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lyrics

Holly's walking around in a tube top. Sixty-two degrees. She's got a twelve-string. Half an hour late to the soundcheck. Police state ring around the practice space. The whole damn block's been bought by the state! Back at the apartment six kids crammed into one suite with last week's dishes in the sink and a cellphone's ringing atop a bottle of scotch. One day you're hitting and the next you're not. Leave a message but make no plans. I'm assuming you're all in bands. Make it happen to the one hand clapping and the sound of the trees keep falling in the woods.

Jimmy tears his hair out. The hot club won't return his phone calls. He's been trying all since last fall. But the honcho gave a show to his little bro. Now he rolls down Grand saying whattya know? But the day before the big gig, bigwig carrying a clipboard shuts the metal doors to the bar. Now the kid's heart's breaking, it's another lost weekend, and Jimmy and his brother still aren't speaking. Get the long knives out of your hands.

All you gigbag-having, setlist-grabbing, hanging in the alleyway, courting a stabbing, you big egotism, Holland Tunnel vision, no job skills by conscious decision, green like Kermit studio hermit, trying to run a business but the city took the permit. Tucking in the geekiness, assuming that's a weakness, an ass of U and me still runs in the Preakness. I've been riding around in a taxi, ass snapping pictures out the backseat, trying to make time, but I'm sentenced to a syntax line by line. Gonna make them read you until they break the spine. What the fuck is that?

Hold out as long as you can. I'm assuming you're all in bands. Pedal into patch bay, distortion to delay -- this type of shit happens every day.

credits

from I'm Assuming You're All In Bands, released December 10, 2015

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Tris McCall Jersey City, New Jersey

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