Over the Parapet & Into the Precipice

by Stuck On Nothing

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1.
2.
04:08
3.
06:59
4.
02:30
5.
02:59
6.
02:51
7.
02:05
8.
04:45
9.
06:43

credits

released July 25, 2013

chris newbold — guitar, vocals, percussion
joni krieger — guitar, vocals, organs, bass
zee ferrouge — bass, percussion, vocals
danny frye — drums, percussion, vocals
recorded and mixed at the halfway house 2011-2012
by joni krieger
additional engineering by
robert rios and daniel wheeler

mastered by justin phelps at cloud city sound

cover art by annick junota

all songs written and arranged
by stuck on nothing except
“spanish surf” by casey evan campbell

c&p 2013 Stuck On Nothing

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Stuck On Nothing Portland, Oregon

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Track Name: Midwest Stars
opening up a brand-new day,
tearing all the cellophane away,
despite all the chaos
of you saving face.
little things will urge you to go on
a trip across the states.
drive until you find your happy place.
don't worry about the parapet,
just jump right over…
and into the precipice again.
going on a midnight ride
midwest stars will shine so bright.
leaning each others' way,
your eyes tell it all, don't say
that you want me to give you serenity.
looking into your eyes,
fireworks will fly tonight.
some of the sights you'll see,
you're a flower among weeds…
i'm going for a ride,
a sunny, sunny ride
with the windows down we roll out
to an unknown place.
upon arrival i find grace.
Track Name: Dead Battery
it's frightening really, all of this space
it has foundered giants, moguls, figureheads —
all distilled to succinct turns of phrase,
cliched and barren.
stumbling over paths they foraged,
long ago lauded for,
now receiving nothing but spite and malice from
the trodden, rocky ground.
something tells me a providential recourse this will not be —
predicating our fears is this determined, accomplished way.
we began the walk preoccupied wiping stray droplets
(fallen from the outstretched branches of the
surrounding firs, i suppose)
off the body and strings of our instruments.
and every chord we played, met with a stray root or other
unsuitable interruption —
tangible obstacles influence tidal rituals,
searching for a free and imprint-able soul.
the rope bridge played a makeshift stage,
the crossing for which it was made
ignored by all those in the cast.
we sang apologetic songs
to disappointed, direct sighs,
there would be no compromise.
and as we sat on that beachside
combing the sand for reverence,
withstanding torrential downpour:
hair in eyes, i'm soaked,
i'm sore,
can't recall what we're sorry for,
wait until next time to know for sure.
Track Name: Shotgun
tried to play this shotgun just like it was a violin.
"bow across the hammer" father said between sips of gin.
"the reason, dependent on the solution,
not always presents itself with a conclusion.
do you need some time, shall i rewind or do you want to go?"
approximate your preference before it starts to show.
i'm too hungry to think about sleeping,
too tired to consider cleaning,
and it's still a scam even if i don't ever
try to predict this ever-changing weather.
yes, we're too jaded to think about eating,
too maudlin to consider thinking
and it's only a shame because i don't even
try to resent the stagnation.
because the stories are addictive, you always lose.
i guess it's our perspective, give in to what you choose.
tried to play this shotgun just like it was a violin.
"bow across the hammer" father said with a grin.
"listen son, there might be repetition
but it's what you perceive that determines its description"
and yet i complain despite this wide open berth,
chained to the trunk of the last verb on earth.
Track Name: Rebound
rebound, she's your rebound girl.
hemo, no you can't stop the bleeding
heartbreak is her style.
at it again but you cannot shake
the skin of what happened to you.
take it from me, no you won't be pleased
keeping all hallowed concubines teased.
having them around will only
make lies come to light.
play her, play your game but don't be
distraught when you're caught and have to
'fess up to those things like messing with feelings,
promoting interest can be expensive.
stresses will build when you're juggling axes,
blind to it all, well I'll give you some glasses:
settle down now.
she won't bring you what you seek,
you'll have to start playing for keeps.
i can see the strings coming off your knees,
connected to acrylic phalanges.
Track Name: F# Shuffle
perhaps i see in selective positivity,
a highlight reel if you will.
moments of splendid, refined virility
race past the light i choose to cast
projected over memories lapsed,
the reasons why we haven't talked in years.
and still i cannot help but wonder why
my mind isn't somewhere else.
and yes, i remember in the waning hours
being told eventually i'd illustrate the truth
to un-enlightened, impetuous youth.
and i've been to there and back,
surprisingly recognize that
my foresight isn't half of what it once was.
and now i can't say that it's yours and my
reflection against which i trace them all.
a grease pen to mark disparaged frames.
and my mind is somewhere else.
if you will allow me a moment to clarify,
i have this strange propensity to view water as future ice.
the eventual reduction of molecular velocity —
impending friction dormant in us all.
let's pretend that you exist,
can't help but yearn for memories missed,
well your youthful years have not been lived in vain.
for i too have spent them, consumed in an attempt
to map and identify behavioral patterns so i
can bring to you the sanest version of myself yet.
and now i realize i just fictionalized
her mind as somewhere else.
her mind is somewhere else,
and my mind is somewhere else.
Track Name: Monocle
if it can be confined, keep it all inside
we'd prefer it, of course there are
men in hazmat suits standing by.
oh my monocle, my what a spectacle,
and i'm as skeptical as apparently i've ever been.
and no matter how hard we try,
need support beams to prop up the sky's
straining, draining, ever-depreciating
resilient, processed disguise.
oh these ink stains they blot to pools
that measure in absence,
obstructing the awkward sustain.
oh — these lines are here for reference
acting as guides;
surreptitious as they are,
so one would squint to make out
the signals they project.
Track Name: Deja Vu
she dreams deja vu:
he's explaining this a second time to you,
this matchbook collection is not to be used.
father started it when he was twenty-two.
and it's quite obscure,
and i'm quite the curator.
contained in a fallacious jewelry box
that screams diamonds and other luxurious rocks,
this decaying, sentimental facade
represents promises he made with his god.
none of which he followed through,
even though he may have intended to.
and i swear i've heard this before.
not fair, this discourse my lord.
she ascends the stairs to the rafters
dredged with cobwebs and happily-ever-afters,
feather boas, dress shoes, wigs of golden locks
below which lies the aforementioned box.
8mm reels marked "family memories"
shed light on what father had in store for his babies.
and she watches his effusive pleas in the small,
dimly lit attic where he recorded the confessionals.
she rips the film out, scatters it across the floor,
strikes a match and bids farewell to what will soon be no more.
attempting to salvage whatever respect he still may have with his god.
without evidence there's no such thing as fraud.
and i swear i've felt this blaze before,
and it's fair you feel it as well my lord.