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    Van Hunt

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    Most Popular Songs (more)

    1Seconds Of Pleasure lyrics
    2It's A Mysterious Hustle lyrics
    3...Puddin' lyrics
    4Family Affair lyrics
    Joss Stone in duet with John Legend and Van Hunt
    5June lyrics
    6Plum lyrics
    7What Can I Say lyrics
    8Hello Goodbye lyrics
    9Mean Sleep lyrics
    10Your Love (Is the Greatest Thing I've Ever Known) lyrics

    Most Popular Albums (more)

    1What Were You Hoping For [2011]
    2On The Jungle Floor [2006]
    3Van Hunt [2004]


    My father was a part-time painter and pimp. He was also a summer resident at an insane asylum, a result of his having faked mental illness in order to get a break from the heat and monotony of his full-time job as a factory worker. And, on at least one occasion, I went to visit him in the tiny room where he shared thoughts and toilet paper with "real" crazy people.

    Through the eyes of a child, my father had a fascinating lifestyle. He and his friends would put on some fly-ass clothes, smoke a lil' herb, talk a whole lot of shit and chase beautiful women. He would often take me along with him. And, I loved it. I loved watching him take a lady into the back room, loved seeing the door close behind him, and I loved listening, straining with all my might to hear the strange sounds that followed. Sometimes, after they'd finished, I would sneak into the room and wonder what in the world could have caused such a smell - a heavy bitter mix of sweat and perfume. But, I loved it. I loved sitting in the corner of a smoke filled dope house, tapping my feet to the music while my father and his friends cussed each other out over a game of cards. It seemed to me the beat of the drums urged on their behavior, and drove the alcohol that flowed through their veins out of their bloodshot eyes. Guitars and horns percolated and made their hands tap out the rhythm uncontrollably, "1-2-3-4." All kinds of people - some I knew, some I didn't - would be coming and going every five minutes. They would slide their money to the dude at the door, ask for a particular girl, or a certain sized bag of weed and then have to wait for a few uncomfortable seconds, looking dumb and uneasy, until their needs arrived. And, I loved it. It was intoxicating. It sparked my imagination. And soon I began to hear a soundtrack for the scenes and images to which I'd been exposed. I began to hear words and melodies underneath the romance and the grit. I was completely taken by the pictures on album covers and the words inside the sleeves, words like "synthesizer", and "Hollywood." There was an explosion of thoughts and ideas inside of me. I began singing my new songs to the thousands of people I saw in the mirror. And, I played scintillating guitar licks with a broomstick.

    But, I also became curious about what it was that happened during the day that made people do the things they did at night. And, later on I found out. I found out that the morning can be beautiful, but it also wakes the troubles of the mind. It opens your eyes to the reality of your situation, the problems in your relationships and the demons in your head. A tattle of wills rages from within. And, come nightfall under the cover of darkness, you run into the arms of your vices. It is the inner-turmoil and the struggle to remain sane that stimulates me. And, ultimately it is my personal struggle that reveals itself on paper. But, I love it. And, I live to write about it. And it all began with my father and his friends.

    Van Hunt

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