BUNDT
🎶♬♯ “I knew you were coming so I baked a Bundt.” ♭🎵 ♮
Process/Software: HUMAN, ChatGPT, Producer.ai – DAW: Audacity 3.7.7, OS: Linux (Ubuntu 25.10)
Bundt – Full Album (47:57)
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TRACKLIST
The Linoleum Curator
Funky Alternative Rock, stripped-back dry production, prominent bassline, scratching rhythmic acoustic guitar, bright trumpet melodies, vibraslap accents, spoken-word style vocals, witty and cynical, 122 BPM.
[Intro]
[Clean, arpeggiated electric guitars with a bright chorus effect]
[Rhythmic, driving bassline begins]
[Verse 1]
The partition walls are the color of oatmeal
I sit within this three-sided cage
The carpet tiles are a map of nowhere
I adjust the stapler three degrees left
This is my architecture of refusal
I measure the afternoon in millimeters
(Counting the minutes)
The fluorescent light hums a flat B-natural
[Chorus]
It is a geometry of paperclips
(Tiny revolutions)
In the silence of the ventilation
I am building a monument to nothing
A curated landscape of the mundane
[Verse 2]
The regional manager speaks in acronyms
His necktie is a desperate cry for help
I respond with a nod of feigned interest
While aligning my pens by color and weight
The fountain pen is a heavy weapon
I place it exactly parallel to the ledger
(Perfect symmetry)
We are optimizing the void today
[Bridge]
Outside the ivy is strangling the brickwork
Nature is reclaiming the loading dock
I could walk through the revolving doors
But the stationery drawer is finally tidy
It is the only thing I can control
(The only thing)
[Chorus]
It is a geometry of paperclips
(Tiny revolutions)
In the silence of the ventilation
I am building a monument to nothing
A curated landscape of the mundane
[Guitar Solo]
[Jangling, melodic guitar line weaving through the vocal melody]
[Chorus]
It is a geometry of paperclips
(Tiny revolutions)
In the silence of the ventilation
I am building a monument to nothing
A curated landscape of the mundane
[Outro]
Five o’clock is a distant country
The stapler points toward the exit
(Waiting for the bell)
Everything is exactly where it belongs
[Abrupt stop on a single guitar chord]
Service Plaza Rhythms
Arthouse Funk-Rock, stripped-down clean production, rhythmic acoustic guitar scratches, melodic trumpet lines, dry drums with cowbell, vibraslap accents, witty observant lyrics, talk-singing style, 115 BPM.
[Intro]
[Clean treble-heavy electric guitar with a syncopated Afro-pop rhythm]
[Walking bassline enters, staccato and brisk]
[Verse 1]
The asphalt is a calcified ribbon
Unwinding past the cooling towers of Newark
A billboard for a film stock once popular
In the nineteen-seventies (seventies)
I am driving a Swedish sedan with high mileage
The upholstery smells like damp wool and discipline
Past the refinery where the flame is constant
An orange lick against a charcoal sky
[Chorus]
At the service plaza named for a dead senator
We are temporary neighbors by the condiments
A mutual nod over the salt sachets
The rhythm of the interstate (interstate)
Mechanical and perfectly indifferent
[Short, punchy brass accent]
[Verse 2]
I watch a woman in a plaid mackintosh
Counting her change for a packet of raisins
The architecture here is Brutalist and beige
Constructed during the height of the Cold War
We share a glance in the vestibule
Neither of us mentions the humidity
Or the price of unleaded (unleaded)
We are simply moving pieces on a grid
[Chorus]
At the service plaza named for a dead senator
We are temporary neighbors by the condiments
A mutual nod over the salt sachets
The rhythm of the interstate (interstate)
Mechanical and perfectly indifferent
[Instrumental Bridge]
[Bright, staccato brass section mirrors the guitar melody]
[Drum kit focuses on the rimshot and woodblock]
[Chorus]
At the service plaza named for a dead senator
We are temporary neighbors by the condiments
A mutual nod over the salt sachets
The rhythm of the interstate (interstate)
Mechanical and perfectly indifferent
[Outro]
Perfectly indifferent
(Indifferent)
The odometer clicks
[Song ends abruptly on a sharp brass hit]
The Splicing Block
Post-Punk Funk, stripped-back minimalist production, tight dry drums, woodblock accents, melodic repetitive bass hook, dry electric guitar, brass section melodies, deadpan vocal delivery, intellectual and cynical, 115 BPM.
