by Wharfer

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released June 10, 2014

all songs written and produced by kyle wall / / / mastered by josh bonati

featuring: emily mccabe (cello on "ghosting"), shane o'hara (drums on "tea leaves"), david speranza (double bass on "hawley"), roy williams (mandolin on "hawley," electric bass on "eyelids" and "tea leaves")

words on wharfer:

SPIN: "lo-fi treasure...art-folk stunner...marvel at wharfer's haunted, carved-out constructions...a no-frills, self-made passion project through and through...the singer's voice booms with a newfound confidence reminiscent of bill callahan"

INTERVIEW: "there's something particularly beautiful about wharfer...wall has created his own version of haunting, yet gorgeous folk music that is hard to ignore"

BUZZFEED: "one of the "24 reasons to love folk music in 2013...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."

WONDERING SOUND: "loving, immaculately-executed tribute to country music’s lost heroes...like a cowboy's lullaby." (on 'broken land: songs of the flatlanders')

PIGEONS & PLANES: "kyle wall’s voice carries a muted despair, a warbly resignation that belies a streak of independence that runs through his music"

WE LISTEN FOR YOU: "with every subtle artistic choice, wall is simply defining himself as a songwriter with the intelligence to back up his raw talent"

IMPOSE: "a talented folk mind...channeling folk sounds of cat stevens and cass mccombs"

FOLKADELPHIA: "othing about his approach is phoned-in...the raw quality allows wall’s songwriting gifts to come to the forefront"

THE DELI: "like leonard cohen and early johnny cash meets phosphorescent"

BEATS PER MINUTE: "spectral beauty...feel[s] deeply informed of [a] long line of country and folk music"



Remaining intimately unprepared,
As wine seeps from the sun, my lungs stay on the run,
Blue, blue ashes raised to hunt
By the air slowly taken in a heaven of black ice.
Don’t the clouds seem right out in Hawley tonight
With an old girl inside out?

On her way to the silk mill,
She’ll soon sail her sins to the Ritz,
Where I’ll meet her and turn to coal.

Tuesday visions spark me, I’m a fireplace all day,
You’re a lazy maniac with no grace or strings attached.
Tuesday night I’m sure to dream your blanks in.
And I’ll begin to wonder where this year will leave us,
I hope the clouds seem right out in Hawley that night.
The beginnings of absence expanded.

On our way to the silk mill,
We’ll soon sail our sins to the Ritz.
Where I’ll meet her and turn to coal.


Tired of lying around on my floor at night,
But it’s one way to sink and be proud.
If you could find me a god, then I’d admit to you,
That the violins are coming, and I’m past paranoia,
And our cold is gone.
It’s a fine day to find I’m blind,
It’s a fine day to lose your mind.

Wired and wed to eyelids, sore, I’m a finder’s fee,
And I’m one sip away from the shore.
If I were wasting away, thin as our alibis,
Then the clarinets can argue, ‘cause the brass will be running,
And my soul will rise.
It’s a fine day to find I’m blind,
It’s a fine day to lose your mind.


If you can’t be alone when the fire hits your bone,
Slip out of your thieves in the dawn.
If your eyes are still striving to say their goodnights,
To the snakes and the arteries strewn.

Then nail your palms to my high way,
Littering the street after hours, as your art burns away,
I see much deeper barrels to be at the bottom of.

A sense of calm comes over broken noses
Through roses and silent machinery.
You owe me a mountain for the favors I pulled
As smokers mistook all the tea leaves.

As pale ideas simmer in old West Virginia,
Littering the street after hours, as your art burns away,
The twang of struggling armories sings to me.


It's come to this,
The thing that I couldn't resist making exist.
As I cease, ghosting,
Lightly boozed and boasting
About the dead dreams in my head
That I've been hosting,

But the dead dreams in my head
Are what I'm mostly ghosting.


I’m on the outside of life and it’s stained,
Visions of Julie etched over the water.
Seeing them moves me to tear out my memory.
Cruelty is older than us, I imagine,
As I creep to the edge of deceit and retreat.
This old dash of summer keeps fucking freezing me.

I see her rip tidy electric eyes
Into shards of sight, riding us blind,
Spying on negligent acts of the sea .
Gullible, infinite, Christ help me love her,
As I steep to a new highway of sleet.
The sun sheds its light on our history.

I know one day I’ll earn my collapse,
I know then I’ll weep to the moon,
A high horse-drawn evening’s blue California moon.
It’s a sober imagination I feed on,
As I sleep through the corners of a new year,
Dreams unwind and I’m back on the street.



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Wharfer Brooklyn, New York

wharfer is kyle wall
scranton + brooklyn

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