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And I shall paint a silky picture in the driven snow way up on Logan Hill, for all the people in the airplanes looking down below, way up there on Logan Hill. Where the promenades and escalators lead them up into the sky, where everyone knows that there’s snow down there, but oh, let it snow down there! We ain’t got nothing up here but time. Ain’t nothing here to hide. And I’ll distill my heart in cold water ‘til the chrome all melts away way up on that snowy hill, like children’s drawings on the sidewalk after heavy rain… if you can see that far. Ashing in your crayon box, longing for the old times. Just breathing in and breathing out and breathing in real slow, ‘til you open your eyes. I saw you beckon one-fingered through a smoky room, I was just looking for a place to start. Sly like a child, dropping Polaroids ‘round my feet. Lord have mercy, if you wanna paint the rust, we’re gonna paint the rust!
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2. |
Yester-Evening
02:59
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You’re almost buckling at the knees from the residue of yester-evening’s bender and release. Film the future now for me, if you make it back by yester-evening, bury what you see. But I’m afraid that until tomorrow, I will be astral, despondent and divine. I won’t steal, I only borrow. I’ll take your April, if you can take mine. Have you ever seen the sun, dear, as it sets on Logan Square and the pencil pushers there, under the natural chrome of Nippon Sharyo trains? It’s only method acting, or it could be my imagination, but this could really be the edge!! It ain’t rice, its Coca-Cola! It’s the Red State County Fair! Don’t be scared, little darling, by the old english decals on black GMC’s. They won’t hurt you lest you show them you’re afraid! And after tomorrow, I’ll be forever connected to the crime. There’s no air left in these tires, or these tired lungs, dear, we’re running out of time. So we’ll stay sprawled in sick isolation, the queerest creation of emptiness and time. And I won’t steal, I only borrow. I’ll take your April, if you can take mine.
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3. |
Waving at Airplanes
04:50
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I can see the heartland, but I’m trapped up in the belly of this plane, peeking through the cracks in the cargo hold, making my escape. ‘Cause I’m so tired of being high up here, and the ground is so inviting that it sings “You don’t have to be a stranger in this world anymore.” I was dressed up and messed up, and pressed against the coldest tower’s steel, lying quietly in my living room, completely unaware of how I feel. Somebody else’s melody crept in my head and I began to sing “I don’t want to be a stranger in this world anymore!” So I’ll be pacing ‘round in circles ‘til the sun comes up above the north side Spire, ‘til the crowds clear out from Grant Park to the sweet songs of the Gotham City Choir, ‘cause we were ready when the man came and threw us unexpected in the ring. We don’t have to be strangers in this world anymore. I saw the whole damned thing on the silver screen from the front seat of my car. It’s a place where mundane becomes holiness, where old love becomes loneliness, where the blood becomes scars. And if I can’t go back there at least then I could wake up where you are and sing a simple song… ‘cause I don’t think we have to be strangers in this world anymore. I knew a girl afraid of elevators, who told me she don’t have no fear of dying; but when the doors close, she’s swirling, just from standing there alone in her own mind. So if it’s all the same to you, babe, I’ll just take the stairs or jump straight out the blinds. I can’t afford to be a stranger in this world anymore. Now I’m facing the cars, watching them burn my eyes; rather be facing the clouds, watching them all go by. I’ve got my face in the stars, but I can’t stand so high. We gave this mess its grace, now we’re just waving at airplanes!
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4. |
Fake Sun
04:38
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I built a fake sun for cloudy days. He sits patient with pale blinds drawn all day, just staying cool – like when we were that age. Just like on sunny days. I tied him to the singing radio, said “Play me something I already know, and we’ll chase the wind with three sails in with every kid we know… just like on rainy days.”
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Ben Joseph & The Mathematics Chicago, Illinois
Delivering a polished, yet hard-hitting indie-pop sound that lies somewhere between Wilco, Dr. Dog and Elliot Smith, Ben Joseph and The Mathematics bring a soulful depth to songs you’ve never heard but feel like you’ve known your whole life.
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