Subtle - Hero for a Fool

Here is a very good album ! I discovered in those last few months. I found it interesting because it's quite diversified. Songs are diferents from one to another and singers are accurates. There's also this good electro mixture that enjoy a lot. It sounds a bit odd on first tries. But more listen to this album more you discover little effects and appreciate it. You will discover as many strong and heavy as swift and light songs. A must listen :P Official website : http://www.subtle6.com/ Buy their CD : Subtle on Amazon Lyrics (source official website) There's a carrot and ape... both on stage : both dangling The ape's lucky leather jacket has turned up missing and he's shouting out something about stretching his threat, to drop a stainless steel egg, onto a poor defenseless hand mirror or else... Hence the intergalactic presses have been halted accordingly. their consummate plug - been kicked from the outer-space wall and then alone does the nightclub's only spotlight get to stuttering. and the air this here ape's in charge of, has now grown doubly thick, So it unzips its 20odd year old skin to reveal a classic tattoo style anchor, strung up on a pair of ugly and classic roller skates. and the crowd goes wild... and then needs a line to repeat, you try to think why? and... "everything is empty and it runneth over"... cuts clean across your clenched teeth. letting off the small fear fire set tall inside your just beyond merch booth bound chest. ... You're peeking through the barred and blackened end of a once and former window. There's two guerillas in a hardly furnished basement rushing a hit for the phone# folks. One's on the horn with the famous, begging for hooks the other's copying more self from a blank, with a buckknife onto an empty bureau's back. beside them sits a rather cool sculpture of a hard bucket of blood. above that hangs a black and white photo of "einstien growing frustrated over a sink full of dirty dishes." the floor is littered with neatly traced hands, shown in soft focus through the beautiful sludge of a couple hundred broke open eggs... a gorgeous spreading pile of tired little suns. to the far left of the cell, rest the shells by a door, cleanly cut, neatly stowed, side by side. each end set completely in its opposite half, in its particular pit ,in its original crate. note: none of these three " good-life" diorama's are ever-touching... and from the looks of this place it seems as though they'd had a visitor... The ghost of landlords present and records past no doubt... He'd told them that because they were young, escape would eat them alive. but that they would be able to sing...until they were no longer able to sing... That is of course on one condition: that they should still threaten for success at its secret... and they somehow knew whatever exactly all that had meant... Then with a rip of a check at the neck he crept back through the mouth of the phone and was gone. ... The fate of your life may very well be determined only by how good you look in white... and lets just say they will want you perfect, like a leading white male should bee, like a man who's had every single nerve removed swapped with copper wire ,been given gazing globe teeth... had both eyes capped off with factory glass. Naturally you freak at the mere thought of being poured toward complete. and so, when the very fabric of your rap career dissolves, right there around you... ryder there, all around you... everyone still there, hair soaking up the settling smoke. Like a large dollop of grey plopped hard in the plain water of hack, you sink... and still they want your autograph, on the back of that there ticket stub. beside the refund policy or just above, in designer legible graffiti or blood like you were or are about to cry. The reflection of the merch stuffed stale in your stole eye. Some say, they'll go as high as 750 on a sturdy bag of sperm or the ape's ugly skates from a previous song... hell...you should start carrying guns... (CRASH) Enter Debts officer promise through a hole in the floor and behind him rides his army of a hundred something swarming forks. all there, unraveling his one kilometer long list of things most certain to be so. You case the dancefloor for any people who'd post... and upon clearing your rapping self's coast... dive with both eyes for blood at the list. scanning it's infinity plus one rungs for your surname or face till sure enough...you find it in place between Dollar and Drummond. beside it, some sort of check-mark or poorly drawn rib is sat, scrawled all red inked and ominous. Scared to the seeds in your teeth you ask debts officer p. for the key, and hunt hard for this tic-mark or rib to find out what gives... and then fffffttt... there it is: "middle class" Which you know can only mean one thing... your