Why? – The Hollows

Alright, I am back to posting after a week long drought; I apologize for the delay.  It has been a hectic week with my day-job moving to a new location.  Anyways, I’ve got another track for you today from the hip-hop indie-rock group Why?.  I posted These Few PresidentsThese Few Presidents reviews a couple weeks back and thought I had found the best Why? had to offer.  Fortunately, as I listened to more of the Alopecia album I came across of number of other gems.  The Hollows is the first single from the bands third LP Alopecia.

Big thank-you to Recycled Love Songs for the video/lyrics.

As I lay me down
to fall asleep.
with my demons dying
and my pilot light weak,
I curse the last six months
I’ve been hiding behind a mustache,
And to the last 10 years I’ve been
howling a paper moon: fuck you.

This goes out to all my
Underdone, other-tongued
lung-long frontmen.
And all us Earth-Growths;
Some planted, some pulled.

(This is what the ghost
of somebody’s dad says:
“Shut up and put your
money where your mouth is.”)

Shine a flashlight in a hatbox
and spin an empty oyster shell
and celebrate the Hollows.

This goes out to dirty dancing
cursing, back masking,
back-slidden pastors’ kids.
And all us Earth-Growths;
Some planted, some pulled.

(From behind bars it’s not
so hard to see he’s risen,
But nobody finds God
and then goes to prison.)

In Berlin, I saw
two men Fuck
in a dark corner
of a basketball court -- -
Just the slight jingle
of pocket change pulsing.
In the tourist part,
I lost fifty Euros
to the guy with the
walnut shells
and the marbles.
It really pissed me off so -- -
Ooh, I thought I’d go
back to get my money.
But all my homies warned me,
“Oh, no, those Gypsies
probably got knives.”

This goes out to all my
underbrewed, double-duped
Two-timed true fools.
And all us Earth-Growths;
Some planted, some pulled.

(Stuck faking a phonecall
or texting For company
like a married-in Uncle
at a family function.)

I got them shaky gums and
a couple of loose tooths.
Now tell me, what should I do?
My God, the clock’s always stuck telling
Eleven:Eleven or Three:Thirtytwo.

This goes out to all to my
under-done, other-tongued
lung-long Frontmen.
And all us Earth-Growths;
doing the croak like it ain’t no jokes.

(Even just Joanna
Newsom’s left hand,
I bet could beat the pants
in bass off your best man.)

In a crowded room, project a
debonair aloof impermanence.
Be shrouded loosely in a
heavy air of indeterminates.

Related posts:

• Why? – Simeon’s Dilemma
• Why? – These Few Presidents
• Why? – Even the Good Wood Gone
• Why? – The Vowels Pt. 2
• Why? – By Torpedo Or Crohn’s

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