[Intro]
[Driving melodic bassline starts, steady and repetitive]
[Percussive guitar scratch]
[Vibraslap]
[Section 1: The Workspace]
The aluminum reels are heavy
Cold to the touch
Smell the dust on the glass valves
The heat is real
The heat is honest
(So honest)
I don’t trust what I can’t weigh
I don’t trust the invisible air
[Vibraslap]
[Section 2: The Tooling]
Place the leader on the block
Find the groove
The silver groove
Take the industrial razor
Single edge only
Carbon steel
(Only carbon)
Forty-five degree angle
Diagonal
Precise
A clean separation
[Vibraslap]
[Section 3: The Disdain]
Your files are ghosts
They live in a fake sky
They have no scent
They have no body
(No body)
I like the hiss of the floor
I like the brown oxide flakes
Sticking to my thumb
I am a surgeon of plastic
I am a master of the join
[Vibraslap]
[Section 4: The Splice]
Align the edges
Apply the adhesive strip
Press hard
Rub out the bubbles
The physical connection is made
It clicks through the rollers
(Click)
(Click)
(Click)
The sound is a solid object
[Driving melodic bassline intensifies]
[Dissonant guitar feedback rises]
[Section 5: The Tantrum]
Forty-five degrees
Forty-five degrees
Diagonal cut
Diagonal cut
(Cut)
(Cut)
I am holding the music
I am touching the frequency
Your sky is empty
My reels are full
[Vibraslap]
[Abrupt stop]
[High-pitched feedback tail]
The Meniscus Drop
[Intro]
[Pizzicato cello and a sharp, rhythmic harpsichord]
[Verse 1]
The blue masking tape is peeling at the corner
I used a Sharpie for maximum contrast
My name is written in block capitals
Between the handle and the dented rubber seal
(It’s a legible warning)
The shared interior is thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit
A micro-climate of communal neglect
My almond milk sits beside your leaking vinaigrette
A stagnant pool of oil and balsamic vinegar
Like an oil slick in the Gulf of Mexico
[Verse 2]
[Oboe and flute enter, playing staccato notes]
The level of the liquid has descended
Two inches lower than yesterday morning
I have calculated the rate of theft
It is a steady, rhythmic subtraction
(Such a petty larceny)
Do you feel the cold carton in your palm?
Does the recycled plastic feel like an inheritance?
You are consuming my minerals and vitamins
My calcium is strengthening your vertebrae
While I sit at my desk with dry cereal
[Verse 3]
[Strings swell into a more dramatic, baroque arrangement]
There is a theology to the breakroom
A hierarchy of tupperware and glass jars
Thou shalt not touch the Caesar dressing
Unless your name is Janet from accounting
(Janet sees everything)
I imagine your peristalsis at the water cooler
The stolen molecules moving through your gut
A biological theft occurring in real-time
Beneath your ironed polyester blend shirt
(It is a quiet invasion)
[Bridge]
[The music slows, becoming fragile and intimate]
In the year nineteen-ninety-eight in Duluth
My mother labeled my lunch with similar fervor
She used a thermal printer from the hardware store
A small shield against the bullies in the yard
Now I am thirty-four and nothing has changed
The world is still full of grasping hands
And unwashed spoons in the stainless steel sink
(The mold is growing)
(The expiration date is coming for us all)
[Outro]
[Harpsichord fades, leaving only a mournful solo cello]
Please respect the boundaries of the middle shelf
Replace the cap until it clicks shut
I have noted the discrepancy in the volume
I am watching the meniscus drop
Do not make me write a second note
(I am watching)
(I am always watching)
The ink is permanent
Even if the milk is not
[End]
The Inventory
Americana, Literary Folk-Country, Spoken Word, fingerstyle acoustic guitar, upright bass, dry percussion, staccato trumpet accents, male baritone, conversational deadpan delivery, wry and observant tone, mid-tempo 92 BPM, dusty highway atmosphere, intimate and rhythmic, grounded and resilient vibe.
[Intro]
[Acoustic guitar fingerpicking, steady upright bass, dry snare rim-clicks]
[Verse 1]
The odometer clicked over another thousand miles
Somewhere between Salina and the state line
My 1994 Volvo wagon has a slight shudder
I pulled into a station with one working pump
The heat off the asphalt felt like a heavy quilt
(Heavy quilt)
Inside the air was thin and smelled of pine
A rotating rack of sunglasses held only dust
I didn’t need a map but I touched one anyway
[Chorus]
The inventory here is a slow-motion miracle
Three-year-old road atlases and pickled eggs in brine
Everything you never knew you needed
On a Tuesday afternoon in a place you’re passing through
[Verse 2]
A shelf of VHS tapes sat fading in the light
“Extreme Justice” starring someone I don’t recall
Beside a cardboard display of camouflage hats
The clerk had a name tag that simply said Earl
He was reading a paperback with the cover torn off
He didn’t look up when I set down my soda
(Not a word)
He just rang the total and waited for the cash
[Chorus]
The inventory here is a slow-motion miracle
Three-year-old road atlases and pickled eggs in brine
Everything you never knew you needed
On a Tuesday afternoon in a place you’re passing through
[Bridge]
[Staccato Trumpet Solo - sharp, rhythmic, melodic but brief]
The highway is a long ribbon of gray indifference
Earl watches me pay with five crumpled singles
We are two points on a graph that never meet
I am leaving and he is staying
(He is staying)
That is the whole of our temporary arrangement
[Verse 3]
I bought a bag of jerky and a plastic comb
The jerky was tough as an old leather boot
Back in the car the engine groaned to life
I saw Earl through the window staring at the pumps
Waiting for the next set of tires to crunch the gravel
The sun shifted a fraction of a degree
[Chorus]
The inventory here is a slow-motion miracle
Three-year-old road atlases and pickled eggs in brine
Everything you never knew you needed
On a Tuesday afternoon in a place you’re passing through
[Outro]
Salina is a memory in the rearview now
The Volvo is humming a flat middle C
(A flat middle C)
Just the road and the things Earl has for sale
[Final staccato trumpet notes]
[End]
The Ergonomic Dream
Indie Pop, Atmospheric Dream Pop, post-punk rhythmic bass, vintage drum machine, dry staccato trumpet flourishes, male vocalist, deadpan delivery, low register, conversational, clinical yet hazy mood, medium tempo, 95 BPM, warm melancholic timbre, minimal synth pads.
[Intro]
[Rhythmic, driving bassline starts with a dry drum machine beat]
[Short, staccato trumpet flourish]
[Verse 1]
I sit in the black mesh
Adjusting the lever again
The lumbar hits a new place
My spine feels like paper
Turning toward the window
The light is flat and grey
(Flat and grey)
[Chorus]
The ergonomic dream
Finding the right angle
(Finding the angle)
Waiting for the tilt
Waiting for the tilt
Waiting for the tilt
[Verse 2]
The bag of salt stays hanging
Stuck behind the plastic door
You talk about the synergy
I look at the pattern on the rug
Everything is moving slowly
In a circle near the desk
(Near the desk)
[Chorus]
The ergonomic dream
Finding the right angle
(Finding the angle)
Waiting for the tilt
Waiting for the tilt
Waiting for the tilt
[Bridge]
[Bassline becomes more melodic and prominent]
[Staccato trumpet solo with high reverb]
[Minimal synth pads swelling in the background]
[Chorus]
The ergonomic dream
Finding the right angle
(Finding the angle)
Waiting for the tilt
Waiting for the tilt
Waiting for the tilt
[Outro]
It is happening
(Happening)
Losing my shape
(Losing my shape)
It goes away
It goes away
It goes away
[Fade out with a final trumpet note]
The Fluorescent Glow
Alternative Rock, PNW Sludge, heavy downtuned muddy guitars, slow driving melodic bassline, sharp staccato trumpet bursts, male baritone, deadpan delivery, explosive distorted choruses, clinical atmosphere, gray and heavy, 75 BPM, Key of D Minor.
[Intro]
[Downtuned muddy guitar feedback]
[Melodic, driving bassline enters]
[Verse 1]
Under the long tubes
My skin is a bad color
Antiseptic on the floor
My eyes are leaking fluid
(Wait)
The floor is very white
The floor is very cold
I am standing in the milk
(It’s wet)
Everything is in a row
[Chorus]
[Explosive distorted guitars]
[Sharp staccato trumpet accents]
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The Fluorescent Light
It eats my head
Beep. Beep. Beep.
