Memory Fractures

by Errant Boy

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1.
02:56
2.
3.
04:08
4.
5.
02:33
6.
02:24
7.
8.
05:09
9.

credits

released November 1, 2018

Errant Boy is
Chris Harvie (guitars/songs)
Sarrah McLaren (drums)
Sean Ormsby (voice/bass/songs)

Produced, performed, recorded and mixed by Ormsby/Harvie
with help from:
Sarrah McLaren - drums on 5,6,8
Keith Kirkwood - drums on 1,2,9
Samuel Forrest - bass on 1,2,9
Fabien Pinardon - played and recorded drums on 3
Billie Francey - piano on 3
Stephen Dennis - additional recording/engineering on 1,2,4,6,8,9

Copyright Errant Media/Ormsby/Harvie
Sleeve Design by Jordan Yorkston www.jordanyorkston.com
based on a photograph by Sergei Prokudin-Gorskii (1910)

With love and thanks to Stephen McLaren, Manu et G.

Made in Leith

license

all rights reserved

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about

Errant Media Scotland, UK

Releasing beautiful DIY sound since 2015. Home to beatniks Errant Boy, melancholitronic fiends Shards and dreampop troubadour Stephen McLaren.

contact / help

Contact Errant Media

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Track Name: Means
I followed you to the golden country where we fell like summer rain.
We studied hard just to swerve the factory and failed when the winter bit hard again.

When I think of you, it's in Sorrento blue.
When I think of you, I'm crawling backwards to
the ends of the earth. The arse-end of innocence.
It means someone else mends your half-finished sentences.
Violet gloaming. Silence growing.

We walked the sands of memento mori and found elusive Amalfi.
We're lost in any dialect now, skirting the edge of our atrophy.
Track Name: Wine Storm Hurricane
Brothers, uncles, cousins and sons. The nearly-there and the also-rans.
Our splintered dreams rearranged, sharp as sun on a fragile face
and newly-opened eyes.

A fresh father's wet head fell in a wine storm hurricane
and we collect the shell of a glass, cradle the dustpan fast.
Months on, you're watching your son. He's recreating your past.

In the nothing but rapture that floods his face, you see yourself.
I know because you told me only today
and unexpectedly.

Observe your own errant boy's unreserved, angular joy.
Because he's just what he seems, thrill at his power to redeem
and truly open eyes.
Track Name: A Downpour
I don't believe in magic anymore.
When that thought detonated in my head, memories came like a downpour.
Friends lie and feelings die but thoughts still come like a downpour.

Sometimes my frustration shines over London's nocturnal spine and I say,
'I wish that she was falling for me again' but she says she's done her falling
and things will never be the same. But then, I just wanted to feel clean.
The rain washed my eyes, washed my innocence away.

Go for a walk in the midnight hour, a pint of stout and a glass of Power's,
jump through some hedges and steal some flowers.
Drag your key along the side of expensive cars.
Track Name: Theme from 29 Bus
It was hot in the summertime. I drunk-jumped the 29 (high).
Meet you by the traffic lights in a suit: hirsute, preoccupied (pie-eyed).
Just being alone is my reward for being so easily bored.
Each glass is harder to fill and easier to empty.
Another engine sings its song in a skin-warm, bed-warm tone,
You can't conceive of December sun. You don't believe that it will come.
Tonight your face is printed moonlight.
You recline to look at the ceiling. Skylight glow, sky-glow falling
on the mayhem. The streets retreat that rearranged him.
Track Name: A Star Hangs
A mother's breath by the pendular swing lets him go, gathers him in.
They're clearing space in N16. A star hangs from a crane.
Drink, drink, drink, drink me into impotent trance.
Anger is ignition. Action is eloquence and by your own admission
we never stood a chance. I think this could be our last dance.
The trees inspire our confidence above the grass and its crass flourescence.
Bar Lorca Capoeira swing and miss. A star still hangs from a crane.
Undeserving, our backs to each other like a couple of bookends.
Canary Wharf blinks on restless horizon. My peaceful sleep ends.
Track Name: Tale Twist
When he ascends to get himself cleaned up, look at his arms and say nothing.
You're tender, disarmed. He's coughing out steam.
Watch his body transform into the trunk of a tree.
Fingers descending strange Braille rings against the grain.
Pale wrists, perfected rage. Tale twist, you're not to blame.
It's not the end, arboreal friend.

Cherish the leaves that fall from his head,
you're touched by a world both vibrant and dead.
You're touched by the tidal pulse of his breath
that trips down the steps which lead to the depths.
Track Name: We Like You - We Like You
Stayed shy of the facts but not shy enough.
Three nights on the lash, saw the dawn collapse.
Pushed my size ten boots, released the latch.
Sunlight on the wall creased my lap.

'We like you. We've placed you in between, not to spite you
but you're face don't fit this scene.'

Stayed shy of the facts but not shy enough
to deal with the fascists who deal with the fashions.
'You'll never catch the next big splash, you're not fast enough.'
And my own syntax is set to ATTACK.
'We like you. We've placed you in between, not to spite you
but you're face don't fit this scene.'
We like you,two-faced and indiscreet.
Just to spite you, we'll waste the rest of your scene.
Track Name: 444
Was it Friday or Saturday morning? Eight or nine years old?
When the Stones interrupted my view of the ceiling,
lying on the living-room floor?

And for the first time, I swore as a pastime and wore 'The Last Time'.
If only it could be real...

Next time it was Sunday morning. I was twelve years old
when the Velvets corrupted my view with a feeling
that life is scarred by rock and roll.

For the first time, I scored as a pastime.
In war I was baptised. By war I was capsized.

Time's catapulted, hurtling forward, projected on the living-room wall.
So pleased to be leaving this hideous century
but the Stones in the midst of it all.
Track Name: The Undeserted House
I can hardly mind, I can hardly mind the time
The time when you sloped, slipped into that room of mine
and we were all impaled on your spiked fur.
The undeserted house succumbs to your limping trail of rain.
The corner rumbles there to your dark withheld.
These words might stumble anywhere.

Refracted through Pick..., reflected in Pickwick's gaze
where memory fractures and trickles close to the range
and we were all impaled on your spiked fur.
The undeserted house succumbs to your limping trail of rain.
The corner rumbles there. My childish head convinced
these words might humble eloquence.
My childish head convinced these words
might help me make some sense of this.

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