by High Tor

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Eight short tracks about machinery, entropy, the hands of gods, and a New York that isn't real. Written over the course of two years, recorded over the course of one month. This exists more for posterity's sake - I wrote a lot of these songs when I was even younger and it's reflected in both their structure and production. Still, if there's anything to be found in them, that's not up to me to decide.


released April 10, 2016



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High Tor Toronto, Ontario

Anti-folk from the west end of Toronto.

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Track Name: From Here, There's
It's not a mirror but you'll see yourself as clearly. It's not quite autumn but we're all decaying. The cold's stopped burning, from here there's nothing.
Track Name: Palisades
Jagged quarry rocks, another unturned thought. Ash and flowers on the capstones. A suffocating haze is hanging on the breeze. Whistling branches and fading greenery. A suffocating haze is hanging on the breeze and if I were you I'd forget all about me. This winter's miles deep and I expect for it to drown me. The cold's stopped burning.
Track Name: Installations
Called in a new panel for reception. Then they found him, window open wide. A river in the street. "Who are you, what have you done inside my head while I was gone?" Whisper, tireless vessel of the ceiling. Patched-in letters on the wingspan. "Did you construct me? Can you help me forget that you own me?" Iceburn night. My fall-apart commodity. "Could you help me forget that you own me?"
Track Name: Rockland
Without you, in Rockland. They're speaking, gazing out the window, staring at the dead trees. From here isn't nothing. "What's left when no one's breathing?" An image of Rockland in the imaginary wintertime. Concave in a white frame. We watched the night sky burn away. And I thought I'd found you then. So hopeless in daylight. Oh, Rockland. You're calling into question the only times I've ever known, but I can't remember them.
Track Name: High Tor
I'd follow you along the rotten skyline. Freezing, soaked, pavement dry. Ring in the eras left at the end of December. I'd follow you along the muted quarries, all dead and gone, let machinery lie. Beneath the ground, we'll all decay as they did. I guess it means something: it means we're alike. And I'd build you a bridge and I'd build you a tower. Neither would last us one hundred year's time. I'd retrace and draw blanks, cower and lose form. I guess it means something: it means that I'd try. I'd found you in the mansions on the ridges. I'd glimpse your form in the refracted stormwater. I'd call out to silence in all your lightless houses. I guess they're bound in rubble. I guess that's the point.
Track Name: Fallapart, Orange County
It came apart. A fractured opposition. Mishandled and mistreated, unstructured and arrested. Thin along the doorframe, memories in the plywood. It'll come for us one day, it'll comfort us one day. And we watched the signposts by the terminal flicker. Maintained, drained, rainsoaked, blank, and empty. The destination's the same and all the rest is a mystery.
Track Name: Drainage Gate
Thrown down to drainage with all compressed and condensed forms. Crying, thought while you'd been falling: "Either concrete or rainwater will find me. And when I reach the end (the impact of an unwelcoming surface) I'll be leveled, or leaving." The winter air's been eating through the ice and burned upholstery. Cliffs and rivers pass the flames along the lines, uprooted with the landslide. Drowned the spirits in their valleys and left the gods to tend their gardens. And there's glass, strewn across the floor. Window to the door. You can't leave without me.
Track Name: Stormwater
Where did you go, wide-eyed winter's fire? Where will you sleep, sullen windstorm's daughter? You must have been tending to letters. They said I could tell by the way that you smiled. I don't think I could have. "I don't think I should." She was clothed in winter colors. They were paralyzed and backlit. Ideal forms, better formations. This winter's miles deep, but I'll concentrate on breathing.