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Daylight Savings Time
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new wave indie rock britp
Psycholiterate New Wave Rock
Flashback to 1999: Young piano virtuoso Gordon Hunter is on scholarship at the Guildhall School of Music in his native England. A double major in performance and composition, he is already being hailed as modern classical music’s next “big thing.” It was quite the surprise, then, that in his first solo piano recital, he departed from his anticipated program of Chopin Etudes by launching into a free-form jazz improvisation based on several Chopin motifs. Gordy’s behavior grew more eccentric, as he began to embrace rock, soul, and particularly 80’s new wave music, incorporating stylistic elements of all into his compositions, which were now deemed highly controversial. Fast forward to present day: Gordon Hunter is still the same precocious, rebellious youth, only now he has a few new tricks up his sleeves. Upon dropping out of college in 2001, Hunter relocated to the States, settling in Hartford, CT, where he soon became proficient at guitar, bass, and a wide array of synthesizers. It was in Hartford that Hunter formed Gordon Hunter & the Wandering Rocks, a unique mix of performance art, catchy retro new wave rock stylings, and interpretive literature. Based on a series of vignettes written by Hunter in which he envisions himself as a middle-aged man in the midst of a midlife crisis, the band, which features the always charismatic Hunter on several instruments as well as lead vocals, provides the musical backdrop to this piece of interpretive literature. However, you don’t need an English degree to appreciate Gordon Hunter & The Wandering Rocks; the well-crafted, danceable songs are instantly memorable and the sheer uniqueness of the stage show is enough to provoke any music lover’s interest.
Song Info
Genre
Alternative • Alternative General
Charts
#21,302 today Peak #203
#6,632 in subgenre Peak #68
Author
Gordon Hunter & The Wandering Rocks
Rights
2004
Uploaded
July 01, 2004
Track Files
MP3
MP3 3.1 MB • 128 kbps • 0:00
Story behind the song
The days following such an outburst were a peculiar sort of calm. Gordon woke up ever so gradually, the lines between dream and reality blurring softly. When he finally rose he recalled eating breakfast twice already in an undisturbed, comfortable room. This was not the case; his unblinking gaze at the destruction therein spoke the truth. Outside the sky was ominously dark for the hour—daylight savings time had ended. The activity in the streets---commuters, joggers, shoppers—seemed very distant to him, as though it was some sort of parallel universe. He rooted around the fridge, blindly hoping to be surprised. Toast and butter again. He looked at the clock curiously. 10:43, sounds about right but something’s clearly missing. Ahh—no call today, that was it. Martha had been ritualistically calling every morn for the last several weeks, calls that started casually before invariable disintegrating into distraught and utter sobbing. Quite unattractive, to be sure. She had no use for my assurance that she was better off without me, that she was not in love with me, only with the idea of love. Probably should finalize a proper divorce proceeding, grant the poor woman some closure. I do really feel awful about the whole thing. Treating her as a substitute for a love that I never had, a love that surely does not exist. Perhaps perpetuating the lie would serve her and her delusions of love better, but I’ve grown out of that. I don’t need anyone else. Unless. . . Gordon was no fool; rather, he could not fool himself. All along, every waking second, through every vow and promise he made, he harbored the tiny, flickering hope that, provided the chance encounter occurred, Jane would see the error in her ways and pledge her undying love to him. With wild abandon, Gordon probe the remains of his desk drawer for his address book. He flipped through it excitedly until that name stared him in the face. He pronounced it aloud, recoiling in shock as though it were forbidden. Without regard to the hour, he punched in the numbers, feeling his heart beat through the earpiece of the telephone. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Of course, surely they sold that house, much too big for their liking. Then---a woman’s voice. Older. Jane’s mother—he pictured her, smoking a cig on the porch, graying mop of hair defying all order. -Hello, yes. . .I. . .um, could I. . .I’m looking for Jane Caffrey. He could not be sure he actually heard himself say this. -Jane Caffrey? The woman chuckled gently. -It’s Jane Monroe now, dear. She lives out in the country, in Burford. Gordon felt like he had been stabbed repeatedly. In slo-motion. -Monroe? She’s. . .she’s married, I presume? -Mm hmm. Several years now. To Jack Monroe, a very well-to-do gentleman. . .Who might this be? -It’s. . .ah. . .an old friend. -Well, do you wish me to relay a message to her or shall I give you her current number? -Oh. . .really, it’s nothing, just curious to see if she still lived in the area, really. -I see. No, I’m afraid not. -Very well, no problem at all. Have a lovely day, ma’am. Gordon lay the phone down and returned to bed, trying hard not to think. Quite difficult to sleep through a stabbing, indeed.
Lyrics
swallowed words and silent hymns haunt me all through daylight savings time autumn leaves change on a whim taunt me all through daylight savings time youre just like me we need to breathe we all have times we tell ourselves we aren’t loved by no one else we change our plans we make amends and hold on fast to fading friends but when the sunset burns the skies we lock our doors and shield our eyes till dawn days eager to forget themselves feels like daylight savings time they twist and change I guess that’s just as well in daylight savings time
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