The Shape of Calling EP on Iodine Recordings
So This is Christmas?: The countdown is on and as soon as it hits one I’ll be gone. And it’ll be all that I’ve waited for and it’ll be all that I’ve worked towards. But I won’t be in any of your summer stories and I won’t get that one inside joke. But, hell, I’ll have my own to tell. It’s just really bitter sweet for me to leave. On one hand I’m following my dream but there’s so many reasons for me to stay, my bitter sweet, on the other hand. It’s just that it’s that one. That one where everyone has the time of their lives and where it may be the last time to see them as I know them. I just hope that no one speaks until I get back. And that nothing moves until I come back. I just wish it all could freeze until the drive back. I guess I’m just scared that it’ll be too hard to get my life back.
Knee Deep in Your Shit: One day you’ll be wrapped around my finger. And it’ll be the middle cause I’ve been flipping you off for years now. Those years you were off being you or a preconceived notion of a cool you at least. And maybe I kept you close because of the misplaced faith I have in you being better because you failing is overkill and I could kill you over and over again for what you do and what you’ve done. And I could’ve made you better but you wanted to stay at the bottom, probably bottomless, playing in traffic and I wish that wasn’t a metaphor. But one day you’ll be crawling to me on your knees. Which I’m sure is a position you are used to. And it’ll only be because of the words on these pages and what we do on these stages. And I’ll finally bask in the glory of not being a rockstar but being close enough for you to want me now. But when you’re listening to this song when you’re bobbing your head, you’ll learn that you’re nothing to me now and that you are wasting this time trying to get hit by my bus in this traffic, this traffic that you seem to love so much. And you’ll be surrounded by crushes and crashes into you for all time because, let’s face it, you’ve got quite the exterior. But just know that you’ll know what it’s like to die alone because nothing is forever in your world of bullshit thinking.
Everything You Thought You Knew LP on Iodine Recordings
Be So Much More: I think everyone would just rather me be some gray entity who should just slouch through a lifetime. With my head bowed down and my voice unheard. But I always have shit to say and I always have more that I want out of my life. And people think that I think that I’m better than everyone else. Well, those people couldn’t be bigger assholes than if they practiced on Saturdays. I just never want to be forgotten. I want to leave my mark without needing to piss or die in my prime.
New Obsessions: Your outline has dialed the phone and whoever picked up the other end told you to fuck off and reminded you that things change. Sometimes for the worse. Your shape has made the call to everything you thought you knew and you found out that you didn’t know shit. And that’s alright; it’s the first step in waking up. You’ve hit the snooze button and you’ve hit the booze bottle. I applaud you. We appreciate that you sat in on our therapy sessions. But it’s now time to listen to the new obsessions that we hold in our heads. We just want you all to catch our disease. We want our rock to be contagious and I know that sounds as outrageous as having a party and telling everyone you know to come but that’s the point, isn’t it? We just want to get your fucking head banging. So raise your glasses and start shaking your asses. Cause we’re coming to your house and we’ve got plenty of what you need to go around.
Too Bad This Wasn’t the Seventies: This is a grow your hair long, take your shirt off and smoke a cigarette rebellion. So, welcome to the revolution….it may not be the solution to all of your problems but it’ll be right and it’ll be fun as hell. So, I dare you to stand on your own two feet and tell them what you believe your life means. Even if you’re daddy’s little girl or some sort of a momma’s boy. You’re welcome to the revolution. It might not be the solution to all of your problems but it had to happen sometime. So, I dare you to stand on your own two feet and tell them what you believe your life means. Too bad this wasn’t the seventies. Cause this type of thing seemed easy and seemed like it happened all the time. It’s a grow your hair long, take your shirt off and smoke a cigarette rebellion. So, welcome to the revolution, motherfuckers.
