Another filthy Austin band cashing in our drink tokens and falling in love all too quickly. Garage rock//alternative//indie folk • Hippie Crippler • "Borne on an Elliott Smith cusp, with a moon rising in Cat Stevens/Tea for the Tillerman winsome pop." —Laurie Gallardo, KUTX Austin Music Minute • live • original • lyrics • sxsw • videos • shows • tour • album • EP • podcasts • twitter • instagram

Right on the Head

She’s below an intellectual meniscus 
If the reference is good but the lighting’s not right she’ll miss it
In her worldliness she’s skilled in towing imaginary lines
Although manic and depressed don’t seem to be much less than intertwined.
I’m a door mat and an addict, unconditionally pacing frantic
Burning a patch on his lungs and hole in the rug to see you.
This dissociative response of which I’m leaning on at any given time
Keeps me up in the rafters while she’s runnin’ the scenes with a friend of mine.

We’re getting deep at awkward intervals
Exchange these lofty syllables
This play’s run long, your tongue’s worn thin
I’m starting to get anxious at the thought—
It’s so predictable,
We rise up like dirigibles
And crash into the rocky shores of God knows where this conversation ends

Condescending to consider me,
Dear Lord I think I’d rather be dead
Than a hearse in this procession
But such is this joke that’s overrun with hints
That this eternal consciousness
Indeed wants nothing more than to inhabit something greater than
   As you’re running through your typical cycles— 
   Seems you’ve anointed yourself
   and now you’re making your rounds
   As some tragic, stoned disciple.
   And no one’s taking the hint
   but they’re all making their calls
  And though you feel to move you get nowhere at all
Looks like you’ve stranded yourself because
you warrant the help to spite you.

My dear friend, I think you should be warned
This new-aged verbal hippie porn
Is kind of hittin’ a wall
That green drink will not save you from despair.
I know, inflammatory
This claim towards false reality;
Your bikram coach instructed you to do these twice a day until you’re dead.

"Can’t we all just sit here comfortably
And conversate more topically
Instead of be held under hostage
By your misanthropic qualities,
These existential maladies—"
Can’t we please just throw out one more term?
I think we’ll hit that nail right on the head