Death Waits I: Music And Fine Arts

by Art Schop

supported by
/
  • Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.

     $9 USD  or more

     

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
05:01
7.
8.
9.
10.

about

A mixture of Murder Ballads, Songs from a Room and Hunky Dory, Art Schop's latest album is inspired by the lives and works of Will Oldham, David Bowie, Lou Reed, Alberto Giacometti, Richard Wagner, Don Carlo Gesualdo, Michelangelo, and Sappho, with adaptations of songs by Jacques Brel and Henry Purcell.

credits

released November 13, 2015

Words and music: Martin G Walker
Producer: Jimi Zhivago

tags

license

all rights reserved

feeds

feeds for this album, this artist

about

Art Schop Brooklyn, New York

Contemporary rock that's "a mixture of Murder Ballads, Songs from a Room, and Hunky Dory."

contact / help

Contact Art Schop

Streaming and
Download help

Redeem code

Track Name: Back To Earth
Through the cold and dark, across the muddy fields, toward the glimmer in the night; torchlight like phosphorous beneath the pall...

When they cut me free, I lacked the strength to stand; they drew me up against the sky. Words like feathers on a distant wing, pressing gently at the space around. My world rearranged. They came to find this fallen star, lost to the universe.

I've been gone, far away, out of my body, out of my mind. But now I'm back, back to earth.

To speed the hour, they sang a song of striving. Like the wind it soared, receding and arriving. Its beauty moved my heart to wonder – does love sustain or pull asunder? Oh, I don't know. What binds the spirit at its birth, to the earth?

(You're out of the woods, you're out of the dark, you're out of the night...)

They put you on TV, and then they move on; up to the stars you look, your distant home.

Now I listen closely to the twilight, waiting for the whisper of my half-life.

I've been gone, far away, out of my body, out of my mind. But now I'm back, back to earth. I've been gone, far away, out of my body, out of my mind. But now I'm back, for better or for worse, back to earth.
Track Name: Death Waits I
Like a withered crone in the shadow of the sickle. Like a debutante at the funeral of my youth. Like a poisoned kiss on the lips of my unveiled bride.

What waits behind the door, and who? Angel or devil, what's in store?

There beneath my pillow when I forget to wake. And among my friends when they visit late at night. In your fair hands to put the pennies on my eyes. (He waits.)

What waits behind the door, and who? Angel or devil, what's in store? Before the door there's you...

We're plucked and we wither like buds for the vase, to crumble to nothing, alone in the maze. But Death hasn't found you, and Death never will. He waits for you now, and he'll wait for you still.

In the final nail to secure my coffin. In the lilac bush planted on my grave. On a new made bed, sheets stretched without end. (He waits.)

I don't care what's behind the door, and who? Angel or devil, what's in store? Before the door there's you...
Track Name: The Prince of Darkness
They call me the Prince of Darkness; it's true that I've been bold. There's blood on my hands, and a hardness has tempered the will of my soul. He didn't see me coming, but that's no fault of mine. And that her dying eyes burned with hatred was a final and beautiful sign.

Music has yielded to the charms of my embrace. And music won't be tempted by the smile on a younger man's face.

So fetter my legend with scandal; I've been unafraid of sin. If it's pureness of flesh that heaven requires, I won't make it in. The skin of the young one implores me; the lust of her mother accedes. I've been born to the flesh of a mortal, and as flesh I will bear my own needs.

Music has yielded to the thrust of my desire. Music won't gray and wrinkle with the passage of time.

Still a sorrow lays me low, with poisoned tip, and flex'd bow. Take aim, take aim; you know your mark.

I imagined the voices of angels, as I stretched them out taut on the rack. And I summoned a new way of hearing, which I bent until I heard it crack.

Music has yielded to the greatness of my mind. And music will never forget me; I was cruel when I could have been kind. And I could have been kind, but I gave myself to music; gave my life to music.
Track Name: The Sun Deceives
Things are never as they seem; even names can conceal, misguide the hand that would heal the mortal wound. And when you fall on the truth, long to act on its proof, you would do well to avoid his direct gaze. It will undo you; you can never unlove.

The sun deceives, with her cruel eye.

When you hold to your hate, press your skin to its heat, indulge the need you can't sate, it will betray you. For in the book of revenge, the blind man wields his sharp pen, its ink a fountain unquenched; the night knows your heart – it will possess you; you have no recourse.

The sun deceives, with her cruel eye, with her cold fire.

Take me now. Take me now; I have lingered too long.

