Year of the Swimming Dogs

by Cannonball Statman

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    Also includes three songs from Cannonball's 2015 album "Five Feet of Raw FIRE!"

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05:05

about

"Year of the Swimming Dogs" will help you become a better swimmer, if you're a dog. It was released the same day as Cannonball's CD "Five Feet of Raw FIRE!", which won't help you become a better swimmer.

--

"Die gedroschene akustische bangt unter den flach geführten händen. Rücksichtsloses gefetze, die saiten flirren, drohen sich zu verstricken. Schneller werdend greifen unzählige finger ins gemächt des instruments. Dazu dröhnt eine jugendliche stimme und bläst allem angesagten den marsch. Zu tun bekommen wir es mit Cannonball Statman. Der in Brooklyn lebende trat mit seinem debütalbum "Icepick", welch passender name, erstmals 2014 auf den plan. Eine USA tour folgte, die er sich an der seite der artrockband The Grasping Straws vertrieb. Wieder touren, dazu noch drumming bei der band The Dick Jokes. Wir aber möchten noch einmal explizit auf das aktuelle "Year of the Swimming Dogs" aufmerksam machen. Hier fügen sich die komponenten zu einem stilistischen vermächtnis, irgendwo zwischen Captain Beefheart und Velvet Underground. Der junge hat ein gefühl für tempi, für dramaturgie und zudem hat er etwas zu erzählen. Hört hin!"
(dasklienicum.blogspot.com/2015/10/eingestreut-876-cannonball-statman.html // Das Klienicum)

credits

released October 1, 2015

All music and lyrics written, performed, engineered, and produced by Cannonball Statman in Brooklyn, NY, on August 20th, 2015 ("Year of the Swimming Dogs") and May 23, 2015 ("Five Feet of Raw FIRE!"), on his 2006 MacBook. Album artwork and photography by Cannonball Statman.

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Track Name: Dragonflies
I don't know what I wanna do,
so I'm gonna take you to
the space between life and death, love and hate,
my moon and your planet;
ooh-ooh, I'm gonna make music.

Dragon flies over the river.
We'll write the first song.
I've fallen into the water;
I'm not gonna call you on my cellular phone.
Dragonflies flying over the river
will write the first song,
and we'll drown in the water;
Call me on my hell phone.

I don't know what I wanna do,
so I'm gonna take you to
the space between me and you, rain and fire,
my sky and your underground station;
train station, I'm gonna make music.

Someone I once knew died just the other night, and
now I hold the key to his soul.
Tried to get out of the blizzard,
but now all I can see is snow.
Friend of mine once told me
'bout a man who was made of gold,
this was around the time
all your EEG equipment got sold.
Funny how after thirty minutes,
everything can seem so old.
I read a newspaper once, in which
everything was written in bold;
when that paper told me
I would reap what I had sewn,
it was the first time I started
a fire of my own.

I drowned in September.
I'm gonna take you to
the space between you and me, axe and tree,
homicide and suicide;
tonight, we're gonna make music.

Down in September, you'll be finding me to be
someone else; a mystery.
Track Name: Dog Science
On the ground, the crows are eating the wasps,
and the wasps are dying in the mouths of the crows
on the ground, at sunrise.

Kellogg's diner is under new management, my brain is splattered on my wall;
regurgitates a dirty blonde caramel syrup.
My friend Leora sings up a girl and boy trading spirits, spirits trading behind the tire swing,
levitating over basement cocaine nightmare metamorphosis;
Fashion Avenue diva, with the navel tequila.
Energetic vitriol, vitriolic robin stricken by the space between life and death,
and sometimes, I wanna live
on the ground, where the crows are eating the wasps,
and the wasps are dying in the mouths of the crows
on the ground, at sunrise.

Today, Greenwood Cemetery's anesthetized pigeons mourn in E Mixolydian overcast
over the extermination of a rat infestation in Brooklyn;
yes, you've gotta see it to believe it! It's a strip mall infestation in Brooklyn,
and now that Brooklyn is a strip mall, let's watch the live execution of Brooklyn
on television (in flannel), on the Execution Channel.
Now, I wanna be my dog, but sometimes, I wanna be a tree
on the ground, where the crows are eating the wasps,
and the wasps are dying in the mouths of the crows
on the ground. It's sunrise.

I know what you're trying to do; I see through the smoke and mirrors,
and I see through you. I know what you're planning to do.
I don't know why, with your wide open window,
and your wild spinning mind, in the presence of the moon.
I have a murder of crows living in the attic of
my head, swallowing your venom,
and your venom will return to your head
on the ground, at sunrise.
Track Name: The Morgue on the F Train
He moved out of the park, when he dropped out of high school in the basement.
The new magician and his car; green fugitives. 'Cause when you've got the blues...

...and on the F train, she's living the life;
waiting for the F train, living the life.
Still stuck inside the piano; need to find some way to breathe without screaming.
Still avoiding her old friends, but she found some new ones,
and on the F train, she's living the life;
sleeping on the F train, really living the life...

...and on the F train over Brooklyn, struck by the light;
on the F train over Brooklyn, at the beginning of a life.
Track Name: Murder Therapy
A man with a badge stopped me in the deli today,
and asked me for any identity that I had.
I stopped, I was shocked, and I rustled through my coat to find my wallet,
as I listened to the voice seeping in from his radio:

"A shot killed her;
five feet and two inches of energy,
struck and stolen by a Magnum .44.
A shot did her in."

Got out of the deli, and wrapped myself
in a blanket I found on the sidewalk;
sat down on the sidewalk, and watched the blind man across the street
making decisions. Now,

when I get home, I'm gonna sell my soul at the crossroads;
when I get home, I'm gonna deactivate my Facebook account.
When I get home, I'm gonna neuter my dog,
and then I'm gonna sleep for twenty-four hours,
and pray when I wake, in the fading shadow
of a strange, disturbing night,
I'll remain alone.

A shot killed her;
five feet and two inches of energy,
struck and stolen by a Magnum .44.
A shot did her in.

She's buried in the corner;
waits for dinner.
Doesn't speak Chinese;
she can't help decipher
the mysterious book I got in the mail.

The man with the gold
in the mouth of the room sits
beneath the Martian,
the boy from space camp;
livin' poisonous dreams,
but he's a free man. Now,

I am a ghost, in the body of a human;
watch me crawl! Wait up for the morning.
I'm the center of attention in my mind.

Watch me crawl! Wait up for the morning.
I'm the center of attention in my mind.
The center of attention in my mind.

I'm sitting in front of a wall,
early on a Monday morning;
every day, those weird, pink puzzles of bone and ego
spill like manic paint
into the New York City transit system.

One goes here; one goes there.
Everyone is from somewhere,
and now, we are nowhere;
liquids and kids campaign for the right to be solid.

Bernard's pale lavender voice remains
glued to the back of my TV screen:
"Holy ghost, holy ghost, holy ghost!"

Bernard's pale lavender voice remains
glued to the back of my TV screen:
"Holy ghost! Holy ghost!"
Track Name: The Morgue
From the sunny skies of Brooklyn, New York,
you and I drove into structured suburbia.
Drove to avoid the stench of the city,
and leave our problems behind for the summer;
but you found yourself in the morgue again,
staring into the time machines there.
I found myself in the strip mall again,
with the addict's delusions of the Wiccans in the parking lot;
we checked ourselves into the hospital again,
which welcomed us with open arms.
You watched us like ants under a microscope,
your corpse somewhere distant and betrayed.

Visited me in that hospital again,
with a young woman, a friend of yours.
Saw by the twitch in her eye where she was from;
somewhere deep in the hidden depths of America.
Dark, painful fragment from the past.
That day, she stood bright and beaming, with a sharp, lightbulb smile;
the other night's nightmare she decided she was ready
for dreams of death.

Got back from that hospital again,
was thrown out with open arms.
Found someone I could be stupid about again,
with smooth, dark hair resting on my chest;
troubling, violent fantasies,
boring parties,
and dreams of death.
We all had supper again,
and you drank a tall glass of the reddest blood,
and you almost found out where it came from.
We thought you knew!
Came from down the road.
Came from somewhere distant and betrayed, and it
came from somewhere far behind.