Lyrics:

The rhythm of New York,
Now that’s what he was talking about
The street of New York
The beat in the street of New York
Like the heat in New York
In the bathhouses, in the backrooms
In the chicken joints and the cotton clubs
Beneath the buildings, behind the bridges
Beneath the smoke and the moon
Beneath the beneath
But tunneling up
Tunneling up
From the dry feet of New York
The beat of New York
Now that’s what he was talking about
Pena negra,
That tortured thing
At the heart of the thing
Deep beneath the thing
But rising
Rising

Like the Charleston
Charleston, Charleston
The beating heart of New York
That’s what he was talking about
The New York Charleston
That wounded pulse at the
Heart of New York
That’s what he was talking about
Throbbing, throbbing
Beneath the howling moon
Where the King of Harlem liked to play it
On a wooden spoon
Up from the streets
Up from the feets
Where that great arsenic lobster
Finally learned how to fly
And now the moon is just
A slice of radiance divine
Up in the sky
That’s what he was talking about
That’s what he was talking about

Go tell Dali go tell Bunuel
Go tell the millionaires it’s time to sell
The final foot
Is on the stairs
It’s time to drink the silver whisky
Throw the glass into the brine
‘Cause it’s time,

It’s time, it’s time, it’s time in New York
You got no time?
Baby you got nothing but time
You’re hushed by time, crushed by time
Now that’s what he was talking about
Pena negra
That tortured thing
At the heart of the thing
Deep beneath the thing
But rising, rising
From bathhouses and backrooms
Like refugees they arrived on broken ships
And departed with little more than their wits
Ay! Dios mio!
A broken moon
And the word was rising, rising
That’s what he was talking about
Now that’s what he was talking about

Go tell Dali go tell Bunuel
Go tell the millionaires it’s time to sell
The final foot
It’s on the stairs
The spire of smoke is in the air

El mascaron! El mascaron!
Mirad el mascaron
From Africa to the backrooms and backstairs
Of cotton clubs and chicken joints
In the moment of dry things
And dead things
The beat of New York
No retreat in New York
From the heat in New York
Relentless
Relentlessly
Without mercy
Across wired bridges
Above sky scrapers
Un milagro!
Assesinado por el cielo
A broken moon
Howling! Howling!
El mascaron, el mascaron
A wounded pulse
A broken tune
Now that’s what he was talking about