welcomed to the no gamble grind now of what seems middle class or above... While the wealthy will forever roll weighted dice so well and white within new wonderland. The poor will just arrive by crutch quite cancel-eyed and half-beliefed outletting all their luck loose just this once from beneath the eaten lining of their only overcoat and gums. and outside in all the lines going and gone around the world your kind is left to age and hold place... its continual crunch of entire months toward zero's and ones in the hoped pursuit of what the timeclock can't afford them... as it leans in slow with all their life and eats those coming weeks to death... This is no joke... they can see themselves at 50 and are not psychic. Hung in the ever evening of their years buckling down in the absolute wind spun between two rather serious magnets what are: well dressed daughters and/or the consumate good doctor bill. And it all boils back down to timing and keeping up teeth bread ends and inevitable Albert Brown seats... bread ends in fact this will be the ring of your next new rap name. it will become your most mnemonic device for those many most important P.I.N.s. it will be what I call my hard drive and then second cat. Bread ends good ghost to obscure rap tragic Middle class act never young and tall feared in the cold grand code of collapse. ... Another missing number in the jungle. turned up with nothing but a loin cloth to protect your tender penis from what's danger & the wildlife. Your human nose making the least of all scent. going dumb to the dynamics of clean air, bare feet kringing cross the unkept forest floor. Not ten minutes ago... You had been licking brass knuckles and soaking up satelite feed beneath beating flash bulb blare, being crowned this years champi'o'king. looking good bad after a beautiful thing. Big winner of the only and annual "serious serious gut's competition"... (sponsored in part by the pain reliever people and the heads of music television) Yes, you and ten other tough guys slit smiles across your then perfectly sturdy stomachs and spread your large intestines boldly out across a coated white poker table.... the starter pistol barked and each contestant commenced to carefully comb their own eager entrails from behind the one-way wall of mirrored eyewear. everyone a hopeful breathing heavy sifting through their mortal coil with their finger tips, for the most intimidating lengths of well sculpted and primetime stomach links. Every so often... in the name of health an executioner capped usher struts about the gut covered table misting everyone's exposed and heaving organs with a modified and fancy water pistol. As always this years celebrity judges are only of the most incredible persuasion charles bronsons angry and gay only daughter, icecube back from when he was hard and a framed 8x10 of joe namath's kneecaps. And because you won they stitched up your open abdomen first... gave you a nice rambo knife, some choice cigarettes and cut you loose in the ozarks. The question being not if, but when you will kill for your next meal... and besides you'd never gone missing before... In one months time they anticipate your turning up in the lap of the lincoln memorial wearing the stripped and cured flesh of another white rapper. lovers and mothers the last thing on your mind raw & reborn in the kill: as the red carpet goes wild The vice magazine people serving up a hard bucket of most happening blood... feeding a spit roast pig in your honor, kissing the wind calling you boss... phantom hearts clinking half- empty in the leftover and once humored still, arrogant air... ... So much for beating your indoor chest stood predator star, never picked only placed before doors. Do you not now know what you poet... holding your breath arms akimbo stood base thinking in flames of yourself at the manned gates to fair switzerland's brink... would you fancy say going solo forever instead. Setting sail for good on a standard stranded man crafted raft, equipped with nothing save few-hundred euros and the hypocrite inside you... lost where life is all but perfect, taking the longest cut across wide open ocean possible. razor free and limeless on a never-again bent to kiss land tour... ... and if things go well... you might harvest plankton from the rotted raft's rope for your supper, and for fluids take twice from yourself a handful of urine sipped to grind spit. In shark free waters you could paddle with your hands and feet for fun... tipping her over if a rescue plane coasts overhead... and at night feel for the moon making moves, forcing form on your un-mastered and visible quarter mile of ocean. And by day on your back watching birds appear then dissolve in mid-migrate. falling from a distant nowhere to an out of sight, still looping in a starring role they'd played