1. |
Homage To Catalonia
03:43
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2. |
Nothing Of Mine
04:18
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Language torn from tongues by the wind -
Words are wasted. The sun inclines,
Shadows darken the day and our history.
Now I know this is nothing of mine
No words to resolve the struggle for parity -
Scraps of food and a crooked line
Forming, stretching deep into darkness.
Now I know this is nothing of mine
Stagnant pools and the crumbling towers -
No one speaks as the grand design
Returns to dust and a wordless dark memory.
Now I know this is nothing of mine
The wolves descend from the remnants of forests -
Bark and howl as the moon draws a line
Through the stars and the pitiless misery.
Now I know this is nothing of mine
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3. |
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Exhausted silent stories line these brooding walls;
Climbing through the rubble, a lonesome soldier calls
Above the din of traffic, below the sights of guns
That aim at all the passing reasons dying in the sun.
Guard us all from reason that reasons this is right
Who would defend privilege when privilege defends might
The walls upon foundations that slowly sink with time;
A web of cracks and broken bones that slow and steady climb
To top the twisting blackness that spirals down below -
Where no one walks, no one speaks, and no one ever goes.
Left to one’s devices, escape would seem the best;
But no one has the energy when no one tries to rest
Before the bones return into the bodies they employ
To carry them away from the walls they would destroy.
A fortress full of emptiness will crumble from within;
The desert winds will scatter sand and muffle cries. The din
Of traffic tearing blindly at the surface of the road
That leads an endless circle ‘round these walls that will implode.
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4. |
Walking Past Bridges
04:18
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Once I walked by bridges
That spanned a river. Steep
The canyon plunging, currents
Carve through the rock so deep.
I never thought to cross one.
A border left resolves
Into another country,
And the track behind dissolves
Into the foreign. Falling,
The rain begins to flood
The canyon, tearing bridges,
Collapsing into mud.
Left behind, the waters
Are rushing to the sea.
Lost inside a country,
No more I’ll ever be.
Walking past the bridges
Rebuilt by fortune, fast.
The riches turn to anger,
The borders sealed. The past
Dissolves into the currents
And flows into the sea.
The waves, the tides exhausting
All that’s left to be.
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5. |
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There’s a time for reflection,
There’s a time for a fight.
Never wise to be drinking
When the norms turn to shite.
But the halls echo loudly
With the stomping of boots,
With the fluttering flags,
And the voices from suits.
Crying out in their grievance
Lashing out in their fear
The time of the white man is ending
And the plastic excuse
Flat, baroque and below
In a prism of lies
Where there’s nothing to know.
So, it’s wrong to scorn fascists?
And corruption success?
The black man a racist,
And the white man oppressed?
There’s a base line of suffering
Every human must bear.
Of course, all lives matter
And, of course, we all share
In the fear of the living,
In the cold of the grave.
But the time of the white man
Washed away in a wave.
From a deep, open wound
From the cold, angry sea,
The color of blood.
The temptation to flee
Away from the tide
That submerges our breath,
Drowning the sins
Unresolved with our death.
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6. |
What It Means To Be Gone
07:07
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What does it mean to be out on the road
With the wind at your back and a heavy load?
The mountains before you and the sea behind.
No clouds in the sky - nowhere to unwind.
The tangle of tales that have formed in your head
Lull you to sleep and then fill up your bed
With feverish dreams that wake up the ghost,
Hungry and lusting for the opposite coast.
I don’t know what it means to be forgiven
To sense the sun’s not going down
On a futile form of inspiration
I don’t know what it means to be gone
The sounds of a storm signal signs of relief.
The doves in the trees mourning songs full of grief.
A footfall is heard but the wind whips the sound
Like the smoke of a fire burning there on the ground.
All of the warmth lost where the sky has been torn,
A hole where the stars look so lonely and worn.
And the branches of trees claw the cold winter sky,
The seasons confused and the ghost starts to cry.
Cry for the time lost to walking the road,
With a ghost on your back and a reason to goad
The tales. Full of anger, the eyes of regret
Blinded to reason, and the weeping begets
A river that flows to the valley below.
A season of flood fills a vessel of woe.
What does it mean to drink deep from that glass?
What does it mean for a lifetime to pass?
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7. |
A Song About Wolves
10:27
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Make haste mortal peasant,
For the dreams of death come awake,
And walking haunts the homes
Where hidden sleep your children.
The fear of starvation
Has become the torment
Of plenty. The wagons, carts,
Now spew the violent fumes,
The combustion of the earth’s blood,
The angry chatter fouling lungs
And melting stone. Vukojebinje
Becomes our backyards.
The green fields and parks
Stripped, raped and poisoned,
The water gone, the soil dead.
The wolves, sated with flesh,
Making dens in backseats
Of cars abandoned, rusted through.
Nearby, bodies uneaten,
Rotting, then bleached by the sun,
Where slowly they become
Black blood of the earth.
Who will pump the blood
Eons from now and wonder
What life was lost and why?
Will the excess be apparent?
Will the scars have healed?
Or will wolves still pace
And mate and sleep and howl
And devour our carrion.
Our legacy, the bare rock
Over the green and pleasant land
We thought was Jerusalem.
Make haste mortal peasant,
For the dreams of death come awake.
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Jim Powell Boulder Creek, California
I am a songwriter & guitarist working out of my home studio in beautiful Boulder Creek, California. My arrangements use a mix of voice, acoustic and electric guitars, bass and drums, along with the occasional mandolin, bouzouki, or keyboard part.
Jim Powell recommends:
I heard about this album in a random email, and something in the description persuaded me to give it a listen. And I haven't stopped listening yet! Great songs, beautiful voice and a band to match.
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BLUE BOOK
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I found this artist through a compilation on Aldora Britain Records and I really love all three of her albums.
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From an Old Guitar: Rare and Unreleased Recordings
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Dave Alvin is one my favorites, and this album is definitely worth a listen.
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Rundgren-esque rock with big hooks and a hint of the baroque, recommended for fans of Jon Brion and post-Kill Rock Stars Elliott Smith.
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L.A. singer-songwriter Andrew Pelletier goes full on Gene Clark with some woozy effects on this latest EP.
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This Bay-Area based band offer modern indie songs with intertwining harmonies and searching refrains.
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