We are a band from Portland, Oregon, whose influences roam from rock-and-roll to folk and country, often resting in those in-between areas of alt-country. We just released our first album. We hope you enjoy our music. Thanks for listening!
I live as a man, but I dream as a wolf,
always kicking... kicking in my sleep.
Always kicking, except for the habits
that show me at my worst.
The worst thing is to remember
all you’d hope to forget,
it takes the place of all the little things
you didn’t regret.
The traffic sounds like the ocean from here.
I guess you could say that the opposite was true.
The ocean isn’t really shades of blue.
Every little bit of it looks just the same.
Like all those cars stacked up spurting their dust.
None of them bringing me closer to you.
I live as a man, but I eat like a wolf
No end to my hunger. No slaking my thirst.
Making lists instead of memories.
Drinking coffee so I eat my teeth…
so I eat my teeth
I keep sharp, on point, upbeat,
staying ready for a different meat…
for a different meat.
99 beats 1 every time.
We pretend that we could leave,
but even air can’t wander free…
air can’t wander free.
It must be here, and it must be.
Or not, and then it’s tragedy…
then it’s tragedy.
99 beats 1 every time.
1 one-thousand, 2 one-thousand, 3. Like that, forever.
We get this random arrangement so we try for something better.
This fractal of "shelters" is a network of misfortune.
This atmosphere is sweltering. We've built out of proportion.
It’s a dice roll for each moment we can claim as our own time.
Handcuffed to 40-hour weeks, making dollars to earn dimes.
It's a mountain. It's a cloud.
Defiance of entropy — when whatever makes anything.
Impending fault-line subduction, a dystopian escape.
We’re fantasizing destruction, saving for those rainy days.
Desperate measures fence the melodies we hum while we're at work.
Desperate times decay in apathy; the curious get hurt.
Make talk to voice your thought, not rephrase words to mime conviction.
You’re not selling me. You ought to come to terms with your affliction.
It's a mountain. It's a cloud.
Defiance of entropy — when whatever makes anything.
My, my, my...if love is a river,
then this river is…
Dry...fields go on forever
like that look in your…
Eye...me like that,
will surely make me…
Cry...is all I can do
since you left me
Every day I wake up trying to find the man I’m supposed to be.
But every night I come home, lay down, it seems excuses found me.
Trying to make changes.
Trying to rearrange this heart of mine.
Never seem to do right. That’s why I’m doing wrong.
My, my, my...if love is a river,
then this river is… dry.
You take your straw back. I keep my water.
Round here our snakes have rattles.
I should've stayed there, as big as silence.
Keep watch for flash disaster.
Coyote nightfall. Out in the hundreds.
Once were – they got ways of staying.
You hear the bottle. Old men can't whisper.
Past ways have time to strangle.
The low and the tall, this basin drains all the same.
Exported or smuggled, the wild got juggled with tame
Clear water gets black. It was shot in the back with a handshake.
The truth is expensive. We're all going to drown in that dusty lake.
You should know by now: when the sun comes up, I won’t be around.
And when it goes back down, you might find me down at the bar, if I’m still in town.
Do you remember when? You said your heart was full. You wouldn’t let me in.
It’s hard to forget your love when it’s the only thing that I can dream of.
I’ve been trying to stay away ever since that sad and lonesome making day.
‘Cause what a man can’t have slowly kills him or drives him mad.
There was a time when I thought I knew what makes a man do what he’s supposed to.
Oh, but times have changed, and I can’t care as much after so much pain.
You should know by now: when the sun comes up I won’t be around.
Swerving, adjusting your confession,
to promise a new lane.
There's strategy in taking all directions,
but space is just three ways.
In the time it takes for that or this,
or this and that.
We could be far from it.
We could be far from it.
We could be going back.
In the gray matter, next to nostalgia,
there's a place for loss –
where your pets die,
where your land burns,
where you part ways with expectations.
Sparse and grim, defiantly beautiful.
It takes all the time.
To be a hospice for a sick heart,
caregiver to wayward dreams.
A landlord for vagrant hope,
giving pillows for the private screams.