(So what)
[Verse 2]
[Drums drop to a heavy, crawling beat]
[Deadpan delivery]
Cans of corn in a line
Yellow faces looking back
The label says it is food
I think I am a label too
(Maybe)
My vest is made of plastic
My hands are made of salt
I forgot what I was buying
I forgot how to leave
[Chorus]
[Heavy distortion]
[Sharp staccato trumpet accents]
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The Fluorescent Light
It eats my head
Beep. Beep. Beep.
(Whatever)
[Bridge]
[Bass-driven groove with dissonant trumpet stabs]
[Vocals becoming a strained shout]
Tear the plastic
Bleed the plastic
Plastic. Plastic. Plastic.
(Ugh)
It’s too bright in here
It’s too clean in here
I am dirty
(Yeah)
[Chorus]
[Maximum volume]
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The Fluorescent Light
It eats my head
Beep. Beep. Beep.
(I don’t care)
[Outro]
[Bass loops while trumpet fades with sharp, short notes]
[Feedback rings out]
One more item
One more item
(Beep)
(Beep)
[End]
La Máquina del Abuelo
Urban Caribbean, Melodic Romantiqueo, mid-tempo dembow, dry nylon-string Spanish guitar, sharp staccato trumpet, deadpan conversational male vocals, percussive and angular, rhythmic, clock-like precision, metallic textures, intense and observant, 96 BPM, A minor.
[Intro]
(Chequea el pulso)
(Oye)
El tiempo no perdona
Solo observa cómo se mueve
(Dale)
Directo desde el taller
Siente la presión
[Chorus]
Mírale los discos girar
(Tic-tac, tic-tac)
El péndulo no sabe parar
(No va a frenar)
Es pura fricción en el metal
(Siente el calor)
Tu cuerpo y la máquina igual
(Somos lo mismo)
[Verse 1]
Tornillo apretado contra el eje
Busco el aceite que te despeje
Esa cuerda floja te tiene mal
Cuidado con el golpe del metal
Ruedas dentadas muerden la calma
Tengo la llave que sana tu alma
Un resorte que salta de repente
Cuidado que el cobre está caliente
Muévete rítmica, muévete seca
Como madera que nunca se peca
[Chorus]
Mírale los discos girar
(Tic-tac, tic-tac)
El péndulo no sabe parar
(No va a frenar)
Es pura fricción en el metal
(Siente el calor)
Tu cuerpo y la máquina igual
(Somos lo mismo)
[Verse 2]
En el pecho tienes un martillo
Golpeando fuerte, buscando brillo
No eres de carne, eres de acero
Yo soy el técnico que llegó primero
Te rescato del óxido y la duda
La estructura tuya se queda desnuda
Tu mirada es un cristal quebrado
Pero el sistema sigue conectado
Punta de flecha, ritmo constante
Eres un objeto muy elegante
[Bridge]
[Guitarra española - Solo de nylon string]
(Pausa)
(Escucha el latido)
(Uno, dos, tres)
Se agota la cuerda
Se acaba el momento
[Trompeta staccato]
[Chorus]
Mírale los discos girar
(Tic-tac, tic-tac)
El péndulo no sabe parar
(No va a frenar)
Es pura fricción en el metal
(Siente el calor)
Tu cuerpo y la máquina igual
(Somos lo mismo)
[Outro]
(La máquina no miente)
(El abuelo sabía)
Mantén el ritmo
No te me oxides ahora
(Tic-tac)
(Tic-tac)
(Se paró)
[Final seco de trompeta]
The Merchant’s Arc
Progressive Rock, Dark Eclectic Prog, funky avant-garde jazz-fusion, dry punchy drums, melodic fretless bass, sharp staccato trumpet stabs, distorted organ, masculine intellectual baritone vocals, dry spoken-word delivery, 115 BPM, 7/4 time signature, clinical and decaying atmosphere, tense and angular artistic vibe.
