weakerthans silentbob Diagnosis I have a headache. I have a sore back. I have a letter I can't send. I have desire, it falters and falls down, it calls you up drunk at three or four a.m. to wonder when...wonderful. All the cheap tricks I tried too hard not to pull. Pulled along or pulled apart. The diagnosis of a foreign frame of heart. I have a story that I'd like to tell you, it's littered with settings and second takes. I have a feeling that hums with the street lights and hides under ice in always frozen lakes. My mistake to make you cringe. Another greeting like a broken creaky hinge to oil and push or pry apart. The diagnosis of a foreign frame of heart. Found a cure for being sure, and, sure as anything, I'll smile for my reckoning. 000817 ... silentbob None Of The Above All night restaurant, Norh Kildonan. Luke warm coffee tastes like soap. I trace you outline in spilled sugar, killing time and killing hope. This brand new strip mall chews on farmland as we fish for someone to blame. But we communicate in questions, and all our answers sound the same. Under sputtering flourescents, after re-fills are re-filled. Negotiations at a stand-still, spoon and rolling saucer stilled. If you ask how I got so bitter, I'll ask how you got so vain. And all our questions blur together. The answers always sound the same. We can't look at one another. I'll say something thoughtful soon, but I can't listen to the quiet so I hum this mindless tune I stole from some dumb country-rock star. I don't even know his name. It's like my stupid little questions: the answers always sound the same. Tell me why we sound so lame. Why we communicate in questions and all our answers sound the same. 000817 ... silentbob Sounds Familiar We emerged from youth all wide-eyed like the rest. Shedding skin faster than skin can grow, and armed with hammers, feathers, blunt knives: words, to meet and to define and to... but you must know the same games that we played in dirt, in dusty school yards has found a higher pitch and broader scale than we feared possible, and someone must be picked last, and one must bruise and one must fail. And that still twitching bird was so deceived by a window, so we eulogized fondly, we dug deep and threw its elegant plumage and frantic black eyes in a hole, and rushed out to kill something new, so we could bury that too. The first chapters of lives almost made us give up altogether. Pushed towards tired forms of self immolation that seemed so original. I must, we must never stop watching the sky with our hands in our pockets, stop peering in windows when we know doors are shut. Stop yelling small stories and bad jokes and sorrows, and my voice will scratch to yell many more, but before I spill the things I mean to hide away, or gouge my eyes with platitudes of sentiment, I'll drown the urge for permanence and certainty; crouch down and scrawl my name with yours in wet cement. 000817 ... silentbob Anchorless (originally done by Propagandhi, but still written by John K Samson) They called here to tell me that your're finally dying, through a veil of childish cries. Southern Manitoba prairie's pulling at the pant leg of your bad disguise. So why were you so anchorless? Shoebox full of photos; found a grainy mirror. Sunken cheeks and slender hands. Grocery lists and carbon-copied letters offer silence for my small demands. Hey how'd you get so anchorless? Got an armchair from your family home. Got your P.G. Wodehouse novels, and your telephone. Got your plates and stainless steel. Got that way of never saying what you really feel: so anchorless. A boat abandoned in some backyard. Anchorless in the small town that you lived and died in. 000817 ... silentbob This A Fire Door Never Leave Open Headlights race towards the corner of the dining room. Half illuminate a face before they disappear. You breathe in forty years of failing to describe a feeling. I breathe out smoke against the window, trace the letters in your name. Our letters sound the same; full of all our changing that isn't change at all. All straight lines circle sometime. You said "Somewhere there's a box full of replacement parts to all the tenderness we've broken or let rust away. Somewhere sympathy is more than just a way of leaving. Somewhere someone says 'I'm sorry.' Someone's making plans to stay." So tell me it's okay. Tell me anything, or show me there's a pull, unassailable, that will lead you there, from the dark, alone, benevolence that you've never known, or you knew when you were four and can't remember. Where a small knife tears out those sloppy seams, and the silence knows what you silence means, and your metaphors (as mixed as you can make them) are linked, like days, together. I still hear trains at night, when the wind is right. I remember everything, lick and thread this string that will never mend you or tailor more than a memory of a kitchen floor, or the fire-door that we kept propping open. And I love this place; the enormous sky, and the faces, hands that I'm haunted by, so why can't I forgive these buildings, these frameworks labeled "Home"? 000817 ... silentbob History To The Defeated There's blood in the sink, and he's plunging his wrists in. A hangover halo is washing away. Mechanic-school dropout stares into the mirror, stands up in his derelict daydreams. Always too tall, always walked around wearing a smile that was never quite sure of itself. Planning a future of failures inflicted in phone calls from strip clubs and bail bonds. Don't give me that look, I looked harder than most did, let details like sharp nails punch holes in my shoes. Soft-traced to frown as I put the receiver down. Where do I go for a pardon? There's a light left on. There's a pace to our direction. There's a movie-still of a heart I'd like to mention. We're listing what's left: a signed Slayer t-shirt, a car up on blocks in his mother's back yard. 000817 ... silentbob The Weakerthans formed in 1997. Previously, John Samson played bass in the successful band, Propagandhi. With no animosity or drama, he decided on the need for change. The Weakerthans formed organically. They were all part of the Winnipeg punk community and knew one another pretty well. "We began playing with no