the rattling

by wharfer

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about

'the rattling' (full stream) on SPIN: go.spin.com/161c0k9
"marvel at wharfer's haunted, carved-out constructions...a no-frills, self-made passion project through and through"

one of the "24 reasons to love folk music in 2013" on BUZZFEED: bzfd.it/1bN9m7H
"Kyle Wall’s growled, warbly voice immediately sets Wharfer apart from the majority of DIY folk that’s popping up even in urban centers like Brooklyn."

"architect" on SPIN - go.spin.com/1cc8rAL
and WE LISTEN FOR YOU - bit.ly/16xICXo
"with every subtle artistic choice, Wall is simply defining himself as a songwriter with the intelligence to back up his raw talent"
"stripped down art-folk stunner...lo-fi treasure"

"marietta" on AMERICAN SONGWRITER - bit.ly/1a916jO
and BEATS PER MINUTE: bit.ly/1f4F7s2
"led by a haunting vocal and drenched in melancholy"
"spectral beauty...feel[s] deeply informed of [a] long line of country and folk music"

"the western swing" on MY OLD KENTUCKY BLOG - bit.ly/13fzIsV
"perfect soundtrack to the waning summer"

"railroads (i wrote of") on RELIX - bit.ly/14CpVmY
and THE DELI - bit.ly/17PVlS8
"wistful and reflective, this is the album you've been hearing in your dreams"

"arkansas sea" on CMJ - bit.ly/19ga2kx
"a hazy fantasy that’ll have you spooning a pillow"

'the rattling' review on NO MORE WORKHORSE: bit.ly/14fZ9i4
"an album worthy of your attention and has the potential to be one of the sleeper hits of the year...something distant and ephemeral, a dream state or a ghostly presence in the room."

credits

released 27 August 2013
all songs written and performed by kyle wall
mastered by josh bonati

--

THE WESTERN SWING

Windows spring open, my mind away from here,
A rock so light it stumbles, a rock so light it stumbles.
Stow the grieving ones in greener absence,
And release our dying uncles, release our dying uncles, but how?

The sky, alone, would eat us, holy mornings here,
We’re locked so tight in slumber, locked so tight in slumber.
A vodka gasp at last and you’re on me,
Directing us to summer, directing us to some other time, but why?

Writing you, an ode to sleazy half-steps,
A drawling glen in headlights, a drawling glen in headlights.
Eight years back, it’d writhe us right past,
The western swing of our nights, western swing of our night times, alive.

The ghosts sip on ashes, we reminisce,
And fake a drive through Georgia, fake a drive through Georgia.
It’s nothing like the maps we read and bled through,
It’s only there to warn you, only there to warn you doll.

--

MARIETTA

I'm trying to die at the end of my night,
When the turnstiles imagine an empty divide,
I try to sleep and the fireworks fly out of my eyes,
And the violet remembered is blind until my blood is rising.

I won't do just anything yet,
I'm waiting for wind to suggest that I rest,
In my arms, in a psalm, in a stable or nest,
It screams songs of vacancy until my blood is rising.
Only I find I have grown into no one's eyes, I suppose.
The tide feels just right on the bridal beaches.

And the sun knows my disguise,
In an old-fashioned absence of feeling and light,
It sings me back home in a gold-plated drum,
That beats on in hours that pass until my blood is rising.
Lonely, I find I have flown into no one's lies or prose.
But the tide feels so right on the bridal beaches.

--

BALLROOM AIR

Doves aboard our ears all day long,
Earthquakes strutting high above,
I wish we were in that old ballroom air,
Or seven miles east, assaulting sleep,
Too stoned to leave New York in peace.

Doves awarded peace if they’re wrong,
Full moon whoring out our thoughts,
I wish we were in that Pocono air,
Or seven nights out of decency,
Too stoned to leave New York in peace.

Sarasota road signs slinging mold in my eyes.

--

DRIFT

We put ourselves out there,
Starting to resign to the fact,
That the feelings we spell out,
Are swollen and somewhere else entirely,
Entwined in a wild world of friends and high liars.

