audiocassette — Hugh Volk
1983: “The Fetish Character of the Commodity” — audiocassette — Hugh Volk
1997: “The Pimp of the Obverse” — audiocassette — The Imp of the Perverse
1998: “Perversity at the BBC” — audiocassette — The Imp of the Perverse
1999: “Impossible People” — audiocassette — The Imp of the Perverse
2003: “All Bum and Greatest Tits” — CD — The Imp of the Perverse

2010 News: the recordings have all been remastered onto CDs

After a flurry of live performances between 1997 and 2000, these are now rare. But there may be some surprises coming!

To hear tracks please visit the 'Latest News' menu or go to YouTube.

For enquiries, sales, etc. please contact us at or via Facebook as Perverted Imp



XMAS EVERY DAY       (Volk)

They want to play at profits and monopoly,
ripping off the poor and the needy,
— the only answer that I can see
is wallowing in fucking anarchy.

Don’t encourage any of the arseholes, be
a rebel with a cause against the enemy:
parliament’s a club for the bourgeoisie,
it’s got nothing to do with you or me.

(chorus)   It’s Xmas in cash-land (capital),
you’re buying presents;
all year you’re paying
the bills from your hard-earned pence (peanuts).

Sheila worked non-stop as a bloody nurse,
she was fed up with her empty purse
so she joined in with the capitalist curse,
now she sells sex and drugs and it’s no worse...
                                            and she’s rich!


If they smile and claim they speak for you,
don’t believe a word — they’re for sale too.

They want to play at profits and monopoly,
ripping off the poor and the needy,
— the only answer that I can see
is wallowing in fucking anarchy.



SAN FRANCISCO       (Volk)

As her dreams faded into the ocean like a fog of fear her feet
stepped lightly off the bridge into the Golden Gate of death,
like a thousand others whose tale could be told
she no longer danced at the brink of the world
but flailed in the roiling, icy currents of the Bay.
At last she was one of the Grateful Dead, in a way;
a howling dead beat with her navel bare,
beatific, she wore a halo of flowers in her hair.
She remembered the Beatles, the Summer of Love, the very
warm psychedelic Be-in at the Park, and at Hashbury
the explosion of chemical mind-blowing trips,
painted faces, fucking without jealous and possessive grips,
the day-glo politics of the peaceful revolution
while caring for the planet was the final solution,
while waiting for the next massive quake
and wondering how much more she could take.
The big one came. Didn’t the earth move for her?
More people had orgasms than were hurt.

Silicon Valley will have its chips
though San Andreas is at fault;
the coastal mist broods hazily;
grapes from the vineyards whine all the way to the vault.

Before she dived into space the freak sang to herself
and to the skyscrapers, “Apart from life there is no wealth, —
I left my heart in San Francisco,
I made a new start in San Francisco,
I became a part of San Francisco,
now I’m less than a fart in San Francisco.”



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