expectations, and try to keep that attitude and enjoy ourselves," said John, now lead vocalist and guitarist. The Weakerthans have been called everything from "prairie soul" to "a collection of punk bandits." Although these descriptions work for their stripped-down sound that lyrically runs fingers over the often frayed threads of human connection, they prefer to simplify their music to one word. Honest. While there are four people directly in the band -- which also includes Stephen Carroll (guitar, backing vocals), Jason Tait (drums and saw), and John Sutton (bass, backing vocals) -- The Weakerthans are comprised of other inseparable components. Winnipeg, the city itself, is the setting for their themes of alienation and the struggle to overcome it. "I think that people understand the local in a universal way," John says. "Any definition of a sense of place allows people to look at their own communities and surroundings with new perspective and hopefully appreciation." Another defining component is The Weakerthans intimacy to their audience. "We simply want to convey some sense of connection. Ideally, we’d like our music to express the fact that no one exists alone, and that silence is not an option." Humility, refinement, restraint, and dignity aren’t words usually bandied about when describing the commercial success of a band. Yet, on these strengths, The Weakerthans’ first full-length, "Fallow" peaked at #50 on the CMJ top 200, was on the chart for 10 weeks, culled "Album of the Year" honors by Perimeter Magazine, and was named one of the best ten albums of 1998 by the CBC’s National Radio. They were also featured on last year’s very successful Take Action Tour in the U.S. and had an amazing show at SXSW 2000. While accolades and acceptance by the media are appreciated, the true victory for the Weakerthans is they are creating a very real, widespread grassroots fanbase garnered largely by word of mouth. Word will spread quickly, as they are scheduled to tour extensively in the future. A portion of the proceeds from this recording goes to Art City, a non-profit art center in Winnepeg. John, who co-founded the Arbeiter Ring Publishing, a collective, feels that Art City is a working example of "the revolutionary potential of art in action." Art City provides free art programming to all ages, that fosters young artist with self-expression, self-respect, and pride in their work and their community. 000817 ... claudia shit, i saw them at the exclaim party at the reverb in toronto. i was in the front row being pushed up againt the stage and i saw them and they were so awesome. i just thought i'd share that. 000818 ... silentbob i saw them tuesday the 8th in minneapolis at the foxfire, it was far and away the most awesome show i ever saw, right next to bouncing_souls and lessthanjake really really awesome. a guy offered me a shroom, but i declined 000818 ... claudia awesome. truly. 000819 ... silentbob i said lessthanjake but i must have meant less_than_jake 000820 ... claudia must have. 000821 ... splinken little bob likened emo to the blues. thought about that some while driving home from school. it is like the blues. it's the blues for white people. that's why its so whiny. 000822 ... silentbob guys, guys Zarah bought three cds, two of which were Left and Leaving and One of which was Fallow. I bought for ten_dollars one of the Left and Leavings and you all must know that the weakerthans are beautiful! this cd had lyrics that touched me much more than Fallow did, but it didn't just touch me, it gave me a full body massage. 000822 ... splinken Left and Leaving broke my face. it broke my fucking face. i'm going to hitchhike to canada. and i'm going to find that little man. and i'm going to say, "hey buddy, thanks for the bit about the blue christmas lights. you put that you-know-what into words, and this is what you get." and then i'm going to punch him. or give him a hug. or hand him a butterscotch candy. oh hell. to winnipeg. 000903 ... silentbob he's as tall as me which is like 5'7, i think thats funny. 000903 ... b When one respects nothing, it is no trick to be brilliant...and without reverence, humans may act like silly twittering birds, always playing with worms. 000903 ... Goethe Words are good but they are not the best, the best cannot be explained in words. The spirit in which we act is the highest matter. Action can be understood and again represented by the spirit alone. No one knows what he is doing, while he acts aright, but of what is wrong we are always conscious. Whoever works with symbols only, is a pedant, a hypocrite, or a bungler. There are many such, and they like to be together. Their babbling detains the scholar; their obstinate mediocrity vexes even the best. The true instruction which the true artist gives us, opens the mind; for where words fail him, deeds speak. The true scholar learns from the known to unfold the unknown, and approaches more and more to being a master. 000903 ... silentbob what the hell are you guys talking about? 000903 ... Louis Wu "Oh, What force on Earth could weaker than the feeble strength of one ?" 001127 ... silentbob i love you louis 001127 ... Louis Wu why thank you kindly ... "in love with Louis Wu and lousy poetry ....." 001128 ... the boy with the thorn in his side I want to grow up and be like John K. Samson. I'm very serious. 010228 ... bijou blather_want _ads 011211 ... Persona I saw them a month ago in Halifax... great band. Catchy. 011213 ... silentbob i respect you persona. see them again and we'll be tied 011213 ... Persona silentbob, do you have a taste for math rock? Never do I see such performances as those conjured up by Weights and Measures or Rockets Red Glare. (listening to Weakerthans now) 011218 ... silentbob unfamiliar 011219 ... kill rhythm wow silent bob. im amazed. i cant believe someone thinks the same way i do about this band. all my friends think they are crap...if they even know who they are. i love left and leaving. its one of my favorite albums. 020323 ... kill rhythm left and leaving my city's stil breathing, but barely it's true, through buildings gone missing like teeth. the sidewalks are watching me think about you, sparkled with broken glass. i'm back with scars to