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 show, back with the streets i know will never take me anywhere but here. the stain in the carpet, this drink in my hand, the strangers with faces i know. we meet here for our dress rehearsal to say, "i wanted it this way." wait for the year to drown. spring forward, fall back down. i'm trying not to wonder where you are. all this time lingers undefined. someone choose who's left and who's leaving. memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me. a blanket, some matches, this pain in my chest, the best parts of lonely. duct tape and soldered wires, new words for old desires, and every birthday card i threw away. i wait in 4-4 time, count yellow highway lines that you're relying on to lead you home. 020323 ... kill rhythm watermark i count to three and grin, you smile and let me in, we sit and watch the wall you painted purple. speech will spill on space, our little cups of grace, but pauses rattle on about the way that you cut that snow fence, braved the blood, the metal of those hearts that you always end up pressing your tongue to. how your body still remembers things you told it to forget, how those furious affections followed you. i've got this store bought way of saying i'm ok, and you've learned how to cry in total silence. we're talented and bright, we're lonely and uptight, we've found some lovely ways to disappoint, but the airport's always almost empty this time of the year so lets go play on a baggage carousel. set our watches forward like we're just arriving here from a past we left and a place we knew too well. hold on to the corners of today and we'll fold them up to save until its needed. stand still let me scrub that brackish line that you got when something rose and then receded. hold on... 020323 ... silentbob kill rhythm you have justified your existance 020324 ... kill rhythm slips_and_tangles 020328 ... AlmostAutumn i have played john k sampson's guitar. silentbob was there he can varify. "i know you are behind me and i press my shoulder to this wall determined not to turn around. i do and see you standing still that statue that i molded in my mind to kiss you'll never move again" 020509 ... silentbob Nothing better than new or rare or live songs. so fucking beautiful 030210 ... catherine never seen a better show in my life. 030218 ... catherine aside. measure me in metered lines, in one decisive stare, the time it takes to get from here to there. my ribs that show through t-shirts and these shoes i got for free. i'm unconsoled, i'm lonely, i am so much better than i used to be. terrified of telephones and shopping malls knives and drowning in the pools of other lives. rely a bit too heavily on alcohol and irony. get clobbered on my courtesy. in love with love and lousy poetry. and i'm leaning on this broken fence between past and present tense. and i'm losing all those stupid games that i swore i'd never play ... but it almost feels ok. circumnavigate this body of wonder and uncertainty armed with every precious failure and amateur cartography. breathe in deep before i spread those maps out on my bedroom floor. and i'm leaning on this broken fence between past and present tense. and i'm losing all those stupid games that i swore i'd never play ... but it feels ok. and i'm leaving, wave goodbye. and i'm losing, but i'll try with the last ways left to remember sing my imperfect offering. 030218 ... painted marbles what if the weakerthans were to play a show with bright_eyes ? i think i would have a heart attack. and then i would cry because, judging by my luck, i would miss it. 030220 ... evan Pamphleteer I'm standing on this corner. Can't get their attention. Facing rush hour faces turned around. I clutch my stack of paper, press one to a chest, then watch it swoop and stutter to the ground. I'm weary with right-angles, abbreviated daylight, and waiting for a winter to be done. Why do I still see you in every mirrored window, in all that I could never overcome? How I don't know what I should do with my hands when I talk to you. How you don't know where you should look, so you look at my hands. How movements rise and then dissolve, melted by our shallow breath. How causes dance away from me. I am your pamphleteer. I walk this room in time to the beat of the Gestetner, contemplate my next communique. The rhetoric and treason of saying that I'll miss you. Of saying "Hey, well maybe you should stay." Sing "Oh what force on earth could be weaker than the feeble strength of one" like me remembering the way it could have been. Help me with this barricade. No surrender. No defeat. A spectre's haunting Albert Street. I am your pamphleteer. 030317 ... verb Pamphleteer I'm standing on this corner. Can't get their attention. Facing rush hour faces turned around. I clutch my stack of paper, press one to a chest, then watch it swoop and stutter to the ground. I'm weary with right-angles, abbreviated daylight, and waiting for a winter to be done. Why do I still see you in every mirrored window, in all that I could never overcome? How I don't know what I should do with my hands when I talk to you. How you don't know where you should look, so you look at my hands. How movements rise and then dissolve, melted by our shallow breath. How causes dance away from me. I am your pamphleteer. I walk this room in time to the beat of the Gestetner, contemplate my next communique. The rhetoric and treason of saying that I'll miss you. Of saying "Hey, well maybe you should stay." Sing "Oh what force on earth could be weaker than the feeble strength of one" like me remembering the way it could have been. Help me with this barricade. No surrender. No defeat. A spectre's haunting Albert Street. I am your pamphleteer. 