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some of us try, and some of us fail. some of us live to work retail. layers and layers of credit card payers, mark up your face and pass me the makers. move out west, but watch out for quakes. and watch what you say, 'cause you're making me shake. india.
sometimes we stay in comfortable houses. sometimes we wear comfortable clothes. million dollar bounties were offered. how do you think we paid for those blue pillows and tattered jeans? you had a scheme for keeping me clean like windows and mother's hands. i'll do what i can to stay in demand. like windows, all the windows. breaking those windows all over town. my palms were red at the altar. i'll falter, i'll stumble and mumble and moan. and i'll groan with the moths and the goths shooting guns up on memaloose road. gotta tell colin to bring the propane, so we can watch it explode. watch us explode.
got sick at the office, they say the walls of home are is not what you wanted, help is not what you wanted. look out through the window, green grass, landscapes, fences at least youʼre not in a warehouse, and someone's got to make money. i'm scared they'll all see me, holed up, wasting time at home you're stuck again at the office, i'm stuck again on nintendo. well you say you want friends, don't you feel that depends on you getting out. i know it comes from the armchair, but i've got suggestions, i wanna help i got all these ideas, hey, i got all these ideas. joint check, online bill pay,forged your name several states south. left you alone in the car park, why don't you call? I guess I know.
i’m leaving notes, i’m sneaking out in the morning. blue collar holler and the scrape of your teeth. broken noses and dirty thirty poses. i ain’t mad, just haven’t slept for a week. i’m seeing bats, i’m drinking blood before bed. i’m seeing bats, they're hoping to get fed. too many cheeseburgers, too many dropped calls. too many hickey parties, too many mini-malls! i can hear and i can see all my enemies. but your hot weather anatomy, is killing me.
shot in the face by all manner of thugs, bit on the back in the battle of bugs, changed my routine but still on the drugs. my meyers-briggs thinks i think too much and my ma thinks i drink too much but i think it's just enough. i got sick on the steps of the lincoln memorial your frisky hips, subtle as bullet clips graveyard kiss, million dollar lips i'm just a fool for writing this I got sick on the steps of the lincoln memorial.
the pumpkin papers said read it and weep then die in your sleep. potemkin posers march all at my feet, to die in their sleep.tonight, donʼt try to count on me, donʼt count on me, to keep our blankets warm burn with me, donʼt burn with me, weʼrematches in a storm. electrodes pop, heartbeat stops. dog dreams, deleted scenes, and iʼm just running in place, a poisoned agent on the take. count on me, donʼt count on me, to keep your bracelets charmed follow me, donʼt follow me, iʼll keep you out of harm. i just want to go back, drinking bourbon in the bath.
we were starting wars, if only to impress. i was shooting stars, trying to forget made a pact with myself don't look back, don't look back. and every morning, when we wake up, we wonder when it's all gonna end. we were boosting cars, if only to escape. made a pact with myself, don't look back.
there’s a sting in my eye that i’m trying to sell, or can’t you tell? it’s the season for rugburn there’s a bug in my skull trying to get out, will you let it? it’s the season for rugburn. if i was a spy i’d catch you. it’s the season for rugburn
when all those christmas cards are gone and the nazi circus performers are on the white house lawn, you won’t make me coffee if i don’t draft a plan. break my heart with your angry hands. baby baba yaga, i know you’re mine but can’t you see we’re wasting time? charmed her way to the head of the class she kept her one grey hair under glass in the back of a station wagon draggin’ a headless horse down to mexico. when she got to san fran, she met the shah of iran he said “i don’t exist, but i’ll make you a list of all the hungry little puppets i’d like to enlist and all the stupid happy grapes i’d like to crush in my fist.” she said “i’m sorry charlie, i can’t wait that long, the fiends are at the door, and they want in."
at the vegan witch trials, dead rocks can say a lot. back when cormac and i were kings of the shut-ins. in the loudest room in the loudest house, lives the blackest cat and the fattest mouse."burnside, you son of a bitch," said xtonyx the nocturnal colonel."i got a thing for a small town girl.i got a thing for the price of gold." and i'm too uptight to be the front man. i'll be the con man, malachai when the stray turns rabid you gotta change your habits


Spy Island is a Portland-based indie pop outfit with a slightly spaced-out edge (not entirely unlike a less lysergic the Flaming Lips or Dirty Projectors minus the Afro-beat influences) and no shortage of cleverness at their disposal (not dissimilar from Pavement). But Spy Island very well could give cleverness a good name again if they keep making records like At the Vegan Witch Trials; instead of aiming for studied sloppiness or musical eccentricity for its own sake, Spy Island have embraced tight, tuneful arrangements and melodies that put some rock & roll muscle behind songs that show an impressive level of craft, and the result is a grand exercise in small-scale record making. Vocalists Dale Nicholls and Lucy Martin are both strong lead singers, and their harmonies reveal just the right snarky edge while making their too-cool-for-school lyrics sound reasonable (and even human), and the ensemble that backs them up generates an admirably diverse palette of tonal colors, from the garage rock overtones of "Hot Weather Anatomy" to the folky textures of "Vegan Witch Wars," and the lovely, languid pop of "Vegan Witch Food Cart." And while the credits claim At the Vegan Witch Trials was recorded "in some of Portland's most illustrious bedrooms and basements," you wouldn't guess that to listen to the results; this music sounds fully professional with just enough polish to help the hooks get over, and plenty of bands with larger budgets haven't been as well-served as the clean, spacious, concise production suits this band. At the Vegan Witch Trials is smart, joyous, and genuinely witty music that consistently satisfies, and it's nice to know that America's basements and bedrooms are still kicking out some great low-budget records at a time when the majors can't seem to find worthwhile new acts. 4 stars, Mark Deming.


released February 9, 2010

Recorded by Rian Lewis and Dale Nicholls in some of Portland's most illustrious bedrooms and basements. Drums recorded at Ripcord in Vancouver, WA. Songs by DN. Walls of Home was written by Bret Vogel, Bryan Free, Erick Alley, Matt Henderson, and Rian Lewis.

Music mined from the minds of these spies: Jonathan Barker, guitars. Akila Fields, keys, cowbell. Bryan Free, trombone. Colby Goddard, drums. David Gulick, voice. Rian Lewis, bass, guitars, voice. Lucy Martin, voice. DN, voice, guitar, keys, etc. Bret Vogel, saxophone, bass.

Art by Patrick Evans Danger. Mastered by Jon Cohrs @ Spleenless Mastering




SPY ISLAND Los Angeles, California

Spy island is a band/shut-in collective. Caffeinated cellar dwellers. They live in Portland, OR and Los Angeles.

New album in the works.

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