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In the Trough of the Wave

by The Stars of Disaster

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1.
The Music 03:22
I can see you need forgiveness Though you could never ask it of me Outright But I could no sooner absolve you As I could forgive the first rays Of morning light You can't hear the music Because you are the music I know you're scared so much of your days Dissolve way into A dreamless sleep Where you see a life gone astray I see a blooming grove Of love and inspiration For every castaway to reap I know that you’re so sorry I forgive you And want you to know that I'm so sorry, too
2.
We mistook our youth for prime While we were getting old But we sure had a time, boy Before you got too bold I understand you cannot stay Believe me, I do I’d react the same way If I were you Of all the things you’ve said of me, there’s none I can deny And there is no other side of me that I have tried to hide Still I guess I should have told you when I walked into your life That I, oh I, oh I, oh I'm A creature of habit The thing is I’m not quite as mean As I try to seem But you know I cannot say That I didn’t mean it See, I became a master Of the narcopathic smile Imperious and pearly white Is my perfect style
3.
Late at night when the cuckoo’s crying He wakes the tyrant in my head Can’t get it right, but at least I'm trying To look sharp and get out the lead And win the bread though no one relies on me Me to keep them warm and fed, I mean It's no big deal, but I dream of dying I don't see any light up ahead All I see is the water I tread I always drink beer in the morning Yeah, that’s how I spend all my pay ‘Cause I can’t get away from the bright sunshine And I gotta try sleep all day Yeah I gotta try to sleep all day Cold sweat can appear without warning Like the doubts that keep gumption at bay So I guess that I’ll keep on towing the line And hope I find a better way Yeah, I hope I find a better way On the street, see them catch those feelings And try to unload a little lust While I choke down the pills to start my evening Lurking by like a sleazy mollusk Unsafe while the sky is blazing Shut my eyes until it’s dusk I close my mouth to keep my mind from screaming So pardon me if I sound brusque I'm less a man than I am a husk Well, how do you do? It’s so nice to meet someone new I hope you’re giving me clues That you’re happy to meet someone, too Maybe we could screw Then go out for a drink or two I don’t mean to be rude But don’t meet many people like you And I don’t have much time And I’m barely this side of my prime So please be kind And we can make one another feel fine
4.
I Ain't Dumb 05:05
When I’m not aware of you with all my senses Everywhere I go feels like a foreign land But I’d rather miss you than go on pretending That I’m not just living to be your man Thought I preferred being alone And learned not to ask took much from life Now I spend my time waiting by the phone Hoping that you’ll save you’ll be my wife Now I’m getting old and I’m too tried to play it cool Like I ain’t waited my whole life for you to come I know the way I act makes me seem like such a fool But baby, baby, baby, I ain’t dumb Sought out the cold ones, every sweet one turned me cruel Consoling myself with the lie that life is just a drag And when I met you, and I broke every rule Threw my fear in the trash with the red flags I was trying hard not to fall in love But my heart just gave itself away I won’t remember what I was so afraid of When I call your name on my dying day
5.
Bishops 03:06
6.
I seem like a prince, is it for real? Well you don’t know Maybe all that chivalry’s for show A good man is hard to find Well that’s just how it goes Sure as hell won’t settle for a pose That I’ll discard like dirty clothes Baby don’t you worry Baby don’t you cry Baby ask me any anything And I swear I’ll never lie But I don’t know what I can do That will make you understand That in this life there’s such a thing As a one-woman man Remember this Only you have all my love and tenderness Without you, I’ve lost my love and tenderness When things got spooky I was there to treat you good I’d have taken your place, if I could Does that not count, dear, All the trouble we’ve withstood? You don’t get a pat on the back for doing what you should Take your good works to the priesthood
7.
When I was 8 you brought some women and you got me outta bed I said I'll take the blonde one, then you told her what I said You could make me feel so small, you could make me feel unique When my pop called me Picasso, said "At least he ain't no geek" Hey dorkmeyer, can’t you see? I got a hole in my glass Just like that night you hated me When I was stuck in the past Singin' help me, help me, help me, help me, Rhonda Thought your family was uptight, man, I thought they looked down on us We gave you a place where you could drink and laugh and smoke and cuss But they understood the meaning of the bottle on the shelf With the freedom that we gave you, you slowly killed yourself Tell the one about Texas, or the time you played New York Tell the one about that bitch who dragged your sorry ass up north Thought your wife couldn't take it, thought she didn't understand She got stuck with a drunk when she mistook you for man I think about your last days, living down South No place left to run your filthy, quick, and brilliant mouth You were tryin' to make nice with the good ol' boys The kind who don't hear music, they say it’s all just noise But they didn't wanna know about somethin' dumb as culture They swarmed your drunken Yankee carcass like vultures When my mother called and told me that you died alone It broke my heart to hear it but I’d already known
8.
Dodge 03:54
I won’t let you see my cry I know you can’t handle my Looking so undignified I can’t wait to be alone with you You got me though so many nights Telling me what’s it’s like to die It was the sweetest lullaby It’s a telling I’ll never undo But I still feel alone when I’m with you You just remind me you’re still far away Lay down your arms, I don’t blame you That someday’s curdled to shame You got a lot on your plate right now You wanna talk but you’re not allowed You know I’ll make it through somehow I know you wish you could be here with me I’ll be right here years from now Not missing much anyhow I have your word but not your vow I’m yours on the day we’re all free I got nowhere to go without you I'm never gonna get out of Dodge Patience is no virtue If someday’s only a mirage
9.
My pockets are as empty the look I wear on my face But I know you think the problem is a hole in my heart But ain’t it you can endure only liquid embraces? And only from disembodied arms? Pull your name out of the night Doubt’s the blade that cuts the deepest Do not fear the dead of light Names like daylight keep no secrets No one left to give the rite Nothing left you need to confess Hide it all right in plain sight Use the world to keep your secrets Culling nightmare knowledge like it’s from a dirty magazine Righteous tongue and lips with a raunchy curl I don’t need to see it, and it ain’t my apathy Who really wants the power to change the world?
10.
Gleaming 03:57
It’s so unbearably clean I dream that you intervene I reach you for, I push my hand into the seam We need to be touched more than be seen I wish I could trade desire And all the guilt you’ve acquired All the good you tried backfired I can see it’s made you so tired I’ll give you everything I’ll tell you all I know If these white and peaceful wings Can ever bring me home I have never felt cold I’m safe and warm and controlled I wish I could feel the fear you have of getting old Don't let your secrets go untold You’ll say goodbye to me Inside my fever dreams I promise you will see Me blooming, bright, and gleaming
11.
I don’t mind that I’m always alone But my heart’s not made of stone I’ll never make it on my own I just know that someday I’ll meet the girl of my dreams I don’t mind that it’s cold in my bed Because I keep my hope well fed I see it clearly in my head I just know that love’s not As far off as it seems I don’t blame the government Or the climate scientists I don’t blame your daughter That we never get through this We made our choices, don’t feel bad It was nice that we had what we had Don’t let the memories drive you mad You’re your purest when you’re sad I don’t mind that you weren’t the one But our adventure still was fun Now that it’s all over and done I get a new chance To dream it up again Don’t you mind, and don’t question If we still share some passion That’s the dead weight of old burdens And I’d rather daydream Than remember when It’s not your fault you need to stay With the slob with the cushy job That pays the bills for the pills That replace your pain with a nodding haze You're right maybe we should’ve let it die And not let our love ossify We’d be free of hope, free of denial That there could ever be a you and I

