It's been 3 years since this EP started. Everything about this release took many hours to complete and it's been a gratifying experience to watch the ups and the downs between those years. Every record has its pitfalls and this one has so many at this point that its presentation is defined by the delays, the frustration, and the uncertainty. However, sometimes the most fulfilling part of creating something is watching the evolution and erosion of sacrifice shape its final impression, and that's what happened with this EP. It's nothing that I expected it to be and that's what makes it special.
released January 29, 2016
All songs written and performed by Mike Petruccelli with Stephanie Levi on drums. Tracking took place from October 2012-July 2013 at Mystery Street Recording Company. All songs were tracked, mixed, and mastered by Spenser Morris.
Album photo taken by Alicia Swearingen and layout by Jason Swearingen. The name of this album is credited to a slightly drunk Nic Campa who said "Don't make this weird" prior to me going onstage at a show.
Thank you: Spenser, Stephanie, Rapids, Tens, Jason Swearingen, Alicia Swearingen, Jerry Cola, Samantha Adolfo, Vito Nureset, Eddie Ashworth, Sam Edgin, Gillian Mcghee, Lewie Peckham, Nic Campa, Eddy Rodriguez, Deanna Belos, Kyle Geib, Dan Tinkler , Maryam Hassan, Peter Carparelli, Scotty Sandwich, David Anthony, Matt Arbogast, Marc Ruvolo, AV Club, Phantom Note Productions, MP Shows, Kickstand Productions, Punktastic, For the Love of Punk, and anyone else who has been a part of my life in Chicago and abroad. I cannot explain how grateful I am for all of you.
A very special thanks goes out to Spenser Morris. Your efforts have a lot to do with the completion of this album and your support throughout the process was invaluable. Thanks for being a great friend and a talented engineer who never lost sight in the long run.
I don’t count sheep, I don’t count streets, I just lay on a couch to get sleep.
The ghost in the mirror is not there, just reluctance and unkempt hair,
I don’t go north, I don’t see friends, the lake is no longer frozen,
These bastard eyes have lost their touch, and the red glow just wakes me up.
They don’t teach you about the gray.
Track Name: $2,000 Worth of Fireworks
The keys and gloves sleep with spare change in the living room,
The church next door pretends to praise something bigger than you,
A mix of light and dark collide, it’s roughly 12pm,
The worst Sunday affirms all the rest.
Colloquial you starts to think about, the past again.
500 miles a mish-mash of boxes and gifts.
That got you to elicit this, forced circumstance,
But that doesn’t keep you going, no no no.
And hopefully you will change, and hopefully you configure it,
and you now know distance doesn’t serve in exchange for repentance.
The lush chords from these perfect fifths leave reminder notes,
But you to just watch old TV shows in lieu of silencing them.
Raise hell till you can’t lift the weight, on your shoulders,
The face that stares back at you looks like an asshole.
Consistently lagging behind, trying your best just to define what you are.
With an ounce of insult you will make, something better in the next year, with patience you’ll transcend, but for now the fact remains:
All you know is that you’re something else.
All you know is that you’ll won’t be the same.
Just be grateful for that anyway.
Track Name: LIMBO!
This place is on fire again and the cat’s not fed, a reoccurring dream are drumming up defeat within. I maintain control, by counting steps all day and telling myself that pretty okay with this.
Every single time.
You want something to give but it does not.
Every god damn time.
I opened up an old book and found a yellow form that had a list of goals that I wrote 12 months ago, and maybe it’s a sign that maybe I should just stop teetering the line between addiction and non-fiction.
Every single time.
You want life to resolve but it does not.
Every god damn time.
And near Memorial Day weekend, I received a call, “He’s in pretty bad shape.” and then I played a shaky show.
And since that’s how it happened, I handled it like I would any other time: I took a walk near the cemetery lights.
When you said to me when we were on the phone that it would be okay, I tried my best to believe you.
Track Name: Demonax vs. February
The winter has come again and I am this thing that I can’t explain again. I stared at green statues under grey clouds, and orange streetlights crowds, waiting for an early dusk to begin. Skyscrapers sometime seem to just be a reminder to me that I’m still in a place I have never lived. No matter how much I decide move, no matter how much I’ve left to prove, there’s only so many hours you can give.
So, I move back and forth.
From point A to point B and everything in between.
So, I move back and forth.
From beginning, to middle, to ending.
How can a day feel so long, but the months pass by without a sound? How can everything end up like this? Where it seems like there’s no control, where things just revolve and get too old, where everything is just a moment, upon a moment, upon a moment? I keep thinking about it on these tracks, the revolving flights above these maps, and every block that the bus decides to stop at, I can’t let go of these thoughts when I’m facing west now towards the wind, to get away from these late night prescriptions.
If one day I get my wish to just patiently coexist with a world I can’t understand, I won’t ask now for one more thing, I’ll make the moves confidently, and do as much as I can. I won’t ask for anything else.
Track Name: Harper's Woods
It doesn’t feel genuine like it did, trying to keep up while not giving in,
and since you’re that number that you can’t perceive, you make your way as some microscopic thing.
Once again, once again, you pretend.
(But no, you can’t fake no you can’t fake it)
We won’t meet the sky no matter how we expel.
We’ll just continue on until something fails, or we’ll falter and then cease to exist. What makes you think you’re so important?
Track Name: (Something Else)
(All you know is that you're something else).
Track Name: Coming of Age Movie
I sat at a bus stop waiting, for the 223 on a winter night at 6pm, near glass and trees. While under my breath I whispered in pride then I watch the snow plows cover covering their ground, revealing yellow lines.
And it’s not this job, and it’s not this state, it’s not the heartfelt apologies given to me like a rat on a plate. It’s so much more than this, it’s the lingering smoke, it’s a long list of requests that have been permanently revoked.
I’m in a constant state of disrepair,
Expiration dates around me sending out signal flares.
It’s always a huge fight, and it always feels wrong,
And I know it just takes time, I just don’t know how long.
And we’ll go back miles just to move up a foot: assimilation, social constructs, and effective output, but it’s never enough. It’s always awkward at best, so you stop trusting fate, you get frustrated and then the good times turn into rent checks.
You’ll sit at buffets and undo your tie,
stay inside and avoid the night life,
reminisce about things you miss too much,
when you found a couple friends and didn’t care that much,
never find time or motivation,
analyze every single tiny situation.
And when you try your best to go back to bed
You hear those familiar words bounce around in your head:
Keep moving, keep going, move forward, fear nothing.
Keep moving, keep going, be hungry, fear nothing.