030317 ... silentbob yes a penguin taught me french back in antarctica hey do you have a ship? and a dozen able men? 031014 ... silentbob the sirens woke me up again i know they're coming for me someday, just a matter of when 031028 ... silentbob i know you might roll your eyes at this but i'm so glad that you exist 040314 ... silentbob so you don't get to be a saint martyrs never last this long so i don't get to be the one to defeat desire in a song here's a marker here's my naked skin our exhibit A make a small X where we lost our way 040320 ... The Marksman . 040321 ... jamesmartymartin watched the show at the big block of butter. drank at the powerplant, one after another. said "Hey, Johnny." he nodded and walked I think Jason threw his lighter at me. I just wanted to talk. 040502 ... notalice I love them. I really hope some one else enjoys them and has started a topic on them. BOY HOWDY do I ever. Email me some one. 040512 ... kill rhythm someone on their latest.. On this, their third record, The Weakerthans have outdone himself. The music is indie-pop genius and the lyrics are even better. The subject matter is relationships, both healthy and destructive, and personal reflection. Yeah, I know that's territory that's been mined to death but it's the way these subjects are tackled that make this a GREAT album. Reconstruction Site takes themes like these and compells you to sing along! Take the song "Uncorrected Proofs" for instance. It's a song about two people stuck in a relationship that's going nowhere but neither has the courage or the energy to do anything but keep going the way they are. Singer/Songwriter John K. Samson approaches this both dead-on and deadpan over a rollicking guitar driven track. By the end, when one party is saying, "We've been afraid to long," you'll be singing along with them... and smiling to boot! Track after track on this album is a winner. "The Reasons" is quite simply the best love song ever written. Samson lists out all the things that make his beloved special to him, for instance how she always knows to tell him "fuck off when I need somebody to" and that she never minds that he can't sing and can barely play guitar. The reason it's a fucking brilliant love song though is that he never tells her he loves her within the song. The chorus finds Samson singing, "I know you might roll your eyes at this but I'm so glad that you exist." It's a great song because it's REAL. My wife would think I was the corniest person in the world if I wrote her a love song a la Mariah Carey or someone of that ilk. However, I could easily dedicate this one to her because I DO love her because she tells me to fuck off and she makes me laugh and she doesn't mind my crappy guitar playing. Real songs for real people. That's what this whole record is about. On the title track, Samson sings that beauty is just another word he can't spell and while he doesn't necessarily appreciate it, "Misery never meant that much to me. It never sent a Get Well Card." Track after track on this album displays absolute lyrical brilliance. Musically it's sometimes muscular ("The Reasons"), sometimes meandering ("Reconstruction Site") and there's even some country thrown in for good measure ("A New Name for Everything"). Samson has a love/hate relationship with his hometown and "One Great City" is an instant standout as Samson sings about his home in Winnipeg, Canada. It's sarcastic title is instantly apparent as the chorus is, "I hate Winnipeg" and is sung over an intimate acoustic guitar. The lyrics are written through the eyes of other characters, a businessman leaving for the subway after work, the bus driver late on his route, etc. It's great stuff. Lyrically though, the standout and my personal favorite is "Plea From a Cat Named Virtue". In it, Samson's cat dresses him down for being a loser and tells him to get with the program because he knows Samson is stronger than he lets on. Complaining that Samson never wants to play anymore and sleeps just as much as he does, the cat goes on to suggest throwing a party with the neighbors and letting "your losses dangle off the sharp edge of the century". Some of the best lines are when the cat tells Samson, "I've been listening to those bitter songs you sing. They're not helping anything and they won't make you strong." It's a great moment of self-reflection and it's done in such a fun, anti-serious way that it hits home even harder than if he had taken the Nine Inch Nails approach. So, here we are in September of 2003 and I think The Weakerthans might have created the best album of the year. I'm going to play this often and loud so that I am reminded again and again that great albums are not something that you should take for granted. However, when you are paying $15.00 for a CD, you expect at least some quality music. Take note all you posers and made for consumption pop idols... The Weakerthans have raised the bar 040605 ... no reason there's a free show tonight downtown i want to go but i'm too sick i'm too sick for most things this weekend 080202 ... past and toronto's too far away for me... 080202 ... you poop head mr cut-cop-paste 100621 what's it to you? who go blather from