1. |
||||
|
I saw a story when I was a child.
It's a story you know inside out,
Of broken hearts and second chances,
Worn out souls and shy romances.
It's a story that you know so well.
It starts with a look and it ends with a bell.
But it's a story that you wouldn't expect,
It's a story that you rarely get.
Dark night, old stone, I am Wood Heart, you are Cold Bone.
We don't get names, we are what we are:
Man in a Crowd, Woman at the Bar.
This a tale you can call your own,
You are Wood Heart, you are Cold Bone.
Dark night, old stone, You are Wood Heart, I am Cold Bone.
When the heroes and liars have gone their ways,
And the book has been closed at the final page,
We get a chance to see what's next;
See what happens for those who are left.
For the also-rans and the supporting cast,
For the ones who came second and the ones who came last,
For the bit parts and the walk-on roles,
For the people like us and the people we know.
Dark night, warm hearth, Cold Bone, Wood Heart.
Long day, old stone, we are Wood Heart, we are Cold Bone.
|
||||
2. |
The Norwegian
04:18
|
|||
|
He was a big fella. One of those men who just takes up too much space in a room. Like the architecture wasn't built for him.
I told you that story of the time we took a night walk, went out well past the old house on the corner and got scared half to death when this great white horse came barrelling out of the darkness straight at us.
Never did figure out where that came from.
I wish you could have met him.
You'd have written a book about him I reckon.
About the time we climbed up the side of the castle until we got to the brick wall and realised we had no idea how to get down again.
Yeah we drank a lot of whisky in those days.
You'd have liked those sunrises.
Maybe not waking up in the middle of the roundabout though. That was a rough day. But there were a few of them.at the time.
If you look straight out across the sea from here, that direction, way out, past the curve of the earth, keep going 'til you hit land.
Then follow the twists and turns of the coast until you reach the deep harbour.
I reckon you'll find him there eventually, I reckon they build things bigger there.
|
||||
3. |
A Place to Lie in
03:17
|
|||
|
The darkness on the road outside
Hides away from the car headlights
The railway's dead at night
But the radio hut's alright
And we're standing at the border
Trying to get our things in order
But it never rains
And you were never really here
I'm burning through another cigarette
Trying to make this all somehow make some sense
There must be some missing numbers
That we haven't yet discovered.
Twelve men of Tain
will help me make my way,
But it never rains,
And it's a long way back from here
They're searching for a station
With an update on the nation
But we're looking for a place to lie in,
A house that we can die in.
Maybe a little revelation
On the doorsteps of salvation
A last call for redemption
But it never rains,
And we know our way from here.
|
||||
4. |
Fat Rolf
03:45
|
|||
|
Fat Rolf picked a strange hill to die on.
Took off his shirt and staked a line.
And it might be that he will just disappear.
This pilgrimage may be a lie.
Those aeroplanes he made from your notes.
From his window sent them south.
There may be a light in some Northern state,
But round here redemption's been worn out.
Battle lines have been drawn,
Strange straight marks across the map.
There is no way of knowing,
Which way's up and which way's back.
Peter is sleeping on the corner,
He's wearing all his second clothes.
And it may be that he can find a better place,
But out here no-one ever really knows.
Taller girls make ballerinas;
Jenny falls asleep on the stairs.
And it may be she ends up going,
But we might not discover where.
Battle lines have been drawn,
Strange straight marks across the map.
There is no way of knowing,
Which way's up and which way's back.
Electric spiders made of lightning,
Rage like tyrants cross the sky.
Rolf has planned this moment coming,
He's holding fast his metal kite.
And you might find him in the morning.
And they may talk of whiskey in his blood.
It might be that they will never understand,
How a tide became a flood.
Battle lines have been drawn,
Strange straight marks across the map.
There is no way of knowing,
Which way's up and which way's back.
We have no way of knowing
How Fat Rolf made his own way back.
|
||||
Drew Stephenson York, UK
Drew Stephenson is a singer-songwriter based in York, UK, writing conventional songs about unconventional subjects.
Death, monkeys and space hardware may all feature.
He is also part of The Southern Wild.
Drew Stephenson recommends:
The Rhythm And The Rhyme
by Boss Caine
Dark, brooding, acoustic coffin country rock. What's not to like?
go to album
Sound of the Storm
by Three Blind Wolves
Not York-based this lot but a great mix of vocal hooks, chugging 50s style guitar riffs and great singalong choruses
go to album
Maps for Lost Roads
by The Southern Wild
This is the new EP from the band side of my songwriting, similar but moreso, and louder...
go to albumIf you like Drew Stephenson, you may also like:
such bad things happen
by Levi Fuller & the Library
Turbulent indie rock from Levi Fuller & the Library that has the snarl of hardcore and the knotty meter of math rock.
go to album
Michelle Stodart’s folk music captures hope in melancholy, addressing the transformational aspects of the most challenging times.
go to album
The St Buryan Sessions
by Sarah McQuaid
Recorded live at St Buryan Church, the latest from Sarah McQuaid is a showcase for the simple power of voice & guitar.
go to album