in what's our early evolution... and there you are sprawled out below them, fast forgetting tenth grade physics floating on a few killed trees tied close together... Hi up above you in a hollywood-set-style heaven beyond two floors of sky, and another 5 of inner-most outer-space hang awake darwin's bones. wheeled on a hook to the edge of a cumulous cloud. peering down just, eating you up and loving your nature to death... And there you'll be, lain prostrate chipping salt from your lips with starvation soft teeth sprawled out in the way of the sun. You see no one truly cares if you take your bloated backpack, big bag of tylenol, and the long way never into switzerland... poor poor stranded and big gigantic poem man... You have what sleeps inside you for your certain string of moments, and its un-plan thereafter only for your done & once sensitive skin... ... When last we left him... our hero yes was recently diagnosed as being last haver of a most unusual sort of blood. quite surprised by the news himself, (and still the genuinely unlucky man) he now wields his one and only body bag of this, his now very rare blood. and so, we find him seated not starved but smalled, before a really rather serious spread... his evening's eats have been copped and bequeathed by the richest of rich who's only child is especially sick... their fair scared parent eyes reading weak... yelling help across some 200 feet of set table yours far full of edge... perfectly still like straight teeth It seems so few would know just what to do as the new and improved lucky you, to be courted and prized as someone else's very own personal blood mine. I mean...What if your o-so unique blood... then became the latest craze... would the dear disparate world not get the wrong/right idea, You...now owning all your ever so happening blood... You...sole proprietor of all that priceless red wet... What if... What if your blood were then all the rage... What then... What if your blood weren't you... What would you give in order to get your hands on the latest most luxurious blood... to have yours flushed completely and replaced with that of a nice bright white college boy or very viral multi-millionaire widow... Would you later pay extra for your old red tide to be glassed, sat down, room warm beside your occupied hospital bed. so that when you were well , and in your right mind of redwets and new whites. You just might indeed, spill your own & old blood. can't you hear your mercury just ringing with the jingles already... is there a terrible time to your life that never seems to let up... is it a terrible time of the great nothing much... what say you leave your past life's luck in the dust... and let the miracle most of modern day at your blood... ... the next day the exact same nurse is standing with her back to me at every last passing bus stop. only this time, what looks like a small stack of bills with bat wings, is hovering just beside her. they're bound together by a narrow wishbone, beneath it rests a large bowl full of some indistinct fruit. waxen looking still, atop a three quarter length corinthian column. To the left is a rather fit "right" woman's left leg, buried thigh deep in the hallowed and wood-chip topped bus stop grounds. the planted lady's leg looking clean shaven and hot sweat beading up about its calf in the black avenue amplified sun an eye blue high heel jut in full bloom on its visible end. and so you get off... to find two suits arguing silent before a double-parked and obviously unmarked cop car. the blown-up head flesh of two big business men, a-hover above them. a good foot or two of twine dangling from their tied off throats, running down into their hollowed dress shirt collar mouths. you over hear them mutter something serious about... "the second hand emotion" and then comes something like semi-poetic directions... " a ways down commerce...then turn, dead straight into ashe" ... and so you walk... predicting all possible presents in ever to bits, and back from the bed to the bills you see nothing but pit within pit within pit, an undeniable feeding on you and more this... ... A honey smothered hand gun all covered in ants, trembles on a three quarter length corinthian column... Things are in black and white You are the sole member of tonight's studio audience, splayn before you is the made for t.v. 2-d back drop of some classic cooking show set. the dead man from one dollar, only 30 years younger ,is stood contra posto before you. front and center on stilts, pressing the drawn fangs of a tore in two fork tenderly against the quivering lip of a plastic champagne flute. several beads of clean water quickly slip from the pulled teeth tips and tangle softly to a body in its empty crystal pit. fingers in your mouth out of fear... your shadow's somehow shot itself up on the wall