[Intro]
[Dry, funky drum kit in 7/4 time, prominent melodic fretless bass line, sharp staccato trumpet flourishes]
[Section A: The Prophecy]
Observe the ossified radius
Iron skeleton mocks the zenith
Ochre crust devours the struts
(Devours the struts)
Carriages dangle like hollow skulls
Wind whistles through the cage
A vertical cemetery of commerce
The merchant of mirth has fled
Left his ledger in the mud
(In the mud)
[Long Instrumental Bridge]
[Bass-driven groove, discordant organ swells, chaotic saxophone and trumpet interplay, drum fills using rimshots]
[Section B: The Realization]
Ticket stubs dissolve under acidity
The arc of vanity remains frozen
A clock that only counts entropy
(Entropy)
Children’s laughter: a chemical residue
Staining the asphalt below
No movement
No salvation in the rotation
The axle groans with the weight of time
(The heavy weight)
Petrified luxury for the masses
Crumbling under the indifferent atmosphere
[Outro]
[Staccato trumpet stabs syncopated with bass]
Grind
Stagnate
The metal god is silent
(Silent)
Broken circle
Vertical rot
The crown of rust descends
[Abrupt stop]
Fine, And You?
Funk, Psychedelic Funk, dry percussive groove, prominent rubbery melodic bass, syncopated acoustic guitar scratches, biting staccato trumpet flourishes, 120 BPM, masculine nasal vocal delivery, deadpan spoken-word verses, soulful group chants, sterile corporate atmosphere, high-tension rhythmic energy, crisp and claustrophobic production.
[Intro]
(Dry, muted acoustic guitar scratching a 16th-note rhythm)
[Spoken over a descending melodic bass walk-up]
Attention staff
The potion is prepared
Proceed to the white room
Maintain the performance
Keep it professional
Highly professional
[Verse 1]
Fluorescent tubes buzz
(Buzz buzz)
Plastic stirrer clicks
Powdered milk snows
It falls in the dark
The dark hot pool
(Hot pool)
The machine coughs twice
Paper cup sweating in my hand
[Chorus]
“How is your morning?”
(Fine, and you?)
“Doing great!”
(Fine, and you?)
Keep the rhythm
Keep the mask
(Fine, and you?)
(Fine, and you?)
[Instrumentation: Biting staccato trumpet flourishes]
[Verse 2]
Nod at the VP
Behind the steam
(Behind the steam)
Show your teeth now
Don’t look too long
The polite machine
(So polite)
The break is a stage
And we are the actors
[Bridge]
[Melodic Bass Solo - thick, rubbery, and syncopated]
Free your brain
From the spreadsheet
(Free it now)
Dance for the bean
The black bean juice
It hits the blood
The hive vibrates
(Vibrate)
(Vibrate)
[Chorus]
“How is your morning?”
(Fine, and you?)
“Doing great!”
(Fine, and you?)
Keep the rhythm
Keep the mask
(Fine, and you?)
(Fine, and you?)
[Outro]
Stir it up
(Stir it)
Throw the trash
(Throw it)
Back to the desk
The ritual holds
(It holds)
The One
(The One)
The One
[Final sharp trumpet blast]
[Sudden silence]
Paper on the Blacktop
Americana Folk Rock, Anthemic Revival, mid-tempo 95 BPM, steady walking bassline, clean electric guitar with heavy vibrato, melancholic sustained trumpet, raspy male baritone, raw honest delivery, dusty percussion, rustic production, pensive mood, gravelly and sincere timbre, wide landscape atmosphere, aggressive sincerity.
[Intro]
[Steady walking bassline starts, joined by clean electric guitar with slow vibrato]
[Verse 1]
The soap on the glass says three grand flat
Cracked vinyl bites into the back of my legs
A row of rusted fenders watching the sun sink
Faded stickers for a park I never visited
The air smells like old oil and dried out grass
I am sitting in a ghost of someone’s best year
Waiting for a key that probably won’t turn
(Ooooh, won’t turn)
[Chorus]
And I am tumbling like paper on the road
A greasy bag caught in a high-speed draft
Empty of everything I used to hold
Just a scrap of nothing on the blacktop
Looking for a ditch to call my own
(Call my own)
[Verse 2]
The drone of the tires is the only song I know
White lines blurring into one long grey ribbon
I left my heavy heart in a box by the door
Now I am lighter than I ever wanted to be
The dashboard clock is stuck on a different time
Before the vinyl tore and the spirit went thin
(Went so thin)
[Chorus]
And I am tumbling like paper on the road
A greasy bag caught in a high-speed draft
Empty of everything I used to hold
Just a scrap of nothing on the blacktop
Looking for a ditch to call my own
[Bridge]
[Tempo remains steady, trumpet enters with long, mournful notes]
Wash me clean of the miles I have gathered
Lest I be found wanting at the end of the line
It is a long way down to the soft shoulder
But the wind is the only thing that moves me now
(Moves me now)
[Guitar and Trumpet Solo]
[The vibrato guitar leads into a swelling trumpet climax]
[Chorus]
Yes I am tumbling like paper on the road
A greasy bag caught in a high-speed draft
Empty of everything I used to hold
Just a scrap of nothing on the blacktop
Looking for a ditch to call my own
[Outro]
Scrap of nothing
(Scrap of nothing)
On the blacktop
(On the blacktop)
[Music fades out with a final, sustained trumpet note]
Master of the Ring
Orchestral Disco-Soul, Funk-Soul, 140 BPM, slapping bass, percussive cowbell, dissonant trumpet stabs, sweeping cinematic strings, powerful female mezzo-soprano, authoritative and clinical, transition from deadpan precision to ecstatic power, high-gloss urban production, rhythmic and frantic wall of sound.
