We lost The Jazz Butcher (aka Pat Fish) this week when he died suddenly on Tuesday, but it turns out he has one more gift of music for us. He recorded a new album, his first in a decade, over the summer with guitarist and longtime collaborator Max Eider, guitarist Peter Crouch (who played on Condition Blue and Waiting for the Love Bus), Weather Prophets drummer Dave Morgan (who played on The Jazz Butcher's 1988 album Fishcotheque), and bassist Tim Harries. The album is set for release in 2022 on Tapete Records.

As a tribute to Pat, Tapete has released a song from the album, "Time." It's clear mortality was on his mind, as the opening lines are, "My hair’s all wrong. My time ain’t long. Fishy go to heaven, get along, get along." But as usual, Pat has a lot on his mind -- from lithium mines to forced labour and privatised jails -- and still has a lot to say, mixing humor, pathos and anger.

Listen to "Time" below. We miss ya, Pat.

"TIME" lyrics:
My hair’s all wrong. My time ain’t long.
Fishy go to heaven, get along, get along.
I’m having too much fun to get anything done.
Leave me be. I’m not hurting anyone.
I took a long weekend in the psychedelic shack
And when you cross that bridge you ain’t never coming back.
I‘ve got scars and stripes and burns,
I‘ve got the law of diminishing returns.
I‘ve got a one-way ticket to a pit of Council lime
I’ve barely got a minute till I’m in it
But for you I’ve got time.
A little bit of time.

Luminous. Leguminous. Salubrious. Lugubrious.

Time’s running out. The money’s running out.
You don’t need me to tell you what it’s all about.
Time’s running out. The money’s running out.
Oh, baby!

A small boy who just watched his cousin being shot
Is being pushed down a mine coz we’ve got to have the lithium.
Forced labour, privatised jails.
Yeah – and all that that entails.
Tik tok. Never mind. You’re gonna live forever.
Yeah – in a razor wire dormitory,
Working on the long shift, doing what you’re told to,
Doing what you’re told to,
Doing what we used to call time.
(It’s murder.)

Respectable. Bespectacled. Electable. Detestable.

Time’s running out. The money’s running out.
You don’t need me to tell you what it’s all about.
Time’s running out. The money’s running out.
Oh, baby!

I’ve overdone the underside and now I am undone.
There’s no one here to see, though, cos I don’t see anyone.
And if I hadn’t told you that, you never would have known,
Unless I told you secretly when we were all alone.
Things are running slow. Things are running low.
You can have one more but then we gotta go.
One more before the bottle. One more before the mast.
One more shot for Davy Jones, better make it fast.

Time’s running out. The money’s running out.
You don’t need me to tell you what it’s all about.
Time’s running out. The money’s running out.
Oh, baby!

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