A stranger, taking shapes from reflection.
You see what I see:
there's a distrust; we're on standby;
a love disguised to not scare family.
Common animal identity,
it speaks all the lines.
To be a social arbitrator,
an abacus for gains and loss.
An echo playing backwards
is no warning if we never talk.
Earning wisdom is dangerous,
when you drink away the pay.
There’s safety in learning good behavior,
but safe is not the same.
In the time it takes for that or this,
or this and that.
We could be far from it.
We could be far from it.
We could be going back.
You can teach a man to farm, but he won’t have dirt down under his skin.
You can teach a man to plant, but not to grow.
You can put a man out in a boat and give him tools to catch a fish,
but in his heart he won’t really know what’s down below.
You gotta be born to it, boys, to know.
Gotta to have that feel down through your toes.
It’s best to be lucky sometimes for sure,
But luck won’t ever make you a pro.
Any man can hold a hammer in his hand, he’s not building pianos.
But it takes a John Henry to die with that hammer still in his hand.
You see steel-driving’s not for show.
You gotta be born to it, boys, to know.
Gotta to have that feel down through your toes.
It’s best to be lucky sometimes for sure,
But luck won’t ever make you a pro.
Any man could ride a horse across the plains, we’re not talking about the rodeo.
But it takes a different sort to head out from his home,
and try to find something he won’t let go.
You gotta be born to it, boys, to know.
Gotta to have that feel down through your toes.
It’s best to be lucky sometimes for sure,
But luck won’t ever make you a pro.
There were fangs growing in your kind-hearted life,
and your quick-pistol mind just couldn't beat the bites.
It was like you were counting sideways and back
in a language so strange with no words for math.
Where waiting forever was as easy as not
remembering what you just thought.
It's amazing how some things will last:
happy folks get the future and the sad get the past.
Cigarettes, livestock, old spice, beer and gasoline.
But also like the desert in moments just after it rains.
You slept on the floor with your shivers and your war
and your dog, sometimes in the winter.
A steady eye on the road. Shaky hands on the wheel
with consequence dug in like splinters.
It was not unpredicted, your graceless decline;
the high-priced eviction of devils in your mind.
Uneven divisions, your shame and your pride:
dog tags, wedding rings, and spurs.
It's the feeling you get when you know you'll get hit,
so you square off and decide where to take it.
The imminent despair and smoke in the air,
so fragile but nothing could break it.
There were fangs growing in your kind-hearted life,
and your quick-pistol mind just couldn't beat the bites.
It was like you were counting sideways and back
in a language so strange with no words for math.
Where waiting forever was as easy as not
remembering what you just thought.
Yuri, Yuri Gagarin... he was the first in space;
and Alan Shepard followed him, before Neil even entered the race.
But what about Michael Collins? No one remembers his name.
Yeah, what about Michael Collins? He never did get no fame.
Yuri, Yuri Gagarin... he was a handsome devil.
And Yuri, oh yes Yuri, awarded a Soviet Hero.
But what about Michael Collins? He also travelled far.
Only Michael, Michael Collins gets no free drinks at the bar.
Alan, Alan Shepard… brought a six iron to the moon.
Oh Alan, Alan Shepard, that ball might land real soon.
But what about Michael Collins? He passed all the same tests?
Oh Michael, Michael Collins, better than nearly all the best.
Neil, Neil Armstrong… got his “one small step for man.”
Neil, Neil Armstrong... he had that line in the can.
But what about Michael Collins, in his lunar orbiter?
He got all the way up there, and had to wait in the car.
Little kids got real hot futures that old people get to chose.
So, go ahead, grandpa, and pull that lever. You've got nothing to lose.
We waited too long. We waited too long.
We waited too long. We waited far too long.
Not having any my own self, couldn’t look ‘em in the eye.
“Hey Daddy, what did you do?” The answer’d make ‘em cry.
But this all makes sense, we've got the creativity.
Who needs our environment when we can all live in captivity?
We waited too long. We waited too long.
We waited too long. We waited far too long.
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Photo of mountains by Rose Masters
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