Recycled Love Songs

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In a crowded room, project a debonair aloof impermanence. Be shrouded loosely in a heavy air of indeterminates.

Why? – The Hollows
from Alopecia, 2008
(no video as of yet)

Why? CD/LP, Alopecia, out March 11, 2008.

From the Alopecia CD case: “Two years after wooing critics with their beloved Elephant Eyelash, WHY? return with their LP in hand, their most immediate and cohesive batch of songs to date. Alopecia is an album of bone-dry jokes, suicides played out in poem, musings on final moments written inside of restrooms, begrudging self-affirmation, and the gift and glories of everyday living.”

Download The Hollows free mp3 at Spinner (while available).

Why? – The Hollows lyrics (from the Alopecia CD booklet)
As I lay me down
to fall asleep.
with my demons dying
and my pilot light weak,
I curse the last six months
I’ve been hiding behind a mustache,
And to the last 10 years I’ve been
howling a paper moon: fuck you.

This goes out to all my
Underdone, other-tongued
lung-long frontmen.
And all us Earth-Growths;
Some planted, some pulled.

(This is what the ghost
of somebody’s dad says:
“Shut up and put your
money where your mouth is.”)

Shine a flashlight in a hatbox
and spin an empty oyster shell
and celebrate the Hollows.

This goes out to dirty dancing
cursing, back masking,
back-slidden pastors’ kids.
And all us Earth-Growths;
Some planted, some pulled.

(From behind bars it’s not
so hard to see he’s risen,
But nobody finds God
and then goes to prison.)

In Berlin, I saw
two men Fuck
in a dark corner
of a basketball court – -
Just the slight jingle
of pocket change pulsing.
In the tourist part,
I lost fifty Euros
to the guy with the
walnut shells
and the marbles.
It really pissed me off so – -
Ooh, I thought I’d go
back to get my money.
But all my homies warned me,
“Oh, no, those Gypsies
probably got knives.”

This goes out to all my
underbrewed, double-duped
Two-timed true fools.
And all us Earth-Growths;
Some planted, some pulled.

(Stuck faking a phonecall
or texting For company
like a married-in Uncle
at a family function.)

I got them shaky gums and
a couple of loose tooths.
Now tell me, what should I do?
My God, the clock’s always stuck telling
Eleven:Eleven or Three:Thirtytwo.

This goes out to all to my
under-done, other-tongued
lung-long Frontmen.
And all us Earth-Growths;
doing the croak like it ain’t no jokes.

(Even just Joanna
Newsom‘s left hand,
I bet could beat the pants
in bass off your best man.)

In a crowded room, project a
debonair aloof impermanence.
Be shrouded loosely in a
heavy air of indeterminates.

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