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Morning Of The 17th
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Liliting music hall in the fine tradition of the Small Faces, with a bit of Walkmen, a bit of honky tonk eccentricity. Enjoy this neo-nostalgic romp into ecstasy-filled oblivion.
alternative new age experimental art gallery nameless composer cocktail music
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Alternative, Experimental, Pop, Psychedelic, Trip Pop, Acoustic, New Age, Cocktail Music, Art Gallery Music, Ambient
As his enigmatic name suggests, the Nameless Composer's moniker is not to be revealed until an assigned date. He produces music which catches his fancy in his bedroom - usually its New Age, post Psychedelic, Trip Pop, Alternative music with 60s pop and folk leanings. The Nameless Composer is a 20-year old (as of writing) loner, who hopes to break into the indie scene with his records and hopefully his live presence. While solo is the current thing, the possibility of him joining a band is high.
Song Info
Genre
Alternative • Alternative General
Charts
Peak #863
Peak in subgenre #294
Author
Oh, John
Rights
2006
Uploaded
December 28, 2006
Track Files
MP3
MP3 4.9 MB • 128 kbps • 5:23
Story behind the song
One gloomy and humid December morn, a little muse visited me and left me this half-opened present...
Lyrics
The Morning Of The 17th Inane prose it grows and flows but goes nowhere And dies somewhere Walls are strong but walls breed lies and holes are good for lies to fall through Meaningless and meaningful are Nothing more than sides of a line Newness is just an old discovery by Different explorers dressed in grey Brush away the flowing fabrics Open your mind To the unreality of the past The reality The reality And do you see the rain? Washing away the pain Do you see the rain? By caring you've nothing to gain And do you see the rain? Washing away the pain Do you see the rain? By caring you've nothing to gain Everyone tries to grasp some remnant of something just to prove beyond doubt that they're still part of something more, But something sharp has snapped their chords Reprehensible, tragic, who knows what Is real and what tries to be Who really knows? Moving, moving, moving, moving... Changing, changing, changing, changing... Moving, moving, moving, moving... Changing, changing, changing, changing... See the passing parade through The aperture of history's ghost There you'll meet the faded muses Who keep the words They tell you tales you can't believe But that's what history is History is That's all there is On the morning of the 17th
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