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SOMETIMES I SIT AT MY PIANO AND WAIT FOR SOMETHING GOOD TO COME OUT OF ME

by Wild Oms

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1.
Piano 03:53
In the string chamber of the piano/ I found letters written in braille/A length of frayed red ribbon/tied to no avail /I hit it with a hammer/ I struck it with my palm/ And in the face of a sea of faces/ I pretend to keep my calm/ The phantom is in the clavichord/ So I stole away to the storm cell/ The tempest asked why do you grizzle so? The duchy said I don't know/ Transmitted on unnoticeable wires/ In a white room where I turn pink/ The beauty of flashing lights/ And my refusal to blink
2.
I dropped and fell across the line/ In shambles—a discarded shrine/ I lay face down in the sediment wishing I could be with my klediments/ I will get out of this. . . alive/ Drawn into villain currents and I had to laugh/ writhing and coiling like a swine in the bath/ when I drew the water, I drew it in red/ I made it all up and then I made the bed/ Beneath a star-lit asterisk/ Under some silver lunar disk/ At times when I feel I'm all alone, I'll think of the things I have overgrown
3.
Night Jacket 05:07
Yes, I'm a green horse/ In the boreal I'm creeping/ Trying hard to keep it down/ While you are sleeping/ I'll stitch a gold lining in your night jacket and play you soft piano tunes/ As we scurry into a darker desert/ Climbing higher and higher on the dunes/ Yes, I'm a fey horse/ Oh, I know, how pagan of me/ Bucking against a memory/ Gracing a breath of Eurydice/ I could be a sea horse/ Or a wheel upon a wagon/ Spinning and spinning and gaining ground/ In flight from the komodo dragon
4.
Oh Desire 06:00
I'm singing like an animal with a sideways 8 above my head/ You're walking naked on beach/ I guess I'd rather stay in bed/ Oh desire. . . desire got me on fire/ You're like a hospital lobby: Sterile—spick and span/ You get it when you want it/ I guess I get it when I can/ And the wreckers on your moors know better than to plunder your shores/ You throw butterfly knifes from your eyes/ As the village runs for their lives.
5.
It's the end of summer/I woke up too late/My feet are cold on a wooden floor/ Rain has smeared the sky grey/ Here the trees turn brown/ There's snow back on the parries/ Growing outside on a holly branch/Are brilliant red berries/I place my hand on the window/ And breath fog on the glass/ And from outside I hear the revving of an engine/ In my head I hear brass/ playing... (Lo and behold: Again I find myself tipping into great waves of melancholy/ But I linger here not/ For, as the days grow short, I will take comfort in knowing that sometimes I sit at my piano and wait for something good to come out of me/)
6.
Orca Whale 04:07
I lift up my youth—give it back to the moon/ While it is waning—Oh, Ulalume/ I'm a killer whale—I fight back the current/ The moon is a satellite—We are congruent/ I am an orca—I am an orca whale. . ./I lift up my youth—with a mouth full of blood/ I pray for the moon—I pray for the flood/I fight back the tears and I fight back the tide/ I fight for survival and the ocean is wide/ I lift up my youth—Oh, Ulalume/ If the ocean is my home—then the sky will be my tomb/ I'm a killer whale and this is my wake/ I'm weary and I'm tired—I am wide awake
7.
Death Metal 04:40
I saw the proletariat on the terrace as I snuck out through the fire escape/ He was lighting up a cigarette/ He was leaning on the balustrade/ And I saw you down by the harbour, staring out at the sea, listening to death metal. . ./ Saw you tessellating your fingers as you waved them in the air/ Your castle was encased in amber, obscuring my view into your lair/ Threatened by your miasma, which pervades the dilettante, I'm gushing from an open wound/ As blood drips down your baroque font
8.
Pelts 07:29
Five pelts hangin' from a flagpole/ One striped, one grey, the others just old/ The gust up there was a nattering tongue/ Threatening to make them all come undone/ I walked sideways down the stairwell/ Found the spider in your navel— who spun webs around my fingers; decapitated my stinger/ I distilled into water/ Formed resin on the auger/ Gripped the hilt of your umbrella/ dug a gape into the cellar/ Five pelts burning on a heap of coal/ An old tin latter wound up in the hole/ strong words spilling from a glass jaw/ I'd like to contend, but I agree with ya

about

THOUGHTS ON THIS ALBUM:

It's finally finished, this album. Here it is for your consideration: 8 songs, 39 minutes of sound, 9 months of writing and recording and mixing, a decade of experiences, and over 15 different instruments (including my voice) which I played myself.

Originally I wanted to play with other musicians on this album. But the more people I met with, the more reluctant they became. Sending out demos and demos through the email with people who seemed initially interested before being ghosted completely—never hearing from these people again.

Perhaps I didn't fit their perception of what a front man should be in a band. Perhaps they thought my sonic expressions and ideas too far out.
maybe they were uncomfortable with the subject matter, or the fact that the subject matter was layered in metaphorical expressions they couldn’t or didn't want to wrap their heads around. The songs on this album may be very unorthodox to some, I will admit that; sometimes having a run time of over 7 minutes,which is hasn't been commonplace since prog-rock was at the forefront of the popular zeitgeist. This music doesn't feature anyone telling you to forget your troubles and dance and drink the night away, not that there's anything wrong with music that
does.

Instead the album I made, and the songs on it, hold a space for anxiety disorders, seasonal depression, the creative process itself and finding strength in making art out of one's personal afflictions, ecological disparity, desire, loss, failed relationships, and invitations of companionship that, like the demos I sent to those musicians, are left to linger in the air—unanswered before being carried off like an echo, diminishing into silence.

So after being ignored, I sat down and recorded this album on my own and I'm glad that I did, in the end, because I can't see it being any other way. This album has become a bit of a diary of my life and a running record of my experiences and how I have been able to tackle negativity by making art and expressing myself, despite the ambivalence.

I worked really hard on this album and it features some of the best work I think I've done as a musician and a songwriter and as I let this piece of work out into the world I would hope that it serves as a message to other artists, whether they actually like the album or not, to keep creating. Even if it seems like nobody wants to hear what you have to say, or help you speak your truth—say it anyway. If it the art is honest and reflects your hard work, it will find its audience in time.

There may come a time when I'm finally able to find other musicians who work on the same wavelength and are interested in sharing an artistic vision with me, but in the meantime, I will continue to make things on my own—art for art's sake.

Regards,

-Keith McQuade (Wild Oms)

April 4th, 2019

credits

released April 4, 2019

WILD OMS on this album is:

Keith McQuade (vocals, instruments, recording, mixing, album art)

Instruments played on this album:

Voice (all tracks) Piano (all tracks) Psuedo-Clav (1,5,7,8)
Chord Organ (1,2,) Melodica (1,3,7,8 ) Jaw Harp (2,4)
Electric Organ (3,8) Puedo-Celeste (2,5) Kalimba (4,6)
Recorder (4) Tenor Recorder (4,7) Ocarina (6)
Wood Flute (3,4,6, 8) Various Percussion (all tracks)
Psuedo-Bells (8) Piano Strings (1,8)

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