We’ve updated our Terms of Use to reflect our new entity name and address. You can review the changes here.
We’ve updated our Terms of Use. You can review the changes here.

Wind Of Hours Unwinding

by The Warp/The Weft

/
  • Streaming + Download

    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    Purchasable with gift card

      $8 USD  or more

     

1.
Nativity 03:08
Lyrics: Learning early that home for her is not rosy… Joseph, don’t you have hands that have softened a hickory haft? And don’t you wear spring in your bones? You who seemed to wince when your foot flattened a crocus in a lawn smooth and damp as licked fur, haven’t you primed your lungs for new air, new slime glazing a park bench, Joseph? You with the face of the ax you carry —cheeks tempered toward the knife-edge of your bones; you with spring in your bones: Take her hands in yours. Take in your hands little Mary’s face, that small sky, with its constellation of worry. Sit her down at water’s edge. Tell her—kiss her—tell her I want to kiss you with a fish’s assuredness that, drenched in ocean or saliva, no amount of water will drown us.
2.
Clytie 02:37
Lyrics: Anesthetized in a flower bed: a heliotrope amid birdfeeders broken. Dying vines sing tonight, with tendrils loose on the gate’s loose rope. Mourning: me, in reverie, in memory of a sweet, soft- spoken wish: be near, and sing. I will not die in your light. Romanticized by poets’ pens. Rootstock deep for feet, and leaves don’t hold like hands (though nothing can): your embrace is warm, but distant-cold. Sorrowfully, I seem to be the unseen scent whose kin would win you. But I wish: be near, and sing. I will not die in your light.
3.
Lyrics: A compliment: we got some color this weekend, belly-up toward the pink rib cage of sky. Communion from the clouds, our church of grief. By and by, love, by and by, more and more, my love is like the punctured ostrich-egg in the drawer—the birthing wound in its shell (a gift from Saudi Arabia, from an uncle in the dunes of war): strange to think that missing such a small bit of something could leave its whole so hollow. Evelyn, your vest has lost some sequins; they're pebbling the sidewalk under orange trees— small mirrors for the sun, for your belief in silently, frowardly, selfishly hoarding more. Your love is like the enraptured organ-grinding of whores in a sweet springlike hell. Swaddling clothes of labia for your sweeties borne and born insufferably sore. Strange to think that missing but the smallest bit of someone can leave us all so hollow.
4.
Medicine In 03:49
Lyrics: White tiles. Cerulean doorframe. A first-floor apartment with views of the war. Stereo sound: the old Fife and Drum Corps. A treaty is signed to resign to treat the lame. Best not to scatter the ashes of autumn With your breasts out and bouncing to the groove of the war. A front for the front: fresh milk for the warlords. And what of a womb of a woman to the soldiers who came? (Take the medicine out; put the medicine in. One pill for clarity; a handful for doubt.) There’s a peach reclined on a summer table— juices rivering toward the linoleum floor, bypassing the nose, the lips, the cold sores. What of our time when all time ends in a day?
5.
Lyrics: Rent by a derelict group of old melodies, your heart moved to cave for the stale air, stale streets, stale eyes. Love to last is dim light amid the dregs. Bent like a hickory hoop around your belly, your arms own the warmth of a heart learning to beat. The soft walls collapse toward the light between your legs. The dam is strong, but the water breaks, and life is new here. Life is new again.
6.
Lyrics: It was the initial rise, families of birds, that unhinged me. Wholly a fool, I believed myself sewn to the same caliber of wing. Father, you fixed me with a longing for what warmed me. The sun’s ripe as ever; olive trees are bursting with fruits smaller than thumbprints: under it all I am oceanically content. Don’t bother mourning. I seal your legacy in mine with wax-dripped hands. I am sorry. Above there is a god who’s drunk me to the lees.
7.
Recovery 02:37
Lyrics: Against a brick wall of the methadone clinic, I found you: sprawled in your shadow, your chin shining with spit; afraid each open hand would clench into a fist. The others were in the square, sated with being, but not alone. I offered my hand. You peered into my palm like a zoo-goat, expecting a ration of kindness, maybe a few corn nuts, sunflower seeds, coins, a cigarette, and were confused—as, in turn, am I— by its emptiness.
8.
Lyrics: Rose quartz and fool’s gold on a chest of drawers of quilted maple. Magazines are mineral oil-stained; the lamp is burning low on the table. A stoneware vase of dried hydrangea, split with a sunbeam sharp as a railroad spike, holds a letter from a love estranged, though I can’t decipher its tenor, quite… Sing and wound me. Love is water I cannot ford. Such things consume me: to be held, to be adored. So well-dressed, so alone. Even songbirds jilt me when it storms. Sing and wound me. Love is salve I can’t afford, water I cannot ford. Clutching at flotsam in the wake of her leaving, man drifts and dangles as from her lobe a gold earring. An adornment adored within fashionable reason is misplaced or cast aside at the change of the season.
9.
Lyrics: We internalize the burnt orange of the autumn hillside. It’s hard to vocalize the dying language of the modern beehive, darling, with your tongue distended and marring mine. Those honey-swells: peals of bells or sidewalk-laughter. We’ve come to publicize the sweet pageant of our own hereafter. Darling, with your tongue distended and marring mine, I can’t call up the words. Sounds of a city: eye-desiccants for balladry, mendicant coins on the eyes. Passerines singing on ladders. Their landings ring out the rungs we can’t climb.
10.
Lyrics: You hold me like a stanchion, Mid-Atlantic. I hide you like a slip-stitch in my overcoat. You hold me like a stanchion, Mid-Atlantic. The love I send is stronger than the love in your parents’ house. So, I need not mend my love, Dear Town Mouse, Love, Country Mouse. High above the ridge, the soft cannon clouds move to fire. I am the weathervane horse: eyes on all points but this spire. You hold me like a stanchion, Mid-Atlantic, as the memory fades lightly by night, and the turnpike bends like a wolf to clean her young. My knuckles are white on the wheel; the ice is unsettling; oh, my, oh, my. Here is my vow, which has been given up. Instead of running gauntlets, these somber retreats into myself. Dear Forgiver, in dreams I bow, I fire, I rise on whole engines revved high, mistake myself for oil on axles undefined. I brood, I swing from light to hail; to hail, I can’t just cling to an unseemly everything. I lay to rest these spare unsongs—these pointless spears— in expansive pink, your rib cage of sky.

about

Recorded in a cabin in Saugerties, NY, between January and April 2014.

credits

released May 28, 2014

Musicians:
Shane Murphy – Guitar, Vocals, Bells, Melodica
David Andersen – Bass Guitar, Upright Bass, Synthesizer, Organ, Mandolin, Bells, Additional Vocals, Guitar, String Arrangements
Chris Pellnat – Electric Guitar, Accordion, Additional Vocals
Christian John Laura – Drums

Additional Musicians:
Emily Murphy – Piano, Clarinet (Tracks 1, 5, and 9)
Andrea Tomasi – Vocal Harmonies (Tracks 1, 5, and 8)
Robert Caldwell – Hurdy Gurdy (Tracks 6 and 8)
Jason Andersen – Circuit Bending, Additional Guitar (Tracks 3, 4, and 10)

All songs written by Shane Murphy
except "Agora non" - Traditional, Asturias (Spain)

Produced by Shane Murphy and David Andersen

Recorded and engineered by David Andersen

Mastered by Joe Phillips at WildCat Recording, Massena, New York

Label: Parloscope International Recordings

license

all rights reserved

tags

about

The Warp/The Weft Poughkeepsie, New York

Blending traditional and avant-garde styles, the warmth of a good wool sweater and the sometimes-bleak cold of an upstate winter, the progressive folk and psychedelia that the band brings to bear is propelled by poetic lyrics and a "spirit-conjuring" lilting tenor that prompted psych-folk legend Tom Rapp (of Pearls Before Swine) to ask, "Can I have your voice when you're through with it?" ... more

contact / help

Contact The Warp/The Weft

Streaming and
Download help

Redeem code

Report this album or account

If you like The Warp/The Weft, you may also like: