Please check out these two new tracks from our latest release "A History of Layers"...
Listen to some old demos...
2006 for Ian meant the release of "Bull Days", an album described as "(pulling) together scatterings of found sounds, expressive vocal fabrications and flowing, atmospheric guitars, both acoustic and electric, to create (this) masterful EP" (Exclaim!)
Listen to this sample from "Bull Days" to hear for yourself...
> Catalyst/ Conquered (Bull Days)
After limited releases of his early demo recordings, Ian unleashed his first full length effort "Catalyst And Conquered" - a quiet and moving collection of introspective and politically-charged songs.
Listen to these samples from "Catalyst & Conquered" and hear for yourself...
> Beatdown (Catalyst & Conquered)
> March of the Suits (Catalyst & Conquered)
> St Boniface (Catalyst & Conquered)
WORDS
A HISTORY OF LAYERS
People Shaking Hands with Strangers
Take a thought in like a drop off the end of a long thin straw.
Take it off and leave the spaces just for authenticity.
Peel off the outside just for the sake of speaking out in a new shade of red;
a red that whispers blue and yellow like a dream.
Cross my heart for the sake of what the breath precedes.
Cross my eyes to avoid the focal point at which the colour starts to bleed.
Cross my t's and dot the i's so that I am taken just a pinch more seriously now. As I walk I taste the indignation in the corners of my grin.
I feel for my right arm as I fall to the left.
I feel the ground as I break this stride that has carried me this far.
Peel off the outside just for the sake of speaking out in a new shade of red;
red that whispers blue and yellow like the dream where I saw people shaking hands with strangers.
The Cadence
The crippled streets have stories and faded lines
that mingle with the years of all the repainting divisions.
The tar lined cracks that heaved in frozen defiance
sounded like a heart beat, sounded like a heart beat.
I finger count the reasons why fast friends
make good neighbours and poor safety nets.
We talked about accepting our insanity
while everybody else just walked right through us.
The red lights convene with blue
to make constellations in the glare of the windshield.
The frost on the window maps all the barricades.
The road blocks fade as we navigate the wreckage.
I lost the sound for a minute as ambition eclipsed the boundaries
of logic and my downward gaze found the floor
of the darkened bar where the hours passed like minutes.
We traced the lines that defined the shapes between us.
The light off the arcade game by the table
fought for an angle to illuminate your hands.
As you watched your knees, I re-calculated
the distance between intention and release.
(Chorus)
I have a place now for wanted signs and intro lines
and a page for all the math to break the fever.
The complexion of your face in the photograph blurs.
The dialogue distils and I'll make a place for unsent letters.
I'll listen for the sound of inertia.
I'll acknowledge the ugly side of my tenderness.
I'll get some new white shoes, walk to where the chaos broke
and carve my name to remember the cadence.
(Chorus)
The words might break the stare that holds me here.
Can you hear the echoes? Can you hear the echoes tonight?
The skyline fades as I watch the road flares ease into a history of layers.
A Crow's Flight
The windows are locked and latched,
the stove is off and he left the dishes like a paper trail.
The stale air used to mean so much but so much has been replaced
with cut-outs and shadows.
Thinking back, will he
remember that spot in the hall where the floor boards creak?
Or the light switch on the wall
that doesn't turn off anything at all?
He's leaving.
He's lost faith.
He's learning how to make the best of less than great.
He's letting this great city fall.
The smoke stacks lumber in
silent farewell to a man
who's chasing exits, taking chances, and thinking straight.
When development is king
and subsistence trampled in,
he'll laugh his perfect little secrets and shake his head. (chorus)
This city should rise to heaven.
On Pride & Patience
When will the smoke clear?
When will the words make any sense together?
It's a social disclaimer.
Watch out for falling promises.
It's not your fault if your hand gets crushed by the press
or if you lose your voice while you're screaming at the wall
that they put there to protect you.
But you can't go, no.
You're a threat to yourself.
Hey, there's a lot of us here.
We're working hard, keeping consciences clear.
But the jokers are wild and the aces are low
and it seems we keep losing score.
Maybe what's more, you've got to keep both feet on the floor.
So I sit here and think to myself.
I try to write it all down.
I try to turn my words around so that i can understand a little more.
Because these same words are the foe's doctrination
in a play on pride and patience, it's got me.
The red flag leads the way
for a meagre few,
it's frayed and fading.
Sanguine Cursive
The bruising makes it hard to play along
with denial and soft excuses.
The bruising is the distance that you leave.
It's a jagged apology for losing grip
and I'm running out of ways to brave the exhale.
That's what the note said,
scrawled in sanguine cursive.
As the dust settled down
she locked the door.
The haloed street lights flicker like the pulse
of a faded dream of dancing.
The sound of her shoes on the snow is the rhythm
of song that she's only just begun to remember.
Find the warning signs.
Dig into the discord and hold your eyes steady.
If you find the waterlines, repeat all the reasons why,
the upshot's the better sense to walk away.
She stares at the off-white walls.
The silence is a steady coaxing,
and the smell of the greyhound bus smells like leaving.
She smokes the last cigarette
from a pack that meant so little
in a former life that killed so much of her.
The sound of the radio echoing off the walls
reminds her she's alone now
in a state of balancing sharp edges and the weight
of a choice she'll learn to live with.
Out the window and across the lane
there's an old man trading secrets with the wind.
He smiles and he winks like he knows why virtues fade
and why December always makes the same mistakes. (chorus)
Altruists' Anthem
If you ask me why we persist
on making these claims out of queries,
I'll just allude to the smirk on your face and I'll try.
Is it rude to respond with a sigh
for the honour that's lost in the vagaries of intellect or
contempt for a generation set on running itself to the ground?
Let's drive all of our cars,
the semi truck/ trailers, and trains
into a hole that we'll dig for the failed attempts
to justify the reasons we hate all our neighbours.
We'll watch from the edge as the sheet-metal relics
rise higher and higher 'til the whole world can sleep through the night.
The buildings and bulwarks imply
a small sense of knowing that the walls and the windows define
the best and the worst of a modern day alchemist.
We'll visit the slow motion monument
on Sundays and days with no rain.
We'll write ourselves notes that say
"remember to smile"
and "the things that we need will take time." (chorus)
And It All Comes Down to This
There's a boy watching frames pass in half time.
He sees a girl in the hall watching a moth on the wall.
If he could ask her to see his collection of all the things
that he found outside the apartment where he lives on langside.
Maybe she would ask him to show her how he rides his
bicycle with no hands at all.
And it all comes down to this.
A man now, telling stories in short sentences,
he lets his hair grow down to hide some scars.
His pride, it swells where his faith, it falters.
His heroes fell a long time ago.
(chorus)
Vacate and wonder why all the reasons why we leave
give no solace to the empty spaces on the wall.
Place the echoes in the corner to multiply the sound
of a thousand shades of black on blue.
We've got one foot in the gutter and one foot on there throat.
We're singing for a better chance at what could be the only antidote.
Only Bad Guys Wear Ties (words by Poor Tree)
Hey there red eye
I have always loved
How you doing?
