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À propos de cet album
L'album traite les traumatismes à travers le détail domestique plutôt que l'exposition explicite constante. Les objets ordinaires se chargent émotionnellement : des chaussures gardées près de la porte, de bonnes assiettes, de la vaisselle cassée, un téléphone de prison et une cloison de verre, un dollar caché dans une Bible, une bouteille qui apporte enfin le silence, du plâtre endommagé, et une lumière de cuisine qui brûle. Le contraste musical est tout aussi important : l'écriture narrative poétique est mise contre le blues psychédélique lourd, le fuzz, la guitare slide, l'orgue Hammond et le poids du proto-doom plutôt que le sad-rock moderne ou l'Americana.
Le premier chapitre d'une histoire de vie à trois Album suit un garçon façonné par la violence familiale, la pauvreté, le secret et la loyauté conflictuelle. Il quitte la maison croyant distance peut offrir la liberté, tout en portant déjà la maison et ses habitudes de survie en lui.
Liste des titres
- 1Keep Your Shoes On05:29
- 2The Good Plates04:52
- 3Thursday Through the Glass05:53
- 4Mother Said It Was Weather05:16
- 5A Dollar in the Bible05:26
- 6Borrowed Whiskey05:03
- 7The House Knew First06:07
- 8Leave the Kitchen Light06:48
Total music duration: 44:54.
Concept et récit
L'album commence par un enfant formé pour rester prêt à fuir sa maison. La violence familiale, le secret familial, la pauvreté, l ' incarcération des parents et la loyauté conflictuelle deviennent normalisées. La visite en prison renforce l'attachement confus de l'enfant à son père. La protection, la peur et la complicité de la mère restent entrelacées. La religion et l'argent d'urgence fournissent des formes imparfaites de survie. Le narrateur éprouve l'alcool pour la première fois et découvre qu'il calme vraiment sa peur. Il s'attrape alors à commencer à reproduire l'agression qu'il a grandi. La maison devient un témoin de l'histoire de la famille et du jeune frère qui a peur de lui. L'album se termine avec le narrateur qui quitte la ville, croyant distance peut offrir la liberté tout en portant déjà l'architecture émotionnelle de la maison avec lui.
La maltraitance des enfants, la violence familiale, l'alcoolisme, l'incarcération des parents, la pauvreté, le secret, le déni, la religion, la peur, la loyauté familiale, la violence héréditaire, la honte, l'évasion, la première intoxication, la mémoire peu fiable, la masculinité, les habitudes de survie devenant des habitudes destructrices.
Le narrateur quitte la maison en bus. Le départ se sent comme la libération, mais la chanson finale indique clairement que la maison et ses leçons restent psychologiquement présentes. La lumière de cuisine devient une image de la peur, de la maison, de la mémoire et du retour possible plutôt qu'un symbole de résolution propre.
La mère doit rester à la fois protectrice et complice, effrayée et capable d'échouer. La relation du père avec le narrateur ne devrait pas être réduite à une simple haine. Le départ du narrateur ne doit pas être présenté comme une liberté psychologique ou une guérison. Qu'il s'agisse d'une fuite, d'un abandon, d'une survie ou d'un mélange des trois doit rester ouvert.
Palette sonore
Guitare électrique Fuzz, guitare à goulot d'étranglement, harmonica, orgue Hammond, orgue tremolo, basse électrique, batterie naturelle, piano, guitare wah-wah, guitare tremolo, guitare acoustique occasionnelle.
Hammond et l'orgue de trémolo fonctionnent comme atmosphère, pression et brume psychédélique plutôt que décoration mélodique lumineuse. Le piano est utilisé plus parcimonieusement comme texture usée, froide ou exposée.
Fuzz épais, feedback, tremolo, wah-wah et goulot d'étranglement. Le son de la guitare va de la faible tension propre à l'écrasement des murs de distorsion. La guitare slide doit paraître angoissée et vocale plutôt que décorative.
A la fin des années 1960 / début des années 1970 caractère analogique avec saturation du ruban, réverbération du ressort et de la plaque, saignement de la pièce, sifflement, grain de vinyle, feedback et bords instables. Il devrait se sentir vieux, oppressif et physiquement enregistré plutôt que brillant ou numériquement vierge.
Dark, oppressif, hanté, intime, en colère, triste, claustrophobe, drogué, dangereux, analogique, psychologiquement lourd.
Notes d’archives
Chaussures à côté de la porte; manteauttes gardées prêtes en juillet; pêches laissées par un voisin après avoir crié; fleurs bleues autour d'une assiette de dîner fêlée; poudre cachant une marque sur le visage de la mère; verre de visite de prison et bracelets jaunes; un dollar caché entre Matthieu cinq et six; une chaise de cuisine contre une porte de chambre; la première boisson faisant baisser le volume de la peur; pois froids pendant une dispute; le jeune frère debout dans la porte avec ses chaussures déjà allumées; la lumière de cuisine a laissé brûler pendant que le narrateur quitte la ville.
Le motif de chaussures commence par la disposition à fuir dans Keep Your Shoes On et revient quand le jeune frère se tient prêt dans The House Knew First. L'imagerie de la prison de jeudi Par le verre établit l'incarcération du père et la loyauté conflictuelle de l'enfant. La Bible et le dollar d'urgence relient la pauvreté, la religion et l'évasion dans la Bible. L'alcool passe de la présence menaçante du père à la découverte par le narrateur d'un soulagement dans le whisky emprunté. La maison passe d'un cadre physique à un témoin dans la maison Knew First. Quitter la lumière de cuisine rassemble les idées d'évasion, de maison, de peur, de loyauté familiale et de comportement hérité sans les résoudre.
Paroles
Original English lyrics are preserved without translation.
01 · Keep Your Shoes On
Keep your shoes on, little brother keep your good coat where you can don't ask where we're going don't ask about the man When Mama says we're leaving don't stop to turn things off Keep your shoes on, little brother sleep is something we can't trust Mama kept our coats on chairs in the middle of July said a house can change its mind before a child can ask it why There was a bag behind the boiler two shirts, a comb, some change and every time a car slowed down her whole face rearranged I knew his sober footsteps I knew his drinking feet I knew which floorboard told me not to breathe and not to speak Mrs. Keller brought us peaches when the shouting went too long set them down beside the doorway like fruit could make it gone Teacher asked me where the bruises on my knuckles came from then I said I slipped behind the schoolyard She asked me twice. I lied again. Once we made it to the highway with the morning still unborn Mama drove in yesterday's dress one sleeve of it was torn At a diner by the state line she put both hands on the wheel then said, "He didn't mean it." I hated her for making that real. We turned back before the sunrise. I never said a word. My brother slept across my shoulder. I wished I hadn't heard. Years later I called her weak. Years later I called her trapped. Both words fit inside one kitchen. Her coffee went cold between them. Keep your shoes on, little brother keep your good coat where you can don't ask where we're going don't ask about the man When somebody says forever listen for the engine cough Keep your shoes on, little brother sleep is something we can't trust Forty years and every bedroom I still leave my shoes beside the door.
02 · The Good Plates
We ate from the good plates Sunday blue flowers round the rim Mama said, "Sit straight for your father." Nobody had invited him. Potatoes sweating in the serving bowl peas gone gray beneath the lid she polished every fork and spoon like decent families did He came in smelling sweet and sour kissed her where the powder hid asked me if I loved my old man. I said what a good son did. Nobody mentioned Tuesday evening or the bedroom door off-square Nobody mentioned Mama sleeping with a kitchen chair in there Dad said work was looking better said he'd found a friend downtown I watched his thumb go white around the glass when she asked him to sit down The crack across my dinner plate ran from the flowers to the edge I worried it with my thumbnail. He made another pledge. Don't break the good plates we haven't got the money Don't stain the white cloth company might come Don't speak while he's angry don't laugh when he's funny Whatever happens after we're a family when it's done My brother spilled his milk that night. Dad looked at him. I laughed. Not because it was funny. Because I was glad he wasn't looking at me. Mama slapped the table once. Hard. Everybody froze. She said, "Enough." I loved her for three seconds. Then she cleaned the milk. Years later I found one plate wrapped in newspaper in a crate blue flowers, brown old crack still running to the edge I held it over a trash can. Couldn't do it. Couldn't keep it either. So I left it on the curb with somebody else's furniture. By morning it was gone. Good.
03 · Thursday Through the Glass
Thursday through the glass put your hand against mine tell me you're behaving I'll tell you I'm doing fine Thursday through the glass an hour dressed up as enough You look like my father from here if I don't look too hard Thursday wore a yellow wristband Mama wore her Sunday blue I wore shoes a little too small because she said he'd notice shoes Quarters swallowed by the lockers pockets emptied for the guard painted arrows down a hallway coffee burned and breathing hard He was already there and smiling hair cut close above the ears like the state had made him younger or I had grown in half a year He asked if I still played baseball. I hadn't played since spring. Asked if Mama fixed the Chevy. Asked about every useless thing. Then he said men make mistakes, son. A man must pay his due. He never said what he had done. Only what had happened to him. A woman down the row was crying. Her baby chewed the cord. Some little girl kept blowing kisses at a man who looked bored. Dad said, "Take care of your mother. You're the man around there now." I sat taller in the plastic chair. God forgive me, I was proud. On the ride home Mama smoked with the window cracked an inch said, "Don't believe his promises." Then: "Don't you ever hate him." Two commandments in one car. Both impossible. Both law. Thursday through the glass put your hand against mine tell me you're behaving I'll tell you I'm doing fine Thursday through the glass the buzzer says we're done You looked like my father from there. I looked like your son.
04 · Mother Said It Was Weather
Mother said the door was weather swollen crooked in the rain said the lamp fell off the table said the red mark was a stain said the hole beside the staircase had been there since '68 Funny how the house got clumsy every night he came home late Mother said it was weather so I learned to call storms rain called terror "bad temper" called silence "keeping sane" called blood "a little accident" called leaving "coming back" Mother said it was weather. Weather didn't do that. Teacher kept me after spelling. Said, "You know you can tell me things." I watched sunlight cross the chalkboard. Heard the empty playground swings. There were words behind my teeth. I swallowed every one. At nine you know who feeds you. At nine you know who owns the gun. So I said Dad worked the night shift. Said my mother fell downstairs. She touched my shoulder. I pulled away. Then thanked her for her prayers. Don't make my mother holy. Don't make her only weak. Some nights she stood between us. Some nights she told me not to speak. Once she packed our clothes by midnight. Twice she unpacked before dawn. Once she hit me when I cursed him. Then cried after I was gone. I have loved her. I have blamed her. I have lied about them both. By Sunday we called it family. By Monday, nobody spoke. And him? No weather. No bad luck. No bottle made his choices. He had hands. He had doors. He kept coming back through both. Mother said it was weather but I know the weather now Rain don't whisper, "Don't you tell them." Thunder doesn't make a vow. Clouds don't beg you for forgiveness then come home and do it twice. Mother said it was weather. I was nine. She was scared. He knew exactly what he did.
05 · A Dollar in the Bible
There's a dollar in the Bible there's a promise in the red there's a man who says God sees us there's a chair against the bed There's a heaven for the faithful there's a county line for men There's a dollar in the Bible just in case God don't come through again There was a dollar in the Bible between Matthew five and six Mama kept it flat and hidden for emergencies and tricks If the milkman wouldn't carry us if the meter man came by if somebody needed cough syrup or somebody needed a lie It smelled of dust and tobacco. The red letters promised rest. Mama trusted Jesus plenty. She trusted cash the best. Church ladies brought us casseroles when Daddy went away Pastor knew a lawyer who'd take thirty bucks someday Mama sang about salvation with powder on her cheek I watched everybody praise a God who seemed busy every week When they passed the silver offering plate Mama looked at me and smiled. I dropped in somebody else's dime. Stole it from their kid outside. When Dad went back to county Mama opened Matthew wide spent the dollar on some gasoline and drove us east that night Twenty miles before the Chevy coughed. Twenty-one before it died. A deacon stopped and helped us. Mama told him where we lived. I never forgave him for being kind. Years later in a motel drawer I found that same old Gideon book opened where she used to hide it without meaning to look Nothing there between the pages. Still I checked a second time. I needed money for a bottle. God was broke. So was I. There's a dollar in the Bible there's a promise in the red there's a man who says God sees us there's a stranger in my bed There's a heaven for the faithful there's a morning after sin There's no dollar in the Bible. I checked again.
06 · Borrowed Whiskey
Eddie stole it from his brother. I stole courage from the glass. Fifteen, behind the feed store, throwing stones at trucks that passed He said, "Don't drink it like a preacher." I said, "I've had this stuff before." That was a lie. But lies came easy when you'd practiced them indoors. First swallow burned like medicine. Second one turned something down. By the third I couldn't hear my father's truck anywhere in town. Borrowed whiskey, borrowed night borrowed courage, borrowed light For an hour I wasn't listening for a key turn in a door Borrowed whiskey, burn me clean make me anything but me I didn't know I loved the silence. I just knew I wanted more. We laughed until our ribs hurt at a joke I can't recall Eddie sang some country song and I knew enough to bawl For once a bottle on a table didn't mean somebody bled It meant warm hands, dirty stories, nothing waiting overhead I remember thinking: So this is what he likes. I woke behind the lumber yard gravel printed in my cheek one shoe gone, mouth full of pennies, couldn't stand up straight to pee Eddie said I cried about my father. I shoved him into the wall. He looked at me the way I'd seen Mama look at Dad. That sobered me. For maybe half a minute. Then I asked him where the bottle was. People like to say the first drink starts the fall. Mine felt like flying. Borrowed whiskey, borrowed night borrowed courage, borrowed light For an hour I wasn't listening for a key turn in a door Borrowed whiskey, burn me clean make me anything but me I didn't know I loved the silence. I just knew I wanted more. Eddie stole it from his brother. Next Friday I knew where his brother kept it.
07 · The House Knew First
The house knew first. Before the neighbors. Before the school. Before the cops learned our address and stopped asking which one was who. The hallway knew his shoulder. The plaster knew her head. The kitchen chair knew exactly how a decent evening ends. The stairs could tell by midnight which foot was coming down. The house knew first. The house kept quiet. So did everybody in town. That house knew first and that house never talked just stood there taking punches with its windows painted shut That house knew first every promise, every curse If walls could testify we'd have needed a bigger church There was a dent beside the pantry. Wallpaper peeled above the sink. A belt lived on the chair-back. A glass waited for a drink. Mama whispering, "Not tonight." Him saying, "Who the hell are you?" I kept eating. The peas were cold. I used to hate the house for standing when county cars were gone for letting morning through the curtains like nothing carried on Then I got tall enough for anger. Put my fist through bedroom wall. Mama screamed, "You're just like him." I turned and said: "Then whose fault is that?" She went quiet. I wanted to take it back. I didn't. Blood ran down across my wrist. Plaster dust stuck to my hand. My brother watched me from the doorway. I told him, "What're you looking at?" There he was. Small. Shoes on. Ready. That house knew first and that house never talked just stood there taking punches with its windows painted shut That house knew first every promise, every curse By then my brother knew it too. Shoes on. Waiting by the door.
08 · Leave the Kitchen Light
Leave the kitchen light leave the kitchen light I don't know where I'm sleeping but I know I can't tonight If I turn back at the corner if I lose my nerve in flight don't come running don't forgive me just leave the kitchen light I packed two shirts in a paper sack the good one and the gray took forty-three dollars from the coffee tin and left before the day Mama stood beside the icebox bare feet on yellow floor She didn't ask me where I was going. We'd both heard that lie before. She said, "Call when you get somewhere." I said, "I always do." Neither one believed me. Love has manners when it's through. My brother slept behind the thin wall still small enough to dream I almost woke him just to tell him not to turn out like me Instead I left my old coat hanging where he'd find it after school six dollars in the pocket and the knife I thought looked cool He'd asked me for that knife for months. I knew Mama hated it. Part of me hoped Dad would notice something missing when he got home. At the station men were drinking coffee black enough to shine one old soldier called me "son." I nearly told him not to. Then didn't. The bus came coughing blue smoke. I bought west as far as cash could buy. My father's voice said men don't run. Mama's said survive. The driver tore my ticket. I climbed aboard. When the town fell behind me I waited for relief. What came was quiet. Quiet isn't peace. Sometimes quiet is a room after somebody leaves. Sometimes quiet is a boy finding out that he can breathe. Leave the kitchen light leave the kitchen light for the fools who swear they're leaving and come crawling back by night For the mothers at the window for the sons too proud to write for every house that taught us darkness leave the kitchen light Leave the kitchen light leave the kitchen light I got miles enough behind me I can almost call it right If I turn into my father if I drink away my life let there still be one small window with a little human light Forty years from that bus station I can still see Mama there one hand resting on the counter gray beginning in her hair I used to think she should have stopped me. Then I thought she should have come. Now I don't know what I think. Some nights I don't try. A boy stepped into the morning. The house disappeared from view. But houses are patient creatures. They know how to travel inside you. Leave the kitchen light leave the kitchen light not because I'm coming home now not because we made it right Leave it burning for the children who mistake escape for flight Leave it burning for the frightened Leave it burning out of spite Leave the kitchen light. Mama, I got somewhere. I just never called.
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