A Bothersome Injuries Forty (Vol. 6) - EP

by James O'Brien

supported by
/
1.
I’m down in a hole with Jesus and his brother. There was blood on my hands, I didn’t know; I have discovered. I would give just about anyone’s true heart away. I’d give this stomach full of whiskey, and the pockets of my sister, and the hinges on that silver gate. On the blindest day you’ve ever known It’s the blindest day you’ve ever known When the sky it is a blank, and the thought a ghost undone, when the note it is electric, and the lyric is a bullet, and the microphone a rusty gun. I may come to you with sorrow; I may come to you with the stains of crime upon me. You may offer me forgiveness; you may head off the enemy when I run. On the blindest day you’ve ever known It’s the blindest day you’ve ever known I’m up here dancing on the blindest day you’ve ever known So, I’m down in a hole with Jesus and his brother. He says, “It’s Rome up there; it’s murder, as you’ll discover. But I’ll wait for you, I’ll wait for you, I’ll wait for you, sheltered from the sun. Come back when you’ve decided, or else send someone. For you must fill the hole you make when you have gone. That’s the heavy price you pay to know Jesus for a day and leave innocent. That’s the heavy price you pay to know Jesus for a day and leave innocent.” On the blindest day you’ve ever known It’s the blindest day you’ve ever known I’m up here dancing on the blindest day you’ve ever known
2.
I did not start the war. I did not fire the cannons. I was the one to watch you light the wick. I was sorry when the ammunition hit the innocent. The explosion ate up all the soil, graves and groceries, fields and flowers. The whole of the town … well, it was gone, and everything we’d worked upon was scattered into the sky. I died. I died. I am alive I am alive I burn now down for you I am alive I am alive I burn now down for you You were the one to start the war, and then you tried me for the crime. I did not fire the cannons; are you sure you want to say it? Well, well, just say it. I’ll be out here in the fields with the wreckage, baby, bleeding while you’re reading off your list of injuries. It’s as you see it. It’s as you see it. It’s as you see it. Because you’re the only one who knows. You’re the only one who knows. You’re the only one who knows at all. I am alive I am alive I burn now down for you I am alive I am alive I burn now down for you You
3.
They came down from the roof wearing heavy black vests for to stop the bullets. Proof of nothing, they wielded similar guns. The idea black and inked like a nightmare to shoot children, to stop death on children’s wings. In the hallways, in the graveyard, in the boiling cafeteria fifteen men, helmets, plexi-visors, they are searching, they are searching, they are searching, searching for the sons of the men of whom in turn they once were the schoolmates, for to shotgun, for to shotgun, for to slay them where they stand; for to shotgun, for to shotgun, for to slay them where they stand. And they comb the rows of lockers, rows of blasted metal, backpacks, brains, interconnected — the footprints of the tale, in the classroom a shaft of brilliant sunlight on a chalkboard. It reads the topic of the day, Conflict and Resolution: Rethinking the American Landscape. In the office, in the choir room, in the rafters of the ceiling, the remnants of the hearts of innocents still beating. They are dancing, they are dancing, they are dancing, they are dancing, jerking like the puppets of the angel of mercy. And I’m running harder and harder Colorado on my mind I am running, running harder and harder Colorado on my mind Then they find them in the book room, wearing jackets of explosives, their own gray centers splattered across bulletins and carpets. There’s no answer at the nexus, only hints and intuition; the survivors are survivors, but the finished are not reason. On the bookshelves, the databases, in the silence of the pages, nothing, no wisdom is forthcoming. But it’s Lazarus, it’s Lazarus, it’s Lazarus again, rising from the fluids of his still and cooling sister. It is Lazarus, it’s Lazarus, it’s Lazarus again, rising from the fluids of his still and cooling sister.
4.
In the weird dark 1980s, in the basement of our school, they showed us nature movies on sixteen-millimeter spools. Unfurling with a crackle and a whirring of the wheels, salmon eggs and silverbacks cut through water white as steel. I watched with my breath bated, bewildered by the speed, while they thrashed and broke in the river — which ones died which ones would breed? These days it’s much the same thing, OK, it’s a slightly different show: which way from here is upstream, which way should we go? Little anthem, little children, little bomb I’ll meet you behind the gym after the prom Heartbeats being heartbeats, they served us back the war after summer dinners, in suburban living rooms. My dad said, “Son, for you an early bed tonight; I don’t want for you to see this, and what’s good ain’t always right.” So, I lay there in the darkness, my lungs twin purple cages, needing more than oxygen for my dad to be courageous. Less than a decade later, in a senior high school classroom, while watching The Day After, at last I could forgive him Little anthem, little children, little bomb I’ll meet you behind the gym after the prom Grand jury’s in discovery, and they’re choking on the burden of proof: if the glove fits you must convict, when’s the last time that was the truth? Now, I’m going to the tribunal, and I’m trading in my gown; I’m trading my diploma; I’m getting out of town. ‘Cause I crouch still in my hallway like it’s a basement or a bed. Forget the mushroom clouds over Kansas, 747s are over your head. It’s this critical fork in the junction, some of us will got caught and I know it doesn’t matter, babe, but this is all I got. Little anthem, little children, little bomb I’ll meet you behind the gym after the prom I’ll meet you behind the gym after the prom
5.
Lay down your alms at the altar of Joseph and Dee Dee Ramone. Light a votive; the lowest common denominator is dearest, here, in the Church of the Kitchen Sink (in the Church of the Kitchen Sink). We have many things in common; we agree to disappear. We have questions; we question motives of all the blackbirds singing here. This is the juice of the oldest orchard. This is the fruit. This is the lamb. I could feed you — you could feed me —but the hatchet-man hacked off our hands. I feel closer to you I feel closer to you I feel closer I feel closer to you I feel closer to you I feel closer I grew up in front of a family of four hundred and twenty nine, who never came together; they’d visit in twelves and only some of the time. I wonder if they’d know me, gathered in one place, if every sister and brother and mother and lover and father and cousin and pal, with diaries and with notebooks, with memories and with tapes … would dozenth version show a different guy with a similar face? I feel closer to you I feel closer to you I feel closer I feel closer to you I feel closer to you I feel closer Hey, hey, hey Do you remember those days on the radio, do you remember those days in our cars, when everything seemed very local and nothing felt very far? Those were the days we ran like a wild pack, the days we broadcast like stars, and the big dish receivers read every signal; the scientists resurrected microbes from Mars. The walls cooled down. The Internet hummed. And we flickered transistor brilliant. And we coupled blue electric. And we ate from each other’s fingers. And there was no Spongifora. And we were barely vegetarian. We were barely out of the garden. And we were waiting for our messiah. And we were open to invention in the Church of the Kitchen Sink (in the Church of the Kitchen Sink), in the Church of the Kitchen Sink (in the Church of the Kitchen Sink), in the Church of the Kitchen Sink (in the Church of the Kitchen Sink).