We allow it to drift and subsist
In the space between news and spit,
Where glaciers race California county to county,
Before our rhymes call it off, falling far from the map.

We try to make it work,
Dreading the end of our days in the key,
Where memory sings subtly
Through rum and iced tea on the direst of Saturdays.

We fly back to sleep,
Our faults electing to sit out the scene
With the slip and a god and our garden ash monument,
And we’ve never believed it ‘til now, falling far from the map.

--

RAILROADS (I WROTE OF)

If I could only write like I used to,
This would be straight to the point,
But I can’t and I’m moving in nine dead directions,
And the winds are rollin’ out of Des Moines.
Averse in mind and in hearses,
Hoisting second chances,
Bottoming out on a roof back then,
Stuck on half of her I’ve been.

I’m dreaming of a warmer world
Inside a lord of gravity,
Like antlers, blind and pearled,
Of which I found myself in thee.
Averse in mind and in hearses,
Hoisting second chances,
Bottoming out on a roof back then,
Stuck on half of her I’ve been.

A nurse in mind and in verses,
Choices turned into dances,
Hollowing out on my couch back then,
Stuck on half of me she’s been.

--

ARCHITECT

I’ve drank my last cup of cold water.
Narrators stuck to my shoes,
Asking if I’ve abandoned my role,
(I say I’m orbiting blank spaces)
Digging a plot or a hole.
I said I’d build you anything, so I am building walls,
And I’ll be building everything from now on,
Because I’m an architect.

I’ve drank my last glass of old venom.
Countrymen risen on gloom,
Begging my hate to rise with the sun,
(I can see it in Ireland already)
Letting go of everyone.
I said I’d build you anything, so I am building walls,
And I’ll be building everything from now on,
Because I’m an architect.

--

I'M FIRING ON RAIN AND BOOTS

The actors thought ice can evaporate,
After an active catastrophe,
Invites it home in its hands.
We knew there’s a life in the factory.
Dreams that remember the words, resembling anonymous.

We slid down the avenue, in dust,
The pulse at the steering wheel
Stole our last photograph,
Aiming for anyone smiling.
I’m fearing the blade, I’m firing on rain and boots,

At the last minute it makes sense.
Drink up the drift that resists us,
Throw out hints of a gold rush,
Smoke out a home in the open sea.
We grow into roles we can free, ones that remain us.

--

ARKANSAS SEA

As I step in under the stars, directing,
“If you don’t clean up my room, collect it,
And lights’ll start to reappear,
Nights alike will sing in infancy,
Rows of sparrows, wishes glistening,
And all our woes will spring out of our minds.”

You wave within a drop of Arkansas sea,
“Alone here for years, shaking on me
A song airing at last,
My dreary pastime of basking in you,
And yours in the woods, in your eyes,
Where I’ll be floating right over the line.”

Shine on target, our ideas obstruct us,
Nothing else is slipping our words up.
A little rock overlook pleased to pieces,
What we have made here.
Let others see life in the tides that’ll drown us,
In our old dreams, wild within our minds.

--

THE RATTLING

Our friends are undressing and begging for more,
My heart is a cello tied to your door,
No one within, and the strings are on ice,
When our fucking descends, we’ll be frightening.

There’s bliss in the splinters asleep in a skirt,
Where our vapors are swimming to wear out our worth,
Not a thing within and our sins are on ice,
When the rattling begins, we’ll be frightening.

I was told to beware of you,
I was gold for an hour or two.
Now Tamar owes me a smoke,
And the wind won’t let her know,
And I’m sucking up the snow,
And I sure should’ve listened when she said “let it go.”

Our friends are undressing and begging for more,
My heart is a violin.

--

BEAUTY, BE ASLEEP

Like iron, I hide in a heart attack,
Light years away from striking back,
At the sense I'm molding,
My blessings into artifacts,
And art is sticking to my soul.

I try to rip off all the roses,
Out with tears as amber glows in,
Beauty, be asleep,
When our drawings of death crawl in,
And kindly unattach our souls.

I'm black and bleeding out my ears,
Imagining no clearer day to fear,
The red pulse of a love,
I've been writing off for years,
In the cellar of my soul.

--

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