Cinda-fuckin-rella: I’m sick and fucking tired of everyone and this place. Leaving used to seem bitter sweet but now it’s just sweet because I’m bitter as hell. And the thing you gotta know about this town is that when partying…leave at midnight because up until then you’ve probably had the time of your life. After that though everything turns to shit. Drama ensues. Fights begin. Screams resume. All around insensitivity seems fit. And it’s that same thing every time just with different faces. Needing an escape that races quicker and is stronger than malt liquor. Because it might take away most of the awkward. It might make everyone look better. Losing your eyes in alcohol. But nothing beats getting the hell out of here for a while.
Poorly Cast Sitcom: Goddamn, it’s starting to feel a little incestuous. Everyone gets recycled here as if it were some poorly cast sitcom. We grow up with these people. Live our lives surrounded by the same pretty faces. And things happen and things change. But there’s only so much to go around. Pretty soon all of your so-and-sos end up with someone from the group. Or has already been with a member of this, once hailed, late night crew. It’s just starting to feel a little incestuous. I think I need to get the hell out of here.
How Cutely Masochistic of Me: So, I’ll wear those beads that you gave to me that night that we all drank like it was Mardi Gras. And I’ll remember what it felt like when you were perfect. Because we were perfect strangers. It always seems to get worse when we find out more and more. And maybe I have changed in the superficial things that I do but that’s because this is a different world than I once knew. And I do, now, use different tactics in order for survival and in order to keep fooling myself into some sort of happiness. But I’ve always been the same kid and hopefully you have to. And maybe we’ll get back to what we once were from a superficial glance. But soon I’ll be in some other town in some other state wearing those beads you gave to me and drinking like it’s Mardi Gras. And I know it sounds masochistic of me but I want to kiss you the night before I leave so that I can feel what it is like to miss you. And then, maybe, I’ll have something to look forward to when I come back because hopefully it’ll be you waiting for me at my doorstep.
Greenbriars and Wheat Services: Playing hearts out as if tearing them from our own chests and throwing them into a pile. One big fucking bloody mess on empty floors of empty rooms. Alcohol dripping and spilling out of our empty cavities on good nights where the spirits come for free. And as much as we bitch and we moan about the lack of kids and a missed home, I think we all know that it’s well worth it. Getting closer and closer to the newer and newer as each empty hour goes by. Bonds getting stronger and stronger the longer we drive. We’ll pour it all onto you tonight even though your clapping hands are the only ones in sight. Because we totally got screwed and we definitely got fucked (thanks FATA) but guess what? It never got the better of us. We made the best of it and never gave up. And we have you guys to thank. You guys for life.
College, or Acting Like it at Least: And we gloat about the nights spent outside of ourselves. Reflecting and disrespecting with a warm smile. Clueless. Classless. No responsibility for consequences rendered. Engendered by swinging our meat around. Too male. Impress the too female. Swinging their hair around. Too female. Impress the too male. 21- 25 years later and still fresh out of the womb. If someone were to tell us to grow up, they’d be the three words written after never get out of the boat: absolutely, goddamn, right.
Trapped in the In Between: Turning every page and burning them all along the way. Stuck in the middle from beginning to end. Sucked in. Always act one scene one of a nightmare that begins at noon. Staring at a phone that never rings and listening to the complaints of a bored answering machine. They’re hardly fulfilling their destinies. They’re almost of no use to me. Introspective. Infected. The dirty wound of my brain won’t let me pretend that it’s all fiction. Giving it too much thought but what the fuck? What else am I going to do with my time trapped within these walls. Act one scene one of a nightmare that begins at noon and never ends. This is my reality. Trapped in the in between of not very well planned tours.
Finally, the Electric Chair: Counting the boredom by the six pack. Four of them in every case taken to court. The jury finding the defendant guilty for wasting a lifetime. Sentenced to death for my crime: taking everything for granted.
Victoria Secret: Support that has been lost like all the missing underwire of all the misplaced bras in America. And maybe I do just want to step outside and get stoned. Rock after rock thrown from the hands of the people who might just know me best. Isn’t that how it always goes? The people closest turning on you? They are the ones who know how much you’ve wronged, right? But how many look at their watches and take the time to comprehend all of the good we do? I used to have it all. I always had the support of family and friends but now it’s lost like all of the missing underwire of all the misplaced bras and I think I’m ready to go outside and get stoned. You all don’t give a shit anyway. Throw your hardest. I guess I deserve it sometimes.
Adaptation: All the patiently waiting clocks have begun to break and we’ve all started, yet continued to fake as if love is all we’ve needed to keep our heads above water even though we all know that we’ve held our hearts below the waist. And I can tell you now that too tart is the taste of these bittersweet summer days and of this bittersweet summer haze where dying a thousand hot deaths seems worth it to get to the sunshine of your love. Because maybe it’s the type of sun that shines down even after the time we have here in this chameleon of a town runs out and out of luck. So, what the fuck can we do but wait and see and try not to think about it too much while we party like we always have? But I know that this war with time has changed me. So, don’t blame me if I don’t do the same old shit we’re used to because the way I see it is like this: the love we’ve had for each other has worn out or instead has been torn out of everyone but me. This constant fucking affair with my bests and my worsts.
Tell All Your Friends: We don’t belong here as much as you don’t. Don’t forget that shit. Where were you months ago? We’re just like you. Four schmucks getting lucky. And I don’t have to prove myself to you. I shouldn’t have to prove myself to you. What? Do I have to flash some sort of VIP pass? It’s cool. Be full of yourselves. We’ll be in your dressing room drinking all of your free beer but only after we drink all of our own free beer. We’re just like you. Don’t do me any favors. I’m not in this to be a part of your club. I don’t give a fuck. I just like doing what we do. And we’ve met some of the greatest people ever doing this but believe me you’re only number one on my shit list. So congrat-u-fuckin-lations. Isn’t that what you always wanted? I shouldn’t have to prove myself to you. These pages and what we do on these stages is proof enough. And PS, you’d know it if I was hitting on your girlfriend because she’d still be in my bed.
Scenester: Felt it again tonight for the first time in a while. The absolute love of being so close to everything and everyone. A scene. The scene I guess people call it. I usually hate that world when I’m forced into it but loved it tonight because it was leisure, it was hanging, and it was friends around me, and friends on stage. It felt right again I guess. 2 bottles of wine again. Pinot Gregio. “This is the breaking of my heart,” Stink turns and says to me and I can tell he means it. He’s not just getting all Dashboard on me because this has nothing to do with a girl though it has everything to do with love. Passion, music. It’s because it’s not him up there with his dude, his partner in crime. And I can feel for him. And I can feel lucky because I have this and will always have this. Passion. Music.
Religion to You, Religion to Me: So, I don’t know if I’ll ever find God. But I try. And it might not be yours that I seek, I just want to find out what this all means. This life. This death. And try to make something beautiful out of relaying what I find back to you and you and you. A mindfuck that goes on and doesn’t end until you cum and you cum and you cum again. And I usually need the tongue of a chemical because I may never know what it means to be truly clean. But I try. I try to stay off the sauce for my mom and for myself. And it may not work out. But I try. And try to make sure that I am remembered as something more than me. A love affair with a word, a question, a sound. To breathe, to me, is to try.
Self-Titled on Triple Crown Records
Gag From the Smell: The only thing I can do now is clean the shit off of the fan because it hit and hit big time. Broke the blades. Sent my world up in flames. And I knew this way of life would come back and bite me on the ass. I just didn’t think it would bite so hard or so fast. You have to give up love in order to do what you love. What a fucking paradox, right? When you have to live like at any moment you’d have to give it all up and drop everything in order to grow wheels and windows again and be off. The only lover being highway lines and audience minds because this very much is a mindfuck that will never end until a you a you and a you cum again. But maybe my concerns of pleasure should’ve stayed with just a one her. But this is what gives me peace, lets me sleep with a smile on the face. My passion, my fashion. The only thing we can make love to is sleepless drives and load in times where we’re always late. And of course there’s always the chance of getting laid. But I’m not much of the casual guy. I only have one thing on my mind. You. A ten year crush, a chance I could’ve took, but I fucked up and didn’t take the serious serious. Now I just want to fall in love in every state. Actually, fuck it, every city. So as to ensure that, when the inevitability of years of the road comes, I’d never be as lonely as I am now.