[Intro]
[Aggressive slapping bass line enters at 140 BPM]
[Syncopated cowbell rhythm starts]
[Frantic dissonant trumpet stabs]
[Verse 1]
Hold the curved shears high
Forty-six tooth thinner in hand
Seventy percent humidity today
Coat lifting under the blade
Angle the wrist exactly ten degrees
Remove the weight from the shoulder
Total focus on the topline
(Keep it straight)
Precision is my only friend
The judge is watching my grip
[Chorus]
But the cowbell saves my mind
(Strike the steel)
Rhythm keeps my vision clear
(Strike the steel)
One beat for every snip
One strike for every curl
I am the master of the ring
[Verse 2]
Scissoring the hock with care
Blown out to maximum volume
Mist the coat with finishing spray
No stray hairs on the table
Define the neck and the chest
Anatomical perfection in white
The dog stands like a statue
(Hold your breath)
I ignore the ticking clock
Only the bell tells the truth
[Chorus]
Because the cowbell saves my mind
(Strike the steel)
Rhythm keeps my vision clear
(Strike the steel)
One beat for every snip
One strike for every curl
I am the master of the ring
[Bridge]
[Trumpet stabs increase in frequency]
[Orchestral strings swell into a wall of sound]
The dryer heat is rising
The tension is a physical weight
I hear the metal calling me
Louder than the barking crowd
Louder than the beating heart
(Give me the beat)
Give me the focus I demand
[Chorus]
The cowbell saves my mind
(Strike the steel)
Rhythm keeps my vision clear
(Strike the steel)
One beat for every snip
One strike for every curl
I am the master of the ring
[Outro]
[Cowbell solo over frantic bass]
Strike it
(I am the master)
Again
(I am the master)
The finish is perfect
The shape is divine
[Final dissonant trumpet blast]
[End]
The Stuck Cut
Hip Hop, Mafioso Rap, Boom Bap, Funk, 110 BPM, mid-tempo funky groove, heavy melodic bassline, dry percussion, sharp staccato trumpet stabs, deadpan masculine baritone, spoken-word cadence, luxurious yet gritty atmosphere, street-level tension, polished production, technical internal rhyme schemes, aggressive but laid-back swagger.
[Intro]
[Mid-tempo funky bassline enters with dry, crisp snare]
[Staccato trumpet stabs punctuate the beat]
(Yeah)
(Check the weight)
(Balance the books)
[Verse 1]
Stepping through the steam in gator skins
Tide pods smelling like a new shipment
Counting silver quarters like they were kilos
Stacking them on the folding table
This territory smells like bleach and gain
Industrial dryers humming a low frequency
I’m looking for the payout in A-4
Feeding the slot with cold precision
Metal teeth grinding on the currency
Selection made, the spiral starts to rotate
Vinegar and salt, the desired cargo
Moving slow like a snitch in interrogation
One rotation from the drop zone
Then the gears catch on the plastic
Suspended in mid-air like a bad debt
The bag dangles, mocking my authority
(Where’s my cut?)
