Wonder Winds

by Marmalakes

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    Recorded and Mixed by Gary Calhoun James of White Owl Recording
    Produced by Marmalakes and Gary Calhoun James
    Mastered by Carl Saff at Saff Mastering, Chicago, Illinois

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05:48
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(free) 04:07
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02:23
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03:33
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released July 6, 2010

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Marmalakes Austin

MARMALAKES is a rock band from Austin, TX. Dynamic and lyrically-attentive, their songs carry folk-pop sensibilities.

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Track Name: (A Scene Through) Cellophane
The night’s a scene through cellophane
the sockets speak in squinted strain
creases are increasing, trenches tiny and thin

Infantrymen, absurdly small
crouch in the ditches, as they call
“If we fall out, no doubt, there’ll be some crying”

Holding, holding in
Today I, once again
I hope to, in a few days maybe
I will maybe, understand

Then came up climbing, hanging hard
To any pretend facial marks
From apple hill to chin ridge from below

Dropping swift by parachute
are the rescuers, are the real beauts
who gracefully saddle and tame a strand or two

And whip around by their own means
to land on lobes or on brow beams
to skirt the surface of the cheeks and know

That they’ll have to radio even more
Troops to put at every pore
If that’s not done, it’s still gonna come on through

Holding, holding in
Today I, once again
I hope to, in a few days maybe
I will maybe, understand

The night’s a scene through cellophane
the sockets speak in squinted strain
creases are increasing, trenches tiny and thin

Dropping swift by parachute
are the rescuers, are the real beauts
who gracefully saddle and tame a strand or two

And whip around by their own means
to land on lobes or on brow beams
to skirt the surface of the cheeks and know

Holding, holding in
Track Name: VITTORIA
We were introduced in Riccardo’s apartment
You drew back curtains and framed full ashtrays
As he pleaded, you only fiddled
Heels on tile, a window reply, the silence of riddles

In blackface and jewelry at your neighbor’s upstairs
To hand beats of Kenya, you moved impaired
Shaken we were by your monkey moves
Drunk on distasteful, racist takes, on tribal grooves

Vittoria, Vittoria, Vittoria

Amused by poodle tip-paw prancing
Followed by flagless flag poles dancing
Parallels clanking drew you close
And you drew us, to of the racket, make the most

With Piero in the park, you came upon piano
Then you remarked: It must be some old timer
And as you passed the jukebox you placed
An open palm upon the entertainer’s face

Vittoria, Vittoria, Vittoria

She stranded us amongst half-finished buildings
With matchsticks and wood splints separately floating
In water that drained like an ice-melt cooler
The objects stayed, inanimate, and we finally knew her

The Fine faded for the credits
Come back to conduct us, you never did
We still had our instruments, but no music
And what good are they, without your skin

Without your skin, without your skin
Without your skin, without your skin

Vittoria, Vittoria, Vittoria
Track Name: Ode to Johnnie Martin
I stacked them up by chapter at my mid-morning desk
To only have them tumble from a tender paw press
A neighbor bee welcomed himself inside
But failed to well monitor his stride

I forgave him for his apology was oh so sincere
And that old fashioned grin of his could never yield a sneer
Oh so kind, he’d always been
A friend of mine, if not my kin

So we settled where most animals dwell in the room
We surveyed the local copia to nourish our moods
And on the sinking cushions, we shared our find
From the jungle gym fluorescent keeper of modern times

In feline fashion, he found the double doors
As he always does when he’s tired of the floor
Silent steps, his travel near weightless
He’s a mess, but his company is contagious

Oh so kind (oh so kind) (oh so kind), he’d always been
A friend of mine (friend of mine) (friend of mine), if not my kin

I stacked them up all morning just to watch ‘em fall
But I don’t mind, I don’t mind at all
Track Name: Conversation
There is conversation within the eaves
Muffin-sized creatures with tiny little beats
Who seem to be holding a serious debate
Chip-chirp-whistle-flip-flap we cannot relate

No my friend I cannot hear
Tin-can correspondence likens the best
We need some thread and to forget the fear
To trace our trail back to where we left

A busy symphony resides in the can
Swirling for the sweetness, swarming for the hands
Thought to be dangerous so visits are brief
We build it, they use it, then we label them mean

No my friend I cannot hear
Tin cans and thread are not enough
We will need more than bowls and beer
To get back down from so high up
To get back down from so high up

A chorus from the summer scene setters
Who shade in the space between awkward words
Behind the black of street’s end asphalt drain
Sporadic pouring rounds drown the downplay

No my friend I cannot hear
Tin tight to both sides, between we wept
So wrapped up in our own ears
We were unaware of our sonic deaths
And our peril left us paralyzed except
For fingers to paper penning ink wet
And we’ll never get back to where we left
Track Name: Cast On
Don’t leave the night out; it has a taste for shadows too
Ones that fall from bridges down to where darkness is due
Where it’s okay to sneak something, a hidden grin beneath
Wonder winds up its string and wraps wishes with smiling teeth

Ones that cast on rocks and roots
And ones on hand-held twirls
Ones that cast on asphalt paths
And ones that cast on, ones that cast on
Curls, curls

Don’t leave the night out; the sticks still want to speak
Lapping lightly lacking the light for the shallow stream to retreat
Leaving space for laughing eyes, packed hours flicker fast
Lies will not keep this unlit and the shadows soon will come uncast

Ones that cast on rocks and roots
And ones on hand-held twirls
Ones that cast on asphalt paths
And ones that cast on, ones that cast on
Curls, curls

Don’t leave the night out; I like it better anyhow
When a half foolish feeling feels like the best idea somehow
There was a sigh, a doubtless grin; my head was in such a spin
I was so completely in it that I could not keep it in
Track Name: Hands Alone in the House
The story ends in the back room of the cellar
In a lonesome house, near where the water runs
Backward from the origin of a quick end
At the hold of a hand that’s passing out the blame

Pillow ease, a pleasing first impression
Fleeing from a floor fit for living
But not for long as the label leaves as fast
To tunnel vision of a circling recast

Hands alone in the house
Hands alone in the house
In the house, in the house

Overcoats, each hinged on separate hooks
By the door, not to remain ajar
A sole light, faces lit from the bottom
Mirror masks are doubly on display

A haunting spell of the spilling of a bucket
A close one dear now deleted from its line
No sense of doubt, no dwelling hesitation
For what is sweet bids a bitter farewell

Hands alone in the house (Nobody’s watching)
Hands alone in the house (Nobody sees)
In the house, in the house
Hands are alone

From his pocket, a slender shiny slicer
Now at the tips of both motors in a churn
Like the butter, soft, but thick with substance
Stick to the stomach, a virus seen in red

The story starts when the two have just walked in
To a rich house, near where the river pours
Forward to the inevitable extinction
Of all parties from the hand over held

Hands alone in the house (Nobody’s watching)
Hands alone in the house (Nobody sees)
In the house, in the house
Hands are alone