about

YOU ARE THE MUSIC
by Mike Ferraro

I’ve known Anthony Schiappa over a decade. To me, he’s the Tone Bone, aka Tone’s Bone, and always will be.

It’s been a long time since those callow days of our fleeting youth when we met as graduate students. A lifetime ago, first making eyes at each other in Butler Library, eventually getting popped for open containers (his idea) in Riverside Park, and going down to the courthouse (twice) to pay the fine. The judge, a fellow Columbia man, threw the citations out with a wave and a laugh. Ah, it felt good to be on the inside of things—for once. Finally. In reality, this is as big of a hook-up as I’ve ever received as a result of my Ivy League tour of duty. Though I’m largely to blame for that, I’m sure.

Hijinks and misdemeanors aside, we were both in between lives, as everyone was in the fall of 2009. Living under the shadow of the Great Recession, we were hiding out, seeking some sort of succor and refuge in the citadel, our name for Columbia. Man were we stupid.

Yes, the joke was on us, but we eventually learned. Mostly we dicked around—on and off campus. Loafing in bars or in the back of the class, even once getting denounced by some dessicated professor as “the Marxists in the back,” to a roomful of sniggering twats. This was high slander, a euphemism of the lowest order. The gauntlet was thrown. He might as well have cockslapped us. But that old limp dick hadn’t gotten it up since Nixon was in office. We found the whole thing uproarious.

Meanwhile, I’m sure the sniggerers are all tenured somewhere. And we, proudly defiant, are not tenured anywhere, except in the ways of reified everyday life.

Then as now, we were both seekers, and wanted to believe in traditions, or at the very least, in the value of discipline and craft—that is, the slow and methodical accumulation of ideas and expertise. Applied to a rigorous, practical workmanship. At least I did. What fools we were. I believed in those things and wanted to doggedly pursue them. I still do. It’s my curse, and my dreary dispensation, in this simulacrum of real life that we prostrate ourselves before.

Totally stoopid, this donkey mind-set, I know. But I’m a peasant wop from way back—on both sides. From what I’m told.

It’s in the blood, unfortunately, so can’t fight it.

Yet, as with everything in this tawdry existence, you must find your own way. Which is exactly as it should be, finally.

Though Schiappa’s only a halfer, I think we share all this in common, and many other things besides. In fact, I know we do.

Above all, we’re slow learners, like I said.

Still, a relatively idyllic time, in retrospect. Who knew?

Another point of correspondence: Neither one of us is much of a joiner, which explains our toiling in obscurity. In part anyway.

Not a complaint really, just facts. The less said about it the better.

