Kitchener

by High Tor

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about

"Content to watch the leaves fall on my own."

A companion piece to Irrelevancies. Four tracks of essentially unfinished material now made finished by me deeming it so. In other words, I basically wanted to be rid of these songs and produced them accordingly, while coming to grips with the idiosyncrasies of the classic shoestring SM57 - hence why these songs are especially tinny, even by my standards. It's also why they're mixed moderately low. The microphone is incidental, of course, and none of the songs are about it. All four of these songs are, however, set in Kitchener, Ontario. That's not particularly relevant to the songs themselves either, but it probably justifies the album title.

credits

released July 10, 2017

For the people that inspired this.
There is fiction here.
There are repeating motifs here.
I am free of you, I think.
Hi Barry.

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about

High Tor Toronto, Ontario

Anti-folk from the west end of Toronto.

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Track Name: Location Titles
Last time I was in Kitchener, I was mulling over two dead birds. So unmoved by your last verse, I bit my cheek, poked holes through my fingers, hoping to conjure more persuasive tears. Did you shave your head for the same reasons I did? As certain as I was I wouldn't ever live to see it grow long and fall again. So did you ever want repentance for the end goal of this penance? Or has every point at this point served its place in things regretted? I watch you wipe your own blood from my face as you smile as compose yourself. Turn away, I won't remain. This turning lane. Paradoxically drawn to fleeting connections. I'm just lost again, it's another diversion. "I bet you thought your friends would die like saints." Awash in unwarranted disqualifications. Leave me to my devices, let me be a good person. If I could say the right things, I know that I could be - if there were ever such a thing.
Track Name: For Ken, Whenever
Finally rejected the baseline: the premises are corrupt. I'm rid of all your voices, but I didn't hear enough. If these years leave me strangling, could you drag me from them all? The years I should have spent trying, I spent drinking poison and putting holes through walls. Well, you said you always wanted to be a writer. Every bit as cliché as I'd been: singing as your hand slid across paper. If you meant a word, then how could I forget? You said you always wanted to be a writer. Our art created spite from better words. If not that, you said you'd be an editor, burning holes through other artists' work.
Track Name: For Claire
Fading skylight, set your sight high. Distant lightning, this antenna's errant flashing. Illuminate me, even though it's fleeting. Your intermittent blinking, outliving everything we've ever said. All failed structures in the summer. A signal transmitting its irrelevance. I'll meet your stare where the planes meet in the starless, light pollution nights. All possessions left inside. Our engines shuddered, drained, and roared to life. Stalled yourself before you read that line. I heard you break from the other side. We still set our sights high when we're subject to the sky. Who says I can't be fine? Maybe I'll be fine.
Track Name: For Closure
They withdrew a loan, replaced the tiles that you cracked. Turned the mirrors back around and the knob up on the thermostat. They said you didn't mean to damage anything. Intent won't solve a problem, left your mark upon this place. Flecked by dust with rusted nails through the boards above the ceiling, took an axe to wooden boards, it took the night to fall asleep. “But if you can't own me, then you cant/don't own a thing." You were the closest thing that I had to a savior in the dull glow of a burnt bulb, in an overacted scene. In voices softly spoken, tenuously free, singing codas for a broken everything.

"Is that the ending?"
"Is this the ending?"