behind him throwing a peace sign up like devil's horns, above his ever so signature presidents head silhouette. He catches your eye and calls you up to the stage, while he opens a wee door wide in his overall armor. He then shows you a change slot bore where his appendix would be and says softly, " see how" he too had been bit by the audience once... He takes to the floor from his stilts. As you make for beside him on stage, you bump exposed flesh by mistake. the heat from his hurt has its way with the hairs on your neck, till your glasses go black and you lean back on a yell... just then he wiggles a pec with the quickness, and wishes your mouth flooded shut full of steel wool, safety glass, and loosed teeth. your shadow now cringed in tight behind you is puddled up soaking the skin on your heels... your busy scraping your tongue down, like a wildman with the jagged edge of your house key. and angry dream george is once more top his stilts, still swallowing your yell. calling your attention yet again to the slot tore in his side as he shouts something down about you sucking out venom. you motion to cover your eyes while your shadow breaks free and lets dive, through your back, sucking in its blacks as you gag from the pit of your person and pitch... ...BLACKPAGE... you wake up dark eared and edgy, on a bench, in a park, sizing up the there amounts of edible meat on the closest rock dove... and then nearby elderly woman... in the raw, extracting american water all by bald eye, and one public school education. until you feel like sinking or singing... ... The lids on Streetlights peel back to reveal row upon row of bulging black bird eye. all gorged out toward you like exotic zoo snakes heaped up on fiberglass rocks, fat with farmed rats coaxed down their throat... below them in their brights, tilt finished arrows beached up on thin tin signs. and where its corrugated stem injects into cement there is a deep fried breastbone, popping hard half ate on a rich red curb... all at once, this moment has no mercy on your color find eye's stole blues version of oakland... as you make for thin ice on your you on you violent night. the next morning everything begins again over a walk, past a few balloons tied to a lovesick car-salesman's wrist. you press on... a soft bicycle wheel chained up behind a savage looking pair of women's dress shoes, abandoned to the left of a tire tread pressed dead pigeon lain askew in more rich rose colored gutter. there...there... temperature taking your skin, tinged city wind catching air on your pleasantly imperfect and c-section shaped skull. For once forget your headed to the mailbox to drop more finished bills down to its gut... even though for all you know... that's about as far as those things ever go. as sad as it is so, kids today will never wear the perfect cape of clean air. nor one true brand new brazier of sheer luck... or does someone out there still expect that... the way a moth gives freely of itself unto the bulb. they will not learn their lesson from a teachers copy of a blackened lung, hung in the classroom, on the coat rack... or left dripping in the closet during math minutes passing. nor from a nice new globe made of gold, cast in the shape of a half eaten apple... not until... the sun is on a stick. the moon hung on a hook. desperate times call for step by step schematics of the human dive. The end... (one mile of week&will later) a sunset interjects. donating the kind of red you only see in stores. affording yourself a bit more reality, some singular mood polarity . If you could, you'd have a close friend drive you off into the sinking pinks. .... It seems sap is sweet on hands, but in trees its subject to an even higher power. and no matter how you feel it will tend to, tending to keep you alive. and the rest: a simple time stretching of one earth & common fabric... of fragile blood run cellular engine and something or other... is there no sort of luck involved in not being born an ant or elephant... or is this just, pure and unadulterated math, water willed, and egg improvised, until hatched by knife light then... mother named, after her extremely painful experience. allowing the vast maze of birth and mistake, to take its toll on all that practical destiny and then child-sized specificity. lain there, inherent in the once one cellded organism. A consummate pin-hole poked in the plot behind planet earth and such. A pin-hole poked...Is enough to sink an entire universe of tiny ships. Freeing all that perfect principal lain inherent in a step by step schematic of the human dive. and when planets align... all you can do is dive... and this... this is the soft spear of the human condition, but you yourself are not. you are more... the pulled on skull of something that was never really all that young. you are more... One wung and consumed by your most gross of concerns. can you remain in love from deep space, with no fish bowl on and a busted communicator... or have you everything planned. is there a simple universal system of buoy and rope, that you would use to tug your weightless mass along on, till you found a planet that you felt might be just right for you. or is it possible the view of earth at such a distance would have played you for the fool as well... hour hero yes had known you there'd be days like this... and they'd come with the rain on of course. a good gallon of reverb let loose on your personal truth, dark eared on the edge of your sleeping slab. having been bent born & went phantom dayed, hope stole on in the equal parts miracle of bringing yourself to and from sleep. in calendrical waltz... all to feel aimed, at last, your heartjaw kissed against the coming dawn... in dive ... let go at last our hero yes is done dove, safe through several more hypothetical "seconds before death," unto the never similar wilds of his ground teeth powered and b-movie dreams. it begins... with all white, in a sound proofed hallway your staring down the empty eye slits of a lowsocket. waking on the floor at the foot of the bright light blocking and locked hundredth door of luck. At the opposite end of the hall sits a pair of empty pay public binoculars, slumped, facing your way. In the dead of their stare, you marvel about, until you eye this one door that appears to be both half open and closed. and are drawn moth to the bulb, head down, as if reeled round a gear by the guts, inching toward your intuit-picked portal of choice... now knelt, yet not without nerves in this moment of mostly glory, you look for the knob, and see nothing but healed shut keyhole. Dax-strong in this dream you begin to cut key in the furthest corner of a clearest skull, when you feel your kneecaps being nursed by a white on white welcome mat. you tilt your skull to read "WOE-BE-GONE" only written wrong or in mirror. Your hands and heart full of edge, you lift the mat gently, and there beneath it's omen embroidered, sits an intact wishingbone... You carefully lift your instrument of certain luck to the door, and it slowly unclenches the scar seem set where it's keyhole would be.... and so you snap bliss bone, cut wish and begin to lock pick... Until you hear trough the thick of the door the deadbolt caughing loose... Suddenly the fear black above your skull, beneath your skin goes wild. as the door of your choice opens itself slowly... sealing off your face with perfect stripes of rising bone and angst, of alabaster and pit, allowing the bright right light of luck to completely believe and eclipse you... Credits A tale of apes I Affectionately deemed “kraftmouth”… This is from a jel led jam in our first for hero recording session… and then Jordan went to town on it within Reason….then we resampled improv portions and added new parts….the crowd sample is from Sonar 2005, it is the squealing end of “She” live…the drone at the beginning is a treated sample of “flying horse plans” the intro to the first subtle e.p…. The lovely erin perry says “on roller skates”… Dax’s voice was sampled and pitched to be the bass line… Alex came with the perfect power cello prettiness for the home stretch… Jel on turntables… from a 516 12” called “dirty little bitch”… Additional de-bitting and drum crushing by tony espinoza Reason…mpc2000xl…electric cello……dictaphone….micron…bullet mic… dr.sample…bitrman A tale of apes II a Jordan demo written to be the sister song to tale I…on which we sampled alex and marty on the dr.sample…all done in true unwritten clouddead code/ fashion… Parted harmonies by dax Jordan and adam This song is an ode to the touching and affecting time why? and adam had …back in the apt.A Cincinnati greenthink and clouddead days….influencing and pushing one another to the lip of our potential Reason…mpc2000xl…micron…guitar…telephone…dr.sampled flute&e-cello… Middleclass stomp Jordans rockromp demo in seven… Jeff suggested david byrne…and adam followed suit… Played live till parts came…naturally… alex thought for two seconds….and then poof his cello plays the perfect riffs…back to back….both the pretty break and the raw rock bridge…. it is a grown up songmeat and our middle class monstermash… Guitar…doubledrums….mpc2000xl…micron…tamborine…electric and acoustique cello…synth…bullet mic… Middleclass kill Jordans krushed synth sister demo to Mclass stomp… …that just had the growl of good music to it from the get go… Behold the power of the pzm… Kill-nasty drummachine drums by jeff.. D.o.c. lives… Jordan sings the bones… Dax straps on the harmonica harness and perfects things… Jordan and adam record alex in the empty Oakland rim shop on autorow… Then alex records adam and Jordan oooohing and ahhhhhing…. What tony calls