Which brings us to the music. Schiappa’s come a long way from demoing lovelorn and world-weary songs in my Hoboken practice room. But even back then I felt he was onto something. And the motherfucker can play. Out of the blue, he laid down a fierce, warbling George Harrison solo that scorched my eyebrows. I still laugh to myself when I think of it.

As his last two releases indicate, he’s still putting down lovelorn and world-weary songs, but with a lot more finesse and muscle. In fact, he’s released two records in two years, so the muse, as they say, is upon him. He’s catching and recording songs as fast as he can grab them, and it’s wonderful to see. I hope it stays forever.

Smartly, he’s found some top-notch players to back him and flesh out his ideas. Some of them are old faves, like Kevin Vespaziani, from the first record, while others are new recruits like drummer, Jeff Ryan (St. Vincent, The War on Drugs, Daniel Johnston), and mixed by John Dufilho (The Apples in Stereo, The Deathray Davies, CLIFFFS, Corner Suns). Through it all, the formula remains the same: two, three chords and an endless yearning. The confrontation with, and resigned acceptance of, life’s hard truths, and its timeless sorrows, in song. Simple, elegant, tragic. The goal, as always, is shards of poetry set to music. In this regard, CREATURE OF HABIT is my favorite number on IN THE TROUGH OF THE WAVE. Check this shit out:

Thing is, I’m not quite as mean
As I try to seem
But you know I cannot say
That I didn’t mean it
See, I became a master
Of the narcopathic smile
Imperious and pearly white
Is my perfect style

See, turns out Schiappa’s tough-guy narrator is really a tender asshole. Soft to the (tone)bone.

Hot Christ, aren’t we all?

That’s just one example. There are many choice moments here: the honky-tonk stomp of BEER IN THE MORNING, the earthy shoe-gaze interlude to SOMEDAY I’LL MEET THE GIRL OF MY DREAMS, the majestic pedal steel on I AIN’T DUMB, for starters.

You might call it “indie classic”—a recent coinage of Schiappa’s. Think REM, Guided by Voices, Ween, etc. All the good stuff that eschews the insufferable posturing of the soulless indie rock that’s dominated what’s left of the airwaves for a while now. You know the score, padre—it's either overdone neo-Americana or atonal nonsense. All that shit isn’t even bad. It’s something far worse: competently mediocre. Hyper-professional and nauseatingly bland. Well-mannered, defanged. Neutered, basically. Muzak to fill adtime to preening hipster dilletatntes too dumb to know the difference. Or care if they did. The perfect, vapid soundtrack for this already dead century and to witness the fall of Amerikkka, from our obsessively scrubbed, quarantined homes.

Rock is an exhausted form, it’s true. But the true believers and true practitioners persist regardless—and are always finding that screaming joy through those bleeding three chords and the jangle blast of melody and feedback. Always on the hunt for that honesty and that danger, which, whether exhausted medium or not, is eternal. And they’re forever getting off on it—another essential component to this thing. Perhaps the most essential. It’s an inexhaustible quest for primal lyricism, plain and simple.

As our boy Ezra P. exhorted a century ago: “Make it new!” Or as my main man T-bone hisself puts it in THE MUSIC: “You can’t hear the music / because you are the music.”

The only reason to do this is to do it.

All lifers know what the fuck I’m talking about. The rest simply don’t matter. And Schiappa has done it, and is doing it.

It pleases me to no end to ring the bell on these tunes for my good pal—the one, the only—Toney-bone.

Now these tunes are yours. Dig:

credits

released June 11, 2021

In the Trough of the Wave
Written and directed by Anthony Schiappa
Except “Names Like Daylight,” music by Kevin Vespaziani and lyrics by Anthony Schiappa
Produced by Anthony Schiappa and Kevin Vespaziani

Recorded at Schiappa Wine Cellars, Steubenville, OH – Anthony Schiappa, engineer
Additional recording at
Consolvo Studio, Dallas, TX – Jerome Brock, engineer
Le Stanzine, Harrisville, PA – Kevin Vespaziani, engineer
Bedbug Studios, Pittsburgh, PA – Kevin Vespaziani, engineer

Strings performed by The Ink Spot Orchestra

Mixed by John Dufilho

Mastered by Dan Coutant at Sun Room Audio, New Windsor, NY

Photography by Monica Mull
Cover lettering by Michelle Garrett
Booklet by Jessica Gordon
Art direction by Anthony Schiappa

Administered on this mortal coil by Cold Baby Music, Ltd. (BMI)
Copyright 2020 The Stars of Disaster / Railroad Ave. Records, Ltd.

“Creature of Habit” contains a sample of a field recording of the Abruzzese folk song “Mezza lu grane nasce na canzona.” Public domain. Available at: canzoneitaliana.it

Thank you: Nathalie Bruce; Mike Ferraro; Tammy Michael; Hannah Mull; Dan Pavlik; Michael Siciliano; Dave, Kate, and Geoff.

Special thanks to Jeff Ryan, and to We Know Better Records, Dallas, TX. And to my mother.

Dedicated to Mikey.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, locales, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons – living, dead, or betwixt – or to actual events is purely coincidental.

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The Stars of Disaster Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Classic indie rock-inspired non-stop get-down lovingly hand made in Pittsburgh, PA

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