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about

Written in 2019

lyrics

Corner of Nob Hill, neon-M, like dirt on the jacket of the dancing tin-man, pigeons conspire on the wires in mist, forest fires and the freeways that persist, why do the birds sing? Nine o’clock on a weekday in west-LA. Why aren’t they dancing? With rhythms, compositions, filled ashtrays.

I hope I’m old to help my parents move, see my hair grey and my throat removed, alleys, courtyards, crossroads, inclines, neighbors construction and the shaking power lines that sway with palm trees.

Graveyards, truck-stops, beach towels, plains, doldrums, book-keeps, side-roads like veins, smell so fragrant and free, consistent, restless being.

The olives will spoil aside vacant dancehalls and open signs, oil fields, depleted mines.

A cow nose pokes through a missing plate in a trailer door, the scent of salt from the sea shore, diesel, shuttered stores, stay stagnant for us to explore, some years from now.

From the imitation cobblestone, drops a cockroach, burns a hole in my passport, where birds go, from the breasts of bamboo wives, to mingle in your taste buds.

credits

from Weddings, Birthdays and Funerals, released November 6, 2020
All instruments, lyrics and vocals by Scott McRae

license

all rights reserved

tags

about

Scott McRae Portland, Oregon

A dude who makes tunes and writes things sometimes, follow me on the grum for song posts and letterboxd for movie thoughts. Also comprises one half of Ishroyale.

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