about

There was a pocket of time, moments between Life Underwater and Church of the Kitchen Sink, in which everything else that might have been had its own moment. I mean this in terms of the songs and the styles that might have existed, but for the vortex of time, place, influences, circumstances of collaboration, the notion of a marketplace (!) in which the material that I wrote might live or die — which is an overstatement stemming from a kind of ignorance that clearly consumed me, given that we’re talking about a songwriting “marketplace” that existed in a crusty old port city on the virtual edges of New Hampshire and Maine.

In the end, I was a young guy with a guitar in a mix of many things. “Jesus” is an indicator of one of those other directions, and it’s one I like a lot. Even now, though, listening back to it, I can hear that it needs a whole other context, an album of songs that could surround and build upon and support it as a way of approaching persona and subject matter. It’s interesting to me, the falsetto that comes and goes throughout these recordings. I was unconscious of the trick of it, then. I wonder if it is still down there, in me, in the tissue and folds.

The urgency and clarity of voice are what strike me about “You Are the War,” and I am also struck by the major and the minor in the workings of the guitar parts. Not that I could have told you, back then, about majors and minors. Everything I played was self-taught, dug up by ear. I am, listening these days, conscious of what I wrestled from the guitar’s neck against the odds.

Late, late at night, one night at Club Passim, in Harvard Square, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, we recorded this one take of “Colorado.” It couldn’t have been more than a week or two from the time I wrote it. At least that’s how I remember the event. “Colorado” was the first lyric that directly opened my mind to the possibility of writing topical material. You can hear my subway hand on this one, strumming with fingertips and not a pick. A tequila and bourbon fueled performance, it came out all right and I can’t sufficiently thank the good intuition of Matt Smith for putting in a tape and making this recording of the evening in an empty club at around two in the morning.

“After the Prom.” This is what the start of Church of the Kitchen Sink would have sounded like in a different life, different circumstances. The harmonica, in this case, is not half-awful, either.

Finally, there were mornings that, at an unearthly early hour, my future wife would pack me into her station wagon and drive me north from Boston to Portland, Maine. There is a college radio station up there, and a very kind disc jockey would give me time to play and promote the concerts that I booked in Portland. This recording of “Church of the Kitchen Sink,” one of my very favorite sung lyrics, happens to be my very favorite recording of the song (that I know about). It’s just organic and clear-headed in the delivery, purposeful in the singing, open-eyed the whole way through.

We’re almost done. I hope this revisitation and resurrection has meant something to you. It’s not over yet, but Volume Six is also the first of two intended culminations. Hope it carries across. One more to go.



All these tracks were mastered in 2017 by Matt Girard.

The artwork is by Joe Kowan.

credits

released February 1, 2018

Jesus: 2001 ; Recorded/Mixed by: Jordan Tishler ; Studio: Digital Bear Entertainment, Boston, Mass. ; Mastered by: Matt Girard, Transference Audio, 2017 ; Artwork: Joe Kowan

You Are the War: 2001 ; Recorded/Mixed by: Jordan Tishler ; Studio: Digital Bear Entertainment, Boston, Mass. ; Mastered by: Matt Girard, Transference Audio, 2017 ; Artwork: Joe Kowan

Colorado: 2000 ; Recorded/Mixed by: Matt Smith ; Venue: Club Passim, Cambridge, Mass. ; Mastered by: Matt Girard, Transference Audio, 2017 ; Artwork: Joe Kowan

After the Prom: c. 2003 ; Recorded/Mixed by: Ari ; Studio: WRBB 104.9 FM, Northeastern University, Boston, Mass. ; Mastered by: Matt Girard, Transference Audio, 2017 ; Artwork: Joe Kowan

Church of the Kitchen Sink: 2003 ; Recorded/Mixed by: Chris Darling ; Studio: WMPG 90.9 FM, Portland, Maine ; Mastered by: Matt Girard, Transference Audio, 2017 ; Artwork: Joe Kowan

license

all rights reserved

tags

about

James O'Brien New York, New York

James O’Brien toured the U.S. and the U.K. from 1998–2004 playing politically aware songs, sometimes solo and sometimes with a band, sharing billings with artists such as Hamell on Trial, Dan Bern, Michael McDermott, John Sinclair, Bill Miller and Freedy Johnson.

In 2017, after a 13-year hiatus, he began to release archival and new material, expanding his catalog to fourteen albums as of 2022.
... more

contact / help

Contact James O'Brien

Streaming and
Download help

Redeem code

Report this album or account

If you like James O'Brien, you may also like: