The Warp​/​The Weft

by The Warp/The Weft

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04:48
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06:10

credits

released May 12, 2013

Shane Murphy – Vocals, Guitar
Chris Pellnat – Guitar, Additional Vocals
Christian John Laura – Drums, Additional Vocals
David Andersen – Bass, Keyboards, Mandolin, Additional Vocals

Additional Musicians:
Jenn Russell – Vocal Harmonies
Jay Andersen – Circuit Bending, Effects
Robert Caldwell – Hurdy Gurdy

All songs written by Shane Murphy

Produced, Recorded, and Mixed by David Andersen at New Creek Recording, Saugerties, New York

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

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The Warp/The Weft Poughkeepsie, New York

With its blend of the traditional and the avant-garde, sweater-warmth and winter-dark, The Warp/The Weft has been called "one of the more magical modern-day psychedelic folk offerings" (FolkWorld).

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Track Name: Marry in Haste, Repent at Leisure
Here a hen pecks the afterbirth of a stillborn lamb--
with a pitchfork I remove the dead.
Despite the light now of spring, a dearth of life on the land,
and I turn earth to make his bed.

Once henpecked in the marriage hearse, twice shy; but understand:
the fowl song, too, can fill one's head.
Despite the depth now of sleep, I thirst for one strong reprimand.
I aimed to find truth but dreamed instead

that I nursed the blood of a bowing sumac;
you nursed the baby, and the nursery rhymes were sung out from full lungs, a heaving breast--
when the milk was spilled,
who could do but cry?

***

Elegance or solvents, or whatever it is you down to fake a smile:
Your face flushed, O red, red rose.
May the heavens absolve you, and your ablutions at the basin prove worthwhile,
and may you never know again the biting cold of my fears.

Seraphim or herons, or whatever it is whose wings will dry your tears...
Your breast heaves in this brief unknown
May my hands remind you that touch is proof enough of a life made dear--
But go now: close, eyes, close.

We're as empty as a poor pantry.
We're wine-lees, a warehouse of breezes,
old industry, dead language degrees.
The flesh of our own uncertainty.
Track Name: Caught Deep in the Dye
The brick is fastened with mortar.
I am attic-bound, witnessing
spring fall. I can't recall
what about your absence
has shocked me to write again.
I have stared for days on end
at squirrels nosing through
skidder-tracks, where needles stormed
from the felled front-yard spruce.
And here, though in bed by ten,
the town wriggles at the first licks
of spring. At Mulberry and Chestnut
my brain presses on
like a trawling motor, the familiar hum
silence can no longer do without.

*The line "I'm caught deep in the dye of her" is borrowed from Anne Sexton's poem "The Interrogration of the Man of Many Hearts"
Track Name: Night Revision
I wish to but cannot
access the flight, still eyes
and long descent of the heron,
the harp of its body struck
with wind. Swollen over the pond,
the tones of solitude
diminish as they near me.
Awake with a fever
through a night of tumblers
whose ice barely numbed
these lips I recant
what love I swore to--
and for the bass drum of the heart
or the bolting of the door, accept
a metronome and the muted
churn of water toward the mill.
Head on the feather
pillow, nothing peers back.
The clamor of hours is not music.
Beneath the copse of white oak
there is a point driven deep
for drinkable water. The bones
of a dog are lashed still
to a blossoming lilac.
And for the ever-fickle heart
and the bolting of the door,
I am relearning home
and the emptiness of love
that love will fill.
Track Name: Storm & Wake
Stay on the shore, dear one; the wake could overturn you.

The soft ripple of a dorsal fin
in this cove; the cove the cupped hands
of a god at his shaving mirror;
the sky bent well in an Archaic smile.
Dear one, do you while away hours
in song, like a warbler?

Your tremolo, sweetest tremolo,
brings a storm, brings
shipwrecked sailors to your port.
Track Name: Bathtub Mary
Well out of town & over
the border, we'll stop for coffee
& a taste of the news,
where a papier-mache Jesus lies
naked,
in a plexiglass casket,
on a strip-mall avenue.

I was raised in a land of Bathtub Marys
--those holy lawn jockeys
worth a prayer in passing--
planted like a hedge, with a porcelain
aura--a spectacle of cleanliness everlasting.

I, though faithless as the next,
admire the hearts that faith brings close,
and the cathedrals raised for nothing
but a faith in the unknown.