the “giraffes running in africa” ending ensues… Jordan’s Foolsbane recurring Melody occurs first… Drums…guitar…electric cello…xaphoon…synth…dr.sample…mpc 2000xl…harmonica… Adam’s favorite song… Jeff’s favorite song… Midas gutz A solemn ode to tough and what’s rap….a yearn to kiss what can kill you… Jel’s sp demo… realized by Jordan… Subtle-ized… Marty’s sax blast clusters sampled by jeffjel Sho-nuff returns…and the propmaster reigns again… Jeff again with the wild wurlie solo stylings… Vocal Ode to darcmind All praises due to the bitrman Sp1200…Mpc2000xl…dr.sample…micron…guitar…mpc’d horns…upright bass…Wurlitzer…kaos pad… Nomanisisland The Iheart l.a. of for hero:for fool …. Jordan demo, that somehow spoke to adam’s conceptual island… The lush and lovely anchor chords found by marty and alex in dax’s old music cell in west Oakland.…beside the once standing subtle mansion… Dear, kate… Thanks for the records you set in stone… Love adam Savory and perfect Last hour marty sax solo Drums…roland sp505…dr.sample…jeff played shitar…acoustic and eguitar…electric cello…harmonica…tenor sax….kaos pad…micron…Dictaphone…vocoder…bbc radiophonic workshop sample… Jordan’s favorite song… Tony’s favorite song…. The mercury craze The hit…. A single since it’s infant demo days..jordan kelisesque banger… An ode to fame and its revolving door within revolving door… Alex brings the money riff instantly… And adam somehow heard only inner city cheerleader vocals …the spelling portion adam later realized is a poke at gwen stefari spelling banana for two minutes… track seven just like f.ko….. This song seemed to finish itself Ahhh the fool’s bane returns… One casio Jordan jingle…complete with yet another icecube dis… And a tony espinoza tweaking… Whistle…mpc 2000xl…micron…acoustic guitar…fingercymbals on table…speak&spell……vocoder…electric cello… Bed to the bills Another of jordan’s earliest demos…both pretty and ugly… The toughest nut to crack…once a rough Jordan demo for a tale of apes II Saw many half shapes along the way…got both dirtier and prettier… Includes Vancouver corner store transaction intro… And Nanoloop led scrolling outro… a layered attempt to solve the frozen lake, once again… dax hits the perfect notes on the bridge, to make a pretty thing even prettier… Guitar…drums… cz-101 thru Cigarette amp…bullet mic…dictaphone… mpc 2000xl…electric cello…micron…tenor sax…nano-loops…kaos pad… Return of the vein Jordan’s math demo dedicated to dax’s tastes… Its beginning came later, as a rearranged improv between Alex jeff marty adam and Jordan… Jordan drums were recorded through the kaos pad, and jel on the note-off tip… Black out layered in live takes…sloped to a t…. made from scratch by Jordan…marty and alex did onetake improv passes on wurli and e.cello high strings…. End throat throw inspired by rob crow… and then while we were mixing it dax budged his thumb for the first time… Dr.sample…micron…doubledrums…guitar…mpc…Wurlitzer…electric cello…kaos pad…shitar…dictaphone Dax’s favorite song… Call to dive This demo began in hotel mariandl in munich germany, during a stranded break in the 13&god tour 2005…jel sampled jordans synth riffs onto the mpc… Also a tough song to call done… Yet solved in it’s simplicity… Mpc2000xl…micron…drums…bass clarinet…upright bass…harmonica….dr.sample…harmonica…shitty mics…shrieking children samples… NOT Originally a Jordan demo made to a Joanna newsome song, On an exercise ball… The rap clad backing vocal clouds, by alexis anne drucker And her singing “dive” sampled by her big brother…and washed out… Dr. sampled munchen church bells buried in there as well… Exercise ball….tamborine…mellotron..dictaphone…mariandl hotel piano…penitent Japanese gentleman sample…dr.sample…flute…upright bass,,, The ends We waited for ten months to again have dax physically amongst the fold… And for ten months we did not attempt to “finish” the record… When dax returned to the bay, we all listened to the demos he had recorded before the crash… They were perfect…and we some how knew they would be… jordan and adam arranged them into a piece of length… and integrated in jordan’s mt.eerie inspired progression…and adam’s ambient outro… Autoharp,synth and beatboxing demo by dax, recorded in his west Oakland music cell… The Final piece, Simultaneous Piano and beat boxing onetake demo by dax… Gave us all chills…. which the rest of subtle needed only play along to…. Jel samples jordans live kit and goes to town…. The fool’s bane melody recurreth for the final time… Featuring the friendly shouting of lucy patino… Big up bitrman… In the end…. Dax’s wurlie demo meets my pulled rib pit piece… And the record ends where the next will begin…. Autoharp…bitrman…beatbox…piano…Rhodes…Dictaphone…micron…drums…bitrman…xaphoon…electric cello…flute…mpc2000xl…katebush record skip…guitar…dr.sampled guitar…