Genetics: The room is drunk. There’s nothing more sad than staying the same. There’s nothing scarier than needing to change. I’m searching for something bigger than myself. Because I know there’s something out there that’s better and that’s waiting for my cells to stumble upon. My DNA will be today but it’ll mean yesterday. The past speaks louder than words tease your powdered nose. Ladies rooms of ladies bars. This night is drunk. This town is the same. And there’s nothing sadder. Tattered table cloths on tattered table tops. Hold your drink closer to your heart. There’s something better out there waiting for me to stumble upon. I’m constantly searching because I’m constantly empty. The emptiness of your memory of me. We are nothing of what we used to be. There’s no remnants of the love you might have had in your heart for me. We are changed. My stomach pregnant with drink. But my feelings stay the same. I need something bigger than this mortality. A desperate vitality.
Drowning in Air: A constant voice in the back of your head reminding you that you’re a failure. As subtly as thumbnails on a chalkboard. Perpetual mention of letdown. Somewhere someone is disillusioned by actions that you can’t help. How to be what everyone wants you to be. The poet, the pervert, the mature, the nurtured. The gregarious, the reclusive, the passionate, the beautiful. The me, the you. Make everyone proud. Stifle yourself in a crowded room. Hyperventilate. Sleep them all away in the back seat and dream of not being annoyed by everyone.
In All Our Glossy Eyes: Drinking and driving from state to state. Tempting fate again and again. We should be dead by now. Stupidity at its best. The thirst for more and more on all our parched throats hidden behind all our wet lips. Everyone spending more than we have expecting that, at any moment, the money’s going to start rolling in. Stars in the eyes. Cocaine on the nose. Smoke from the lips. Five bladders full of piss. They’re in the back doing lines off of Abby Road while he, in his head, recites lines from a poem that he wrote. And this one wants to schmooze with a glass of booze in hand and try to be sweet to every girl he meets just to prove that he can. While that one sits behind the driver’s wheel, feeling used, selling his soul as the truth of being straight edge takes its toll. The only one who can get us to our next home. While the king of the pass out is trying to stay awake enough to finish his last beer and wait for the last joint of the night to be rolled as we near the only destination in sight: death. We’ve become an after school special. A cliché with the beard to match. Introspective. The dirty wound of the brain creating words to bite and infect. A cliché with the haircut to match. In front of a mirror putting the most importance in attempts to create a keen fashion sense. A cliché with the addiction to match. Hasn’t slept in days. Irresponsibility almost negating, yet maybe fueling his gift. His talent. A cliché with the clear head to match. Having to play the role of the dad. The rest are too drunk and too lazy to take care of the business end. A cliché with the stench of cigarettes to match. Going with the flow. The rhythm. And through all the bullshit, staying laid-back. Stars in the eyes, cocaine on the nose, smoke and drink on the lips and five bladders constantly full of piss. Welcome to the party. Should we put you on the guest list?
Worn Silent Tires: I should’ve asked where your loyalties lie and re-iterated the fact that this is not only how we live but it’s how we’ll die. The tension now seems wet blanket thick as it drapes the air between all of us. The silence is incisor biting, ripping into flesh but is what you deserve. Your announcement was cuticle claw gripping from out of left field and the drive home must’ve killed you slowly as every highway line and mile slid beneath worn and tired tires. You probably went straight to her touch to tell her about all the words that were never muttered while we drove back pounding fists on dashboards and van roofs as Absolution blared ready to drink the anger away. Another one bites the dust. Bass players are a dime a dozen but you were the one that made just about as much sense as anything or anyone. Now, though, we’re in your bloodstream, infecting you for the rest of your life and that you thank us for and to that I say you’re fucking welcome. This isn’t just a band, it’s a way of life that’s not only partly living but is a love that becomes a delicate eternity. And when she asks these friends in gorgeous whispers about men rusting in the rain of woman water, we’ll push you into the spotlight bashful and bronzed pale and pink. The only thing I know is that I’d rather stay here and die with all of you then save myself. Titanic like romanticism I know. You talked me off the ledge time and time again just to step onto it and leap off arms clinging to the thoughts of green and the greed of sex. Good luck in all that you do without us.
The Morning After EP on Rise Records
Time and a Half: The head and the heart work independently of each other but work over time because I think too much when I drink too much and feel too much when I’m actually lucky enough to steal a fuck from some unknown beauty that I project personality upon. Thoughts from the road. Peaceful and serene. Behind the wheel and healing. Wounds that are too silly to mention to you now. Carraba will say it better than me anyway.
Capacity for Nostalgia: Virginia beach 3:00AM holds a piece of me that I will never be able to get back. Everything is finite. Even memory. Sad to never be able to feel it again. Coming down off the drug of Virginia and Philly, and Long Beach, New York and North Carolina, and Athens, Georgia and El Paso, Illinois and now Covington, Kansas. The drug of tour.
To Be or Not to Be (In a Band): Dreaming when awake, dreaming when asleep. a constant wait and a constant struggle to be better for a moment. For a perfectly Eastern moment. A Bruce Lee perfection. Finding heaven again and again in pizza places and in bars. Shifting perspectives on home. Conflicted yet again between passion and stability. Eating shit with a salad fork but having the time of a life.
Emily and Stella: Getting more and more blind after every sip. Pussy clouding head and vision. Everyone’s metal detectors leading to the beautiful beeping and beeping as we step over each other to get there. Sift through the sand to reach the one and only clam. Jealousy’s always an issue. Ego control around a dog answering to Stella Artois as it bites as all to a comely death.
Music and Words: Drink my blood if it’s your sweet symphony.
Tour: Like a bizarre family reunion every time we’re on the road. Like little homes placed all around the country. It’s warm; it’s loud and excited thoughts and conversation.
Hipster Night: Me and all the other cats in my band spent all night after blowing, dipping our bills, looking for some serious chicken dinners. I know that I’d just sit around digging those mellow kicks until I found myself alone surrounded by dead soldiers, completely burning with a low blue flame because there were just no dames in the barrelhouse that were really tuning me in and getting my signal. I mean, I was beating my gums with this one chick but her crumb crushers were too snaggled. It wouldn’t have cut the mustard if she were to do a little deep sea diving on me. So, I told her to cut the scene. Then this one piece of serious bedroom furniture copped a sneak at me. I would’ve danced on her dime all night but I was busier than a one legged tap dancer doing next week’s drinking early. I would’ve hauled her ashes all night too. What a drag.
Young and Pretty: Goddamn these Long Island girls. The girl in the bar that constantly has two guys around her the whole time. Goddamn these Long Island girls. Wearing less and less clothes, showing fresh firm skin because life hasn’t damaged it yet. Too young. Too young for me at least. They see right through me, they know that I’m passed my prime. I’ve staled, I’ve rotted.
Fuck the World; Chapter Two: Finally done, finally not only accepting but embracing the idea of being grown-up. It all culminated in one night of music, fireworks, a town and a last living encounter with a loved one. It was drinks, sweet words, family, friends (new and old) and bonding through shared memory: a swim in cold, familiar water at the most beautiful of all places and a shirtless walk home at the hour of the sun’s waking, or birth. Reminding of many similar walks after the best of nights. And like that I was done. Surprised that it all had gotten me to that point, to that epitome. Nothing left to do but let go and move on. Start something new. Be in control and try to reach new peaks, forgotten peaks. I am grateful but feel like I’ve wasted a lot of time. Time to get it back. We all trade our youth for something and I’m going to trade it in for good.
New Thoughts From the Road: Now I have the luxury of a healthy alone and poor her is trapped in its strangling hands. She’s all I want to see now. Her and my family. A best is gone. Another one may be too. I just want to be the best person I can be and not let hate encompass me. I want to be walking love. I just want to be good. Truly good. Go back to actually striving to be something. No longer so self-indulgent. Christ might be a myth; a character invented as something to shoot for. I love that he loved. And I want to be that. I hope I am that. Comfortable as opposed to comfortably numb.