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Sultans So Old So Cold

by Sea for Miles

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1.
thank God here comes our spring the birds fly with missile wings and the bees are sure to sting but the greying skin of their brethren will still be old and wrinkly and in the dying man’s club, young blood and a flashy sport suit tie toothy smiles try to keep it down down down four long weeks she hid while the tank brigade slid into her home and how her mother moaned under a hazy moon belied by the city lights in a country to be renamed and in the dying man’s club the bank accounts are filling up they’re filling up and on the quarterly a face known formerly as a friend a friend and now a foe foe foe
2.
Fiddleheads 03:16
the cold dry of the winter sky sneaks up on the fall her hair grows dark as her skin turns white as we slip through these nights horn blows at noon and nine marking the time an eyelash falls from her eyes a wish for no one to see when this island’s just a prison between the sea the storm of those fallen and salt on our skin reminds us to live just the prospect of the spring keeps us waiting keeps her waiting but till the fiddleheads stick their necks up through the snow, away I will go
3.
plastic stars over my bed, a constellation let's put the world back at the center as if Copernicus never did wonder the green glow fades into grey but I’ll illuminate we’ll pray to the good gods instead ‘cause they’ll put a strong light over our heads we’ll make a tent out of my sheets so we can make believe the pharaohs and sultans so old, so cold in this northern of lands they’ll keep neat their camel backed fleets and bow to kiss our feat we’ll ride with pillows under our bums the innocence of mankind still sucking it’s thumbs
4.
Stale Air 04:47
fly away in the night stale air flown across the world in a steel tube interference in the clear atmosphere above machine man, he moves because he can we will find our way to Kerala the Western Ghats our Shangri-La speak the betel chewers tongue the North Star we will ignore the contours of the mountains pour from a crinkled cut out map the tourist guides we’ll burn them all set fire to that suburban call for a home a car and things we will float down the Backwaters in a houseboat we built ourselves with the sun upon our backs
5.
the window washer’s daughter takes lots of pills she slips out at night with twenty-dollar bills the long beaded locks on the head of his little girl all tied into knots where there once were curls evening air clings to their shirts and their hair as they lay in separate beds a solitary pair but he laid awake listening to her sleep as she danced in her dreams to electronic beats he slipped into a well where moss ran up the sides, where deep dark secrets like slimy creatures lie he lost his mind, he lost all his will he put all his heart on a cold window sill she’s so high, so light she flies out through the window past the buildings and forests down to the seaside and she splashes in the water and drowns in the waves he watches his daughter get washed away he wakes with the sun the dew at the dawn he looks out his window and lets out a yawn he looks for his girl between a bear and a bed ‘neath the shelf full of books and stories that he’d read her but he knows she’ll be gone to another man’s arms, where pain meets pleasure meets dull-eyed charm she says I’m so high, so light I fly out the window past buildings and forest and down to the sea I splash in the water and drown in the waves and I’m sorry my father but I’m washing away
6.
Carl 03:37
Carl tell me how we’re all made of stars how we’re all just slipping by on some spaceship ride through the dark Carl tell me, is there such thing as God? ‘cause my mind can’t grip ahold of more but I know my grasp is small hey hey Carl my friend is it that we’ve reached the end of the cosmos, I sure hope that’s so Carl tell me, are you afraid of death? or might it not exist but in our human heads? Carl I have a Cashmere knit turtle-neck sweater that I’ll wear it’s just not fair, I still can’t see and you hold the key hey hey Carl my friend is it that we’ve reached the end of the cosmos, I sure hope that’s so
7.
Mango 02:57
squeeze the lemon, drip drop to the bottom of my cup a sip of tea in the shade of a mango tree an awakened colonialist, plastic bottles of water and beer he takes a piss on the wall of the train station hall has life crashed all around here? he may be young but he’s old for his years swollen mango in hand, stale cigarette on the breath of his lungs he snaps a photo of a beggar by the bathroom stalls there’s mango juice running down to his chin on its way to the ground he feels so rich when he should be feeling poor has life crashed all around here? he may be young but he’s old for his years the train’s leaving by nine, he’ll hop on to go for a ride to the mountains where he’ll be comforted by the cold train tracks leading west lain down sometime long in the past trash thrown out the window glitters in the sun
8.
Winter Grace 04:28
your old car has been broken down for weeks we keep pushing it to the opposite side of the street cursing under our breath the parking police hold on girl nine months more on our lease as foretold New England homes are dripping with the snow all so cold those northern bones are shivering ‘neath their cloths she says “I’m growing old in this solemn subtle freeze” and I can’t help but feel alone ‘neath the crooked naked trees so close your eyes while winter blows through the cracks of our walls wraps her frigid arms around us with a chill you can't ignore pull up sheets pull out wool, to a squall we acquiesce an apartment ghost sweeps and moans then scurries past our door the building din, old and worn in like footsteps on the floor we will dream of warmer things figs and orange trees when your old car gets fixed we’ll drive a southern breeze she says “I fear that I might never leave this place, but it’s not so bad I guess, lest I lose my winter grace” just close your eyes while winter blows through the cracks of our walls wraps her frigid arms around us with a chill you can't ignore pull up sheets pull out wool, to a squall we acquiesce

about

A lyrical journey through winter depression, neocolonialism, the Arab Spring, and the heartache caused by distance.

"...the type of haunting album you’ll want to revisit again and again." - ☆☆☆☆ The Portland Press Herald

This album took over two years of sporadic sessions in my father's attic studio in Portland, Maine, to come to fruition. It has been incredible seeing these songs, written between long train rides in India and snowed-in nights in my Portland apartment, become collaborations involving so many talented musicians from the Portland scene. Members of Butcher Boy, Post Provost, The Waldos, and Where's My Friend, have made this album what it is. I cannot thank my friends and family enough for supporting this project. Special thanks are due for my father, Michael McInnis, who mixed, mastered, and performed on every track of this album. He gave up more of his weekends to this project than any producer ought to. It would never have been possible without his support. Thank you.

credits

released April 15, 2014

Matt McInnis - Vocals, Acoustic Guitar, Uke
Michael McInnis - Synths
Elliot McInnis - Drums
Dave Gagne - Vocals, Drums
Saeko Nishimura - Accordion
Tom Blackwell - Drums
Robby Coffin - Guitar
Justin Glover - Guitar
Annika Earley - Vocals
Charlotte Royer - Vocals
Michael Burd - Bass

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Sea for Miles Portland, Maine

Sea For Miles is a Portland, Maine, based experimental folk rock project.

Currently Matt McInnis and Craig Reynolds

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