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There, And Environs
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Singer/songwriter, Indie self-recorded: Wm Perry writes & performs tight, well-crafted songs. Honest & not boring, sometimes disturbing, with jangled-y edges. T
"I approach the writing of songs as if it's the only tool I have, with which to do something I don't understand." BIOGRAPHY: Failed. Kept moving. Your typical starving artist story. BFA from the Art Institute of Chicago, followed by several years in the Sign Industry. Front man in a multitude of short-lived bands, playing in clubs and warehouses in Chicago and LA's artsy, marginal war-zone neighborhoods. Now solo artist, self-recording. Bought a cheap, old house on Craig's List (without seeing it first!) and moved from Chicago to Cincinnati, an "economic refugee" you could say. Now completing renovations that make four floors of combined living/studio space and working on new music.
Song Info
Genre
Alternative • Indie
Charts
Peak #552
Peak in subgenre #100
Author
William McGuffey Perry
Rights
Wm Perry
Uploaded
June 11, 2010
Track Files
MP3
MP3 5.3 MB • 128 kbps • 5:49
Lyrics
There, And Environs - William McGuffey Perry Every hand-carved grenade That could fly on its own Has got your real name written Down on its hollow bones They wobble, half circle around And take off in the night They seem to get smaller as they pass Underneath the streetlight When they explode Silently near your head They’re too small for sight But you’re still killed to me And that’s all that I wanted tonight Men without jobs, they wait By the side of the road I drive by like a job with no man At least none I that I know I dissipate into smoke And the scene just repeats And there in the theater I watch as you’re screwed in your seat We won’t get far in this rig I And the dark is too deep There’s drifting and crying And the music’s all Sticky from sweets Wish I was cartoon or robot Or something so nice That performs simple functions To formulas carved out of ice My life would be different Drop by drop, day by day Eventually all the instructions Would all melt away I don’t mean to point figures But why are you looking so cool? While I’m sweating bullets And knives and ice carving tools With the back of your hand To your forehead You tick like a clock I start to say something But on second hand Maybe not The birds that are perched On your mainspring Are sharpening their beaks They don’t look like much but Wait until you hear them speak Sometimes I think that I hear them Off alien and far But it’s closer than that They are talking right there Where you are You won’t hallucinate Out into a resonant dream Where you confound yourself back Through your footsteps And come out all clean Then Abracadabra It’s all overturned and renewed Once you get past the bodies of Friends being turned into food What’s not explained is when This momentum might peak When you’re dead maybe then Maybe not I’m not credentialed to speak
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