And when the shepherd's pipes play, when with those notes he awakes some long-buried dream, you will expect her. Into darkness we go, away from light and its woe, to pass beyond life's sad farce that has enslaved us. We will rejoice; in death we rejoice.

The sun deceives, with her cruel eye, with her cold fire.
Track Name: Again
Sometimes we rise toward the given line, connecting dreams with what is lost. 'Tho blood and flesh deceive us so they yield, just as the thaw requires the frost. So ask and find the answer if you will, or now reject and rest on doubt. The day is ready for my entry point. The sky is poised to let me out.

Again, I am again. I haven't wept, 'tho I be ‘lorn.

In rapture blunt and stumbling grace behold, "this is my hand this is my eye." To take and then to give from furrowed purse, to breathe her body as a sign.

Again, I am again. I haven't wept, 'tho I be ‘lorn. And then, I am again. This much is found; this much is borne.

My shadow once was me impinged, the warmest whisper on my ear, a guide for one who needs no path, a salve for one who feels no fear.

Come home, come home, there is no other way; there is no door, no room to hold. Take seat and rest; take rest and rise again. Come home, come home, the hearth it glows.

Again, I am again. I haven't wept, 'tho I be ‘lorn. And then, I am again. This much is found; this much is borne.
Track Name: Just A Lombard Cat
Did she carry her boy? With what weight did he lie? Inanimate stone, dust in the gloom.

I'm a Lombard cat, just a bat on his back.

Has he done it again? Has he punished my pride? With the neck of a bull, and a killer's hands.

I'm a Lombard cat, just a bat on his back. I'm a martyr skinned, no more than a belly with chin.

The good I seek, the pain from which I fly, divinely proud and fair, are hid in thee. My art would fail my heart's desire; no breath her lips to sigh.

Into madness he roams, untouched by its charms. Blackened orb of the night, wordless crash on the sands.

I'm a Lombard cat, just a bat on his back. I'm a martyr skinned, no more than a belly with chin. I'm a counterweight, a mere tug on his freight. I'm a Lombard cat, just a bat on his back.
Track Name: Song Before Dying
"Sing your song, then die," may be words to live by. All else yields to death, like the blood of sunset. Yet I linger here, to be near my torment; watching you watch him.

Laugh, you laugh, and the leaves shake upon the locust, rattling like my heart in the stir of autumn. Lost inside my throat are the words I'd sing you – withered and wasted.

Failed, I failed to sound that you'd hear my heart song. Sweat pours down me now, and I'm seized by trembling. Pale as pale and close to the death I'd welcome; so might I lose you.

Years from now, a heart may be more substantial, wise and true in love, be it unrequited; like the poor girl's song that rang pure and wretched, sung before dying.
Track Name: The Thistle And The Thorn
The funicular takes us down to the rocky strand. I put down my camera to take your hand. Behind us rise the cliffs, and ahead the sea. It's no Coney Island, and that's fine by me.

Now we will reap what we've sown.

The hotel lobby's cool in the heat of noon. Someone asks for an autograph; we head to the room. The sheets are fresh and your skin is brown. You pour us some wine, I'm tired to the bone.

Now we will reap what we've sown; in fallow earth no roses will grow. But I'll take the thistle and the thorn. I'll take the thistle.

I'm looking for the man who heard the sirens, strapped himself against their magic call; who railed against the silence, and the storm.

The candles at the table tame the dark. Your eyes fill with memories, and the words to a song push themselves between us; you catch my pain. "There's only today," you say; and you're right again.

Now we will reap what we've sown; in fallow earth no roses will grow. But I'll take the thistle and the thorn. I'll take the thistle and the thorn. I'll take the thistle.
Track Name: Insubstantial Man
I won't be happy 'til I'm gone, and all the shadows, one by one, have exited the crowded stage, and words have scattered from the page. They're here for me in bundled notes, in hard-boiled eggs and overcoats. And Caroline, my rugged whore, parts the waves, comes back for more.

In Padua, he found her, never more to leave her. He whittled and he watched her, in memory to hold her.

Diego brother, you'll be brave, and cast this headstone for my grave; "now, here lies Albert Giacomo; he had no other way to go." And but the time is never spent. The seeping, rising non-relent. I sink until I no more can; I am an insubstantial man.

In Padua, he found her, never more to leave her. He whittled and he watched her, in memory to hold her.

He watched the skin they put their fingers on, as if to press it to another form; so firmly set, so tiredly drawn.

Into the outward rush of light, free from the orchard's tangled blight. This mass dissolved, this fever spent, Diego love from you I'm rent.

Io sono incorporio. Io sono incorporio.