CREDITS / LYRICS
White Wine / Killer Brilliance
All songs written & performed by White Wine. Recorded and mixed by Fritz Brückner and Joe Haege. Recorded and mixed at Haunted Haus Studios, Leipzig.
Mastered by Carl Saff. Produced by Joe Haege.
Altin Village & Mine Records 2017. All rights reserved. If you try to defy us we will unleash the gods of war on you. And a hex from a witch. And we will tell your mom you are a bad person. Life is short. Don't be an asshole.
Massive thanking and thanking and thanking to:
Marcel Schulz, Jim Kühnel, Tristan Schulze, Bernd Brückner, Corrina Repp, Friederike Bernhardt, Junko Wada, Amélie D.Noordze, Katya Vlasova, Doreen Seifert, Philipp Hülsenbeck, Nicole Cosmic Starlight, Sarah Besnard, Andreas Oberschelp, Peter Meeuwsen, Pierre Templé, Olli Wysniak. Torsten Kohl, Annette Kessen, Zefrey Throwell, Lily Walters, Gunther Schirmer, Rainbow Press, Goldhorn Gang, all of our families, friends and...even some of our enemies.LYRICS / RUNNING ORDER
LYRICS / RUNNING ORDER
Broken Letter Hour
we need reasons we can't keep kept under lock and key. Defang the night. Murder Never Expires. It's a needy dust that punishes the child. Drop in on your conscience. It's the broken letter hour. “Apprapo...” oh, bullshit. We've been high for 7 hours.
Feeding on the flesh of the young and indifferent, while zombies of content access of excess. Fodder in synopsis, we abstract the template. Wait a minute. Just one second. Give them a taste test while we glean a statement. Oh so digital in our indignation. Contain mistakes with secret meetings. Flip the script. The data needs teasing. Place-hold your own while you confuse the mandate. Talk it up and abstract the template. We need reasons like anti-matter needs that which matters. Hurry home, baby. Pecking order scrapes on the nape of your neck. She who chooses you must need a needle in the bed must need a needle in the bed so bad. Hurry home.
“We're in it from the beginning. We're all culpable. We're all culpable. The rules keep changing, same with behavior. What was once the devil can now be see as the savior. Does it make you sick? Mythical dissidents and tipping point idiots crowd in the hull of a boat that's sinking quick. And up on the starboard deck hopeful fanatics are running in hamster wheels, still so emphatic.”
^^^: say what?
***:I don't know what to say
^^^: What to say? I don't.
+++:Know what to say
(From a mouth so wicked killer, brilliance. From a mouth so wicked, killer killer brilliance.)
Corruption. Distraction. Suppression. Reaction. Denial. Depletion. Anemic concessions. Elation. Depression. Evasive. Eviction. Divisive. Redemption. Contentious confusion. Derided solutions. Surface sequester. Appalling improvement. Prediction. Misfortune. Extinction. Exception. Fake coronation. Mistaking equations. Meta affection. Unconscious attrition. Imbued through to nuisance, while tempting irreverence. Subtle encumbrance. Demeaning divestments. Colloquial jokes for the feckless attendants...Abundance.
Head said do the dead mouth, “pick up and run. Even though there's no way out, you're holding the gun. I'd run.” Blood red lips from said dead mouth are pressed against a glass. Wondering if and aloud if this could ever last. Or is this the last chance.
All these antidotes we seem to feed ourselves. As if anything was going to change, but I'd give anything to click my heels and wait for an anecdote to save the day. Then we could easily release the devil...and run like hell. Release. Release. Release. Release the devil.
Falling From The Same Place
...The same place. Falling from the same place. Falling from the same...place. The same place. Falling from the same place. Falling from the same...place.
With virtue comes misuse. And misuse begets lies. We're cornered on a canvas, and that canvas just won't dry...The same place. Falling from the same place. Falling from the same...place. The same place. Falling from the same place. Falling from the same...place. The same place. Falling from the same place. Falling from the same...place.
We've gilded our filters. It's like painting your eyes. I's pretty, no question, but only for disguise...The same place. Falling from the same place. Falling from the...place. Same place. Falling from the... same place. Falling from the... same place.
Seven letters brought together to try and kill you. Pretty soon your body's movin', but you don't want to. Begging every bone controlling your predilection. Why is it winter? And what's with the questions? Just put yourself to sleep and dream of secret heavens. Back when reaction was oh so knee-jerk. Retaliation in one direction. What's it now? Like dancing phantoms. Paint the devil. Ain't he handsome. Sarcastic caption, “win some. Lose some.” Seven letters brought together to appease you. Why in the world would they want to? Heaven only knows. And you know where that leads. You know where that goes.
Art Of Not Knowing
Imagine time, with space as it's witness. No shapes or disclaimers. Not even forgiveness. Nothingness branded on the skull of indifference. And we ran like it mattered, but we knew that it didn't. Feeling so wild, wild, wild, wild. Testing the “other”, while working together. Lecturing peasants on the virtue of “better”. Psychological stasis. Impersonal patience. Tactical habits for extended durations. Feeling so wild, wild, wild, wild..
Hour after hour. Every hour. On the hour. Every 15 minutes. And by minutes I mean seconds. Knowing...not knowing. The art of not knowing. Not Knowing. The art of not knowing...The living breathing exceptions. Selective, deceptive disciples of leverage. Snubbing extinction while fussing with function. I gotta tell ya, man, we're on to something. But I don't think it's what you think. I don't think it's what you think.
Process. Procedure. Your knee-jerk demeanor. The art of not knowing.
Bird In Hand
The streets were just crawling with people just dying to breathe. But a bird in the hand is so close and yet so out of reach. You know what I witnessed...I watched as they wondered aloud which monster would fuck up and bring it all down. I shotgunned my drink and visions of skipping town. Their reasons would vary from petty to fairly complex. And by the look in their eye you just knew that religion was next. Suspicion met anger and anger was itching to fight. One brought a gun and the other a bomb and his life. But before they could fidget, the world ran dry. Slow-motion suicide.
The streets are just crawling with people with something to prove. But when one of us wins some of us must lose. It doesn't make it any easier.