Done! (dang)
january 01st, 2006
Dear muted tones,
A few last things before I go:
We could spend a lot more time mixing this (and remixing and remixing and remixing), but time’s up. We will certainly be revisiting it on our own time. For now, please forgive any problems.
The lyrics are below. It’s an attempt to write a work song in the vein of “Five o’Clock World,” “Working in the Coal Mine,” or “Working for the Weekend,” but differs from these slightly in that in the end the character sits alone on a nude beach. So, it sort of turns out to be more like “Ya Ya” by Lee Dorsey than “Coal Mine,” and it’s not really a cautionary tale or anything, just a tale.
The “woo” in the last half of the song was recorded during a KU football game. It’s our neighbors screaming after a touchdown. We live close to the stadium, and recording crowds became an obsession for about a month for us, but it takes up too much space on the hard drive for a few seconds of pleasurable bits, so we’ve cut it out.
There are a few samples used; please feel free to contact us at theharveygirls(don’tneedyourwienerenlargementtechnology)@gmail.com if you’d like to know what they are. (Yes, “meanwhile I’m still thinkin’” is completely stolen.)
Thanks to Josh Dumas (who will be toodling along shortly with the song for you) for the invitation, and to the unbelievable talents of DJ Sku, El Peeps, and of course, my own Phil Spector sans firearms, bad hair, or morbid jealousy, my dearest Hiram. And thank you for reading and listening.
Don’t Go Stop
And here it is, what you’ve always heard from those who’ve managed to turn their postfab homes into bitter fruit lined with nothing less than what you’d die for. Little comfort from the TV’s glow. You know I can’t complain; wouldn’t help me if I could.
Swim swan swim eight hours and back again to a sung song dumb for a vacation, for a vacation.
And all the girls are shopping at Dillard’s trying to look like women in their first real jobs, stealing hateful glances at those with the same shoes they paid for yesterday. If California is a state of mind, then my brain has gone south on a wire, so tell me mirror what is wrong? I’ve tasted enough salt of the earth to know I can leave. Let’s throw off our collars and go to where the retirees grow thick with routine. We can take pictures of ourselves pretending to be royalty.
Swim swan swim eight hours and back again to a sung song dumb for a vacation, for a vacation.
Sitting alone on a nude beach is more awkward than you’d think.
(Meanwhile, I’m still thinkin’.)
Sitting alone on a nude beach is more awkward than you’d think.
Your friend,
Melissa