The way you tease telephone poles with your hands
Looking like you won
Touching them
I like the way the wind parts
As if you were about to climb them
the hats from the heads
then letting go
and that dream you thought
as if tragically for the last time
how it all worked out
you are such a flirt
cause you don't need to work
such laundry detergent mistaken
just sit in that satisfaction
for dishwasher soap
if anyone calls, let the machine take it
one for the other
R, 2, D, 2
one of these days I imagine
see the repo
a telephone pole will mistake you
your Hans Solo is in the back room retching of manliness and sweater vests
in much the same way as you glide your open hand across it's wood
much the same way the seventies were
that it will be you
not that, was, not, a
yank you up by wires and pull out your hair, then your eyes
only bad guys wear ties
than your fingers
tuck those trials and cloned meat into the side
bloody
pick up the phone
bloody
pick it up
bloody mess
it's America's tumor on the line
CATALYST & CONQUERED
tomorrow's forgotten headlines. trying to think of the first thing to say of all the things that you won't or i didn't. i paint pictures in my head with so much red paint and so little canvas. what time did you say it was i guess that my watch is stuck. i never knew it could take so long. don't drink the potion control your emotion and date the quotation cause time is everything and nothing to me yeah time is everything. and i lost my patience long ago cause i couldn't find the exit with all of this smoke in the air. and there's so many people for one little door hey did you hear that? like a stone through glass. i guess they've had enough. the crucified are pacified with genocide.
beatdown (downbeat). wipe away the dust from your eyes. see a backdrop of sensational taste (and color). it's life to a grayscale dilemma. hold for a moment you'll see. the pixilated images dictate your mood and things just don't taste quite the same. the faces and the lights just erode into scratch-marks on over-packed prison cells. how long will the left and the right not relate. how long will the megastores run in this state? until they beat us down. i hate to remember a time when corner stores knew by name. a twisted distorted perception of growth grew in shadows. so what can you say for this benchmark in capital gain? how about "reap what you sow, Shell® is such a puppet show, and take your hand off the knife in my back". so let's take some time and save some face. and with fists held high we'll stand back up when they beat us down. those flags flown high is a hate fueled race. but those flags burned bright is a hate defaced.
divider. place the clippings on the wall. it's a manifesto i've slow grown to hate. i confess i can't taste the salt at all so next time let's just paint the outset in red. and cast our shadow's on the path that leads to yesterday. tomorrow set my sins to dry and bake in the sun. they'll crack and harden into bricks and then i'll build a wall to divide them. the doers and the sayers while they dance out of step with the thinkers looking down come on say it you want to say it i'm looking down and there's more than this short sight to a bad example, my black list was handed down, to hot to hold and getting old. if i walked eight days to the sun would it burn the instinct from my choice? and if i sang this song all day would it wear the caution from my voice? cause i am getting tired of bearing brunts of others shortcuts i wrote these words to match a tune to match my discontented view. we cast our shadows on the past that led to yesterday today i set my sins to dry and bake in the sun they cracked and hardened into bricks and now i am building a wall to devide them.
reparations. break this make shift. tear the tip off. i want to hate this dream in a darker shade of suffering. let none stand too tall to reap the sick rewards for a campaign built to distill a nation. and make it hurt this time. i take a walk to drain the thoughts from my head i'll meet you at the movie store where we could go rent a classic to prolong the silence. she's holding it up with a spent life. she's holding a message. she's holding the last dying phoenix. she's holding her head. she's stands at the edge of my gaze awaits the falter her frail frame speaks such a terror i can only arrogantly try to intellectualize. i am a victim of my privilege awaiting my prize for thinking outside of myself. yeah and he wants one to. but maybe just this once the stains on my hands will stand to remind me of the the palace floors that i spit on and the filth she sits on, and on and on and on and on and on...and i'm so sick of hearing all the things that you're so sick of hearing. and i'm sea-sick from apathetic discourse on alternative action that we're afraid to take ourselves for fear we might just justify the end of a legacy of greed and pride where's my remote control?
on pride and patience. when will the smoke clear? when will the words make any sense together? it's a social disclaimer. watch out for falling promises. it's not your fault if your hand get's crushed by the press or if you lose your voice while you're screaming at the wall that they put there to protect you. but you can't go. no, you're a the and think to myself i try to write it all down. i try to turn my words around so that i can understand a little more. cause these same words are the foes doctrination in a play on pride and patience, it's got me.
conscious failure. wasting all of my time. erased it and never thought twice. it's not a grayscale it's not black or white. will my eyes stay this lie? it's a cold gray sky and i'm running. the river runs mud and i'm drowning. i can't let it go this time. and my lies won't give or break ties. is it worth it just to feel fine? cause i'll die if i stay this stride. i count one, two, three and i'm gone. it's cold gray sky and i'm running. i hate you why can't you hear me? my way is much better than your way. it's so obvious to me i'm much better than you are. but my words are just thin black lines. and it's a cold gray sky that i'm running from. i count one, two, three and i'm gone. gone. gone...you call and i'm not home, i'm running. would you leave a message and i'll call you back maybe tomorrow. cause i'm so tired from running. but i glance behind me, nothing but a cold gray shadow. is this conscious failure?
march of the suits. moving forwards. tracing four words back to three. the ink dries faster than your sweat does. forgot your motto but not your volvo. reward for hours lost in search of pipe dreams long forgotten. turn the lights off in your body. don't forget where you started and turn the lights off in your body. follow me home but leave your things though. "no good where we go" is what i'd say if you could hear me through the white noise and your gray voice. you used to think now you just walk in circles. slowly fade to black. your moving forwards but your heading backwards. shuffle breaks to wander. no direction. slowly fade to gray.
ash. i never asked you to walk with me. and now i think i may have untucked the sheets. you said it was alright for me just to stay. and i did, but i did for me. she said that i have to meet you, but she never mentioned all this. but i wouldn't take back a word or the hand that you placed on the side of my head. because it's a long way from here, to where heartaches and four nights together become clear. and i'd be a fool just to through it away cause i couldn't let go of a dream. (maybe this is all part of a dream.) this is where i try to see you, but not through the eyes of a lover. you gave me the care and respect you deserve and it's my turn to give you the covers. i'd be crazy to think i'm alone in my pain. i can only imagine the weight you sustain. and if i can unburden your worries today just know i will be o.k. but every time i go down, a curse to this frailty of heart. but from this disadvantage point, it's a heart with a fight to give that keeps me alive.
her smell. sitting in this chair watching the air initiate intentions. how i told it to stop i have now forgotten but it did. now i'm lying on the floor. waiting for the shiftings of this old house to mock my inflexions. and i did say to it "i am not of my own today". the smell is so far reaching and i am so tired. will i fill this experience or wait until another chance at atonement? and i wait and i wait like the seedling waits to take flight. yeah i wait. this morning light has absolved what i thought last night.
catalyst and conquered. if they could see us now, would they be so proud? if they could stand so tall, would they say anything at all? and i still see the faces i saw then. it's just that now the difference is between the grimace and the glare and the fact that i may not even care. if i can keep my head up, it will keep my heart in. and if the straight lines add up i'm better off and dealing. it was a chance encounter. the past met the future and i saw that the shoes i wore had worn thin. so i looked to where i'd been and what i'd left behind. but what i'd cast aside, as i know now to be divided, is catalyst and conquered, left to fade with yesterdays todays.
st. boniface. i rode my bike to old st. boniface today. i rode my bike to chase my fate. with a bottle of wine to apease my sense of benevolence but i'm not alone to put my foot in the door. but i may be the first to put my foot in my mouth, better in my mouth than on the road back home. cause the streets are quiet tonight. and i can't stop your voice, it's in my head. the streets are quiet tonight. i met you last week and this week i'm riding home. i arrived at your door just before six and by seven your mom was showing pictures of you on the wall. and i thought hey, this is great someday i'd like to show you pictures of me, maybe someday this fall. but if a thought could change the world this song wouldn't be so self absorbed, and this pen wouldn't crack under my teeth. i've only got three days before you leave this town again. so i'm waiting by the phone as fast as i can. but if i sing this loud enough my voice might carry down the river and you might hear these words that break my heart. i'm digging for the strength to accept that you might have a song like this, a song that you might sing for someone else. but it's only fair that you hear that i wrote down this tune because you knocked me off my feet a week ago. the streets are quiet tonight. the streets are quiet tonight.