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banjo
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feedback
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:: artist infos
» member profile:
proof of ghosts
» genre:
Rock >
Psychedelic Rock
» location:
Steve Heyerdahl
» label: (weewerk)
» for fans of: Townes VanZandt, Death in June, Lee Hazelwood, 16 Horsepower, Neil Young, Devendra Banhart, Elliott Smith, Thrush Hermit, Beiruit, the Mountain Goats, Current 93, Dinosaur Jr., Jim White, the Black Heart Procession, Black Sabbath, Harvey Milk, Boris
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our lord once told the apostles that the fields were white, meaning that the harvest was overdue, the grain ripe for picking, and that if left, the crop would be lost, wasted and left for crows to devour. He was talking of the harvest of souls, of c
Squalls and quiet, love and lust, luck, the lack of it, and the promise of a new day to try it all again, so long, old day. so long, so long, so long
Even from a distance, our hearts return to those places and those times we longed to be rid of, our places of becoming, our hometowns, our sad little hometowns...
f*** bands who rip on the 80's
lilting melodies catch a breeze across an autumn meadow, becomes a train ride through bleak woods and fields of abandoned cars and distant storm clouds...
chugging, lumbering through urban and suburban decay, wrechage of our dreams disgarded on the broken road
I only want out, echos soundlessly into the distance, grassy fields and the city's bleak backdrop
townhome construction and smuggled beer cans, evening lingers and dances through early summer's long shaddows, first kisses and heartbreak in the suburban outskirts
smoke from everyone's cigarette, smoking is not yet outlawed, and behind the glass of the new Tim Horton's smoking section, we bide out time, no plans, maybe into town to drink too much and dance to the 80's
The San Andreas faultline, or perhaps the mountain of the big island of Hawaii will fall into the sea, sending a tsunami that will devistate all of costal America, judgement, nature, whatever, still I would fly in my bathrobe over the San Frenando va
never...let...it...come...to....this....
Wisdom, like wine, from age... a farmiliar melody, the whole church sings, and still in youth we wander
Far out to sea, battered by the waves and winds that must test our frail vessels, sentiment fails us at last
Is there a better time?
This hill, looking across the townships to the lights of the big city, where streets mark their progress into the dark with bright pins of light, shining straight lines into the distance, dreaming of escaping into some unknown place
Spring time, a young girl with a cotton dress, ribbons in her hair... is there anything better?