(Pay what you owe)
[Chorus]
Stuck in the coil, profit out of reach
Gravity failing the street logic
Plastic window between me and the product
The machine holds the bag tight
Waiting for a push that never comes
Ambition frozen in a metal spiral
(Frozen)
(Right there)
[Verse 2]
I tap the glass with a heavy ring
The plexiglass don’t flinch for nobody
The associate behind the counter is silent
He knows the machine is a thief
It takes the tax but keeps the goods
Just like the feds in the nineties
I’m wearing a mink in a steam room
Sweating out the frustration of the clog
Every spin cycle sounds like a judgment
Dirty laundry getting scrubbed of its sins
While my simple pleasure stays incarcerated
Hanging by a corner of cellophane
I could shake the frame until it breaks
But a boss doesn’t rattle the cage
He waits for the next man’s coin
To push his own ambition through the gap
(That’s the game)
(Wait for the leverage)
[Chorus]
Stuck in the coil, profit out of reach
Gravity failing the street logic
Plastic window between me and the product
The machine holds the bag tight
Waiting for a push that never comes
Ambition frozen in a metal spiral
(Pay the man)
(Still hanging)
[Bridge]
[Bass guitar solo, melodic and funky]
[Trumpets rise in volume, sharp and dry]
The cycle is rigged from the start
Wash, rinse, spin, repeat
We all want the salt and the crunch
But the coil always stops a bit short
(Just short)
(The tax is paid)
[Outro]
Walking out into the damp air
Leaving the silver in the belly of the beast
One day that bag is gonna fall
But tonight the machine won the round
Check the watch, time is the only asset
(Keep moving)
(The cut is gone)
[Fade out with dry percussion and bass]
Sodium Vector
Alternative Rock, Funk Rock, mid-tempo 112 BPM, bouncy melodic bassline, dry punchy drums, heavy rimshots, sharp staccato trumpet flourishes, deadpan masculine baritone, rhythmic spoken-word delivery, dry production, quirky and observational atmosphere.
[Intro]
[Dry rimshot percussion, 112 BPM, syncopated digital clicks]
[Bouncy, heavy synth bassline enters with sharp trumpet flourishes]
[Phase A: Grid State]
Bitumen expanse
(Bitumen)
Sodium-vapor pulse
Intermittent
Oscillation
Low-frequency drone
Cooling unit
(Unit)
Vibration through rubber soles
Asphalt geometry
Empty lot
(Lot)
[Phase B: Transaction Vector]
Automatic glass slide
Opening
Closing
(Close)
Plastic basket rattle
Polished floor
Fluorescent wash
Aisle four
Sector seven
(Sector)
Cardboard box
Frozen composite
Caloric brick
Sodium content high
(High)
[Phase C: Logic Processing]
Checkout terminal
Laser scan
Beep
(Beep)
Polyethylene bag
Transaction confirmed
Plastic card tap
Zero eye contact
(Zero)
Point of sale complete
(Complete)
[Phase D: Exit Sequence]
Bitumen grid
Return vector
Ignition
Internal combustion
Moving away
(Away)
Sodium pulse behind
Empty space
System idling
(Idle)
[Outro]
[Trumpet staccato stabs fade into digital glitch artifacts]
[Bassline continues for two bars, then cuts abruptly]
(Zero)
(Zero)
(Zero)
White Hot Knife
Alternative Rock, Funk Rock, mid-tempo 110 BPM, bouncy melodic bassline, dry punchy drums, heavy rimshots, scratching acoustic guitar, sharp staccato trumpet flourishes, deadpan masculine baritone, rhythmic spoken-word delivery, dry production, cynical and observational.
[Intro]
[Thick, rubbery bassline enters alone, followed by scratching acoustic guitar and dry, heavy rimshots]
[Verse 1]
Torn fabric on the bucket seat
Brown stains from a spilled cup
White lines skip like a record
I feel the floorboards shake
Counting every crack in the blacktop
My boots are heavy with salt
Just a dog in a metal crate
Barking at the brake lights
[Chorus]
Glass burns a hole in my sight
Rearview is a white hot knife
Dragging this small box home
(Sun won’t let me go)
Dragging this small box home
[Verse 2]
Four cylinders scream in the heat
My knees hit the plastic dash
Oil smell thick in the throat
Rust eating the passenger door
The air is stagnant and gray
I am sinking into the foam
A slow crawl through the mud
Headache behind the bone
[Chorus]
Glass burns a hole in my sight
Rearview is a white hot knife
Dragging this small box home
(Sun won’t let me go)
Dragging this small box home
[Bridge]
[Sharp staccato trumpet flourishes over a sludge-heavy bass groove]
Stuck in the middle lane
Stuck in the same skin
Feed the tank
Bleed the man
(Feed the tank)
(Bleed the man)
[Guitar Solo]
[Abrasive, distorted guitar solo that mimics the sound of a failing engine]
[Chorus]
Glass burns a hole in my sight
Rearview is a white hot knife
Dragging this small box home
(Sun won’t let me go)
Dragging this small box home
[Outro]
The glare never stops
White hot knife
White hot knife
[Trumpet fades out with a final, discordant blast]
[Dry rimshot ends the song]
The Oil of Hands
Alternative Rock, Folk Rock, slow-tempo 75 BPM, warm melodic bassline, minimal dry percussion, soft rim clicks, breathy mournful trumpet, intimate masculine baritone, soft spoken-word delivery, minimal production, vulnerable and sincere.
