This is more like a retrospective of the first two years of Bow & Spear than a traditional record: Leslie and Phil both left the band before its release, and we don't play these songs anymore. It's an interesting window into where we started. Or something.
Drums and bass record somewhere in Crystal Lake, IL april 2014. Guitars and vocals recorded in a basement in Portage Park, sometime over the summer. Matt Jordan recorded and mixed it all. Leslie was super sick and moved from Chicago two days after we finished recording.
I think I hate my generation
A wrung out riot, gouged by sensation
A choir ringing in the death rattle of history
And stable frameworks for enduring obscenity
And does anybody here really believe
We're on track to die fulfilled and free, after decades of routines and wages and spectacle and monotony and borders stretching onwards ever onwards for the rest of our lives?
And maybe I'm the outlier, maybe we're the outliers
Bone starved for a way, we're bone starving for an actual stage, come on!
my body's not a vehicle or a cage, and yet it's bent, broke, and bailing out the wreckage of this age till I am tired and twisted, street sore and insipid, and down - scraped down and down and down.
I grew up in a melting room with melting walls in a sickle-tide of unmade thought, and the nature of it didn't make any sense to me at all so I dismissed it as violence - dismissed it entirely
Permutations of auratic intimacies, gleaned without comment, soaking in through the walls - a neon tactility, vibrant instability and it was fluid, immersive, and tidal as the language of dreams
And what's the cost of coming in? But finding others, real live others, hearts and skins
Come in, come in, come in, come in, come in!
Permutations of auratic intimacies to which I go willingly from an existence by isolation, regret, and alienation - I go willingly, I go willingly, I go willingly
I go willingly from the manufacture of the soul
Track Name: Machines vs. Bones
We the sand-skinned
Are running down a funnel mouth a grain at a time, erosion stoking molten moltings set alight to collide, alright
We the salt-toothed
Are grit tongued lapping at the sediment slide, shaken stray out of the place where your form crashed into mine
Exhumed and expelled
Like a hot breath shot from a heavy door into a pinion pricked mansion of crystal cold night, and
I am entailed
in a gridwork graft stretched from bow to aft, in the architecture that we are burning to the ground
Form stripped smoulders
Set in time
Like metal molds for marrow
And they drift away
Stuck in my prime
We only keep the parts that