[Intro]
[Warm melodic bassline pulse, 75 BPM]
[Soft, dry rim clicks begin]
[Breathy, mournful trumpet melody weaves through]
[Verse 1]
I sit here while the house breathes slow
The cooling box vibrates against the floor
Moonlight catches the dust above the sink
It hangs there like a debt unpaid
I am the only one awake to see it
(Awake to see it)
My skin feels heavy in the kitchen chair
A tired man in a wide, dark world
[Chorus]
I press my palms against the cedar grain
I feel the oil of hands that came before
I am the ghost left to watch the door
I am the blood that kept the name
(Kept the name)
Oh, let the wood hold the weight I carry
Lest I be found wanting in the light
[Verse 2]
The scent of old oak fills the dark
It gathers in the joints of the table
My father’s grip is in the iron latch
My mother’s touch is in the copper handle
They moved through here with a quiet grace
Now I am the breath inside the space
(Inside the space)
[Bridge]
[Tempo remains steady but intensity builds]
[Trumpet becomes more urgent, soaring high]
[Vocal shifts from spoken to a projected, ragged shout]
I am not a brave man but I remain
I bear the scars of every winter rain
Wash me clean of the fear of ending
Let the earth remember what I have done
Hold me down until the morning comes
(Until the morning comes)
[Chorus]
I press my palms against the cedar grain
I feel the oil of hands that came before
I am the ghost left to watch the door
I am the blood that kept the name
(Kept the name)
Oh, let the wood hold the weight I carry
Lest I be found wanting in the light
[Outro]
[Music strips back to just the warm bassline]
[Single, long, fading trumpet note]
The dust settles on the empty floor
The cooling box stops its low drone
I am here
(I am here)
I am still here
[Final rim click]
[End]
Silica Social
Spoken Word, minimalist avant-garde, 90 BPM, lone haunting syncopated trumpet, ghostly brass, no percussion, no bass, no guitars, no keys, deadpan masculine baritone, rhythmic poetry slam delivery, absurdist and surreal atmosphere.
[Intro]
[Lone syncopated trumpet, haunting and distant]
[Verse 1]
A single grain of silica rests on velvet
It considers the geometry of a sandwich
Crustless and filled with a quiet disappointment
The grain has no opinion on the silver service
It is merely posing as a lost diamond
Watching the chandelier through a film of dust
(Silica)
(Silica)
[Chorus]
The social life of a silent particle
Turning slowly in the draft of a skirt
Elegant, detached, and perfectly still
A flâneur of the heavy wool carpet
Observing the room with a grainy indifference
[Verse 2]
It discusses the political leanings of a doorknob
The brass is conservative, leaning toward the frame
The grain moves to the oak floorboards
Watching the shoes pass like ships in harbor
A silk jacket discarded on a velvet chair
The texture of the air is surprisingly brittle
(Wait for the brush)
(Wait for the broom)
[Chorus]
The social life of a silent particle
Turning slowly in the draft of a skirt
Elegant, detached, and perfectly still
A flâneur of the heavy wool carpet
Observing the room with a grainy indifference
[Extended Instrumental Bridge]
[Lone syncopated trumpet solo, ghostly and echoing, exploring the space between notes]
[Chorus]
The social life of a silent particle
Turning slowly in the draft of a skirt
Elegant, detached, and perfectly still
A flâneur of the heavy wool carpet
Observing the room with a grainy indifference
[Outro]
The grain is leaving on the heel of a boot
A new avenue, a different shade of grey
(Silica)
(Silica)
(Silica)
[Trumpet fades out slowly]