Being of Sound Body & Unsound Mind

by The Grievance Club

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    Packaged in digipack format, with a matte finish. Photography by Courtney Emery and layout by Steven Pitingolo.

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released August 19, 2016

Produced and Mixed by Steve Perrino at Compass Audio.
Mastered by Dan Coutant at Sun Room Audio.

All lyrics and music written by The Grievance Club.
Spoken word in "...A Lump in the Throat" performed by Tony Wade.
Trumpet in "Acedia Dreams" performed by Kelsey Stawiarski.

Photography by Courtney Emery



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The Grievance Club Kent, Ohio

New EP "Being of Sound Body & Unsound Mind," available now.

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Track Name: Hands (A Poem Begins...)
I'm finding that the days pass more quickly as I wait and watch
and an underlying sense of boredom when the sun drops.
Unlike Quentin C., I never wear a watch;
I don't need to hear the absence of ticking to know when sound stops.

I'm finding it straining to keep focus on photons remaining in residual light burnt out.
Ignoring phosphenes I used to chase after inside my eyes, like cat to mouse.

I feel the color in my face wearing away with time.
Slow burn,
my fingernails receding every day
I don't know why.

I'm finding a devil on my shoulder, he says inertia couldn't give a fuck about me if I ran straight into it, let it stop me in my tracks.
He told me he'll make work for idle hands.

I'm finding flatness in my voice where tone used to exist,
And plateaus where I once could've sworn on mountains.
I haven't found a way to grip and twist the knots in my path, of my design;
It makes me wonder if my hands still work anymore.
Track Name: Brighter Bones
Aim when you're ready, aim when you're ready
We are not trophies, friend.
Parading our shelves to celebrate self,
The dust that we sell to savor the earth's intent.

The flow of serotonin is a form of bleeding
The tiny intermissions that we take from breathing;
So old, they grow so old.

Bring me a dream that I can mold.
Coveting a brighter locus of control.

Romanticize to ruin.
The upper hand is broken when comfort meets routine
I ruin what comes to fruition.

The specks of dust that float through our conversation
These shivers mean something, it's a reoccurring shift in tone.
And when I left your house I couldn't explain it...
remember the patience, remember when I felt so low.
...And the tension pulling my coathanger wire shoulders up toward the sky is the same that keeps me tethered close.

Pull me up with your brighter bones.
Bend the balance so I can grow.

The upper hand is broken,
The unsound is deafening.

The upper hand is broken,
and broken hands can only ruin.

Romanticize to ruin
The upper hand is broken when comfort meets routine,
I ruin what comes to fruition
So tell me something sweet.
Track Name: 645 Mae
The ashes in the attic's air
The company we share.
This is how a fortune ends,
through the best of intentions.

An arbitrary thought of where we want to be.
Carefully constructed pieces of machinery.
Let these pictures be reminders of the words we wasted in the wind.

Made me
of paper spine...
(Meet me at the dollar sign, promise me you'll waste my time)
...a creature of habit
and capital waste.

What can I say, it's easy to not give a shit when you're looking away.

Some hands will stay steady,
but my fingertips burn like coals in your throat.

Watch me burn
I'm holding the match and you're holding the gas and I burn.
I'm holding the match and you're holding the gas and we burn.

Time and perspective puts progress in its place
But I have to work for my happiness, and I refuse to wait.
Track Name: In Color & Tone
Lost grip of all my vices;
my fingers twisted pinching the thread.
The colors turn and sway inside my eyes,
No balance to be found ahead.

So you can crack the shell
Strip the skin
and waste away...
Way beyond the shoreline, find me at the bottom
grasping tightly for the tide.

Strip away the skin
Shed the rot within
the bones,
Amend and start again.

I'll draw mountains if you pull the waves.
I'll find a way to measure life beyond the ways that I sway
through cyclical days.

And in the cold of a winter's day,
I hear them speak in such clichés.
I see them bury their flasks and put salt in the gash,
and make amends with their enemies.
Because I know what I deserve, but I forgot the golden rule.
Our sights set on the safer things,
it's a symptom of security, the common fool.

Sleeping in until the winter sun goes down.
Color days in monotone.

Hold me over
Don't let me under the waves.
Hold me over, so you can settle the sway.

Erase the gray
Color me in tone.
Settle the sway.
Color me in.
Track Name: Serotonin
Summer, let me breathe.
There's air that you owe me.
Like the tongue and the teeth,
we remain in perfect harmony.

To obey and abide,
through the courses of commotion that'll dance in your spine.
Turning bodies to shrines, through the subtle intermission in a glass of red wine.

Severance, the calming course of reactions.
Do me in, and split me into tiny fractions.

We'll set the standard of spectacles.
(Trace down, and run slow)
And from there we'll seek a bug in a jar.
(...your hands along my imperfect western spine.)
Balance the atoms, our actions kinetic.
Prone to exist as a creature of habit.
One of seven voyeurs and observes,
so I can feel the scars that I deserve.

When you feel god's breath you best stay proper.

We speak of such well mannered hands.
A subtle spectacle of what we call a modern man.
What's their intent, what are their plans?

Oh, what a way to treat the skin.
(Civilized sound, the civilized sound.)
To squeeze tight below your chin.
Make my statue out of sticks and twine.
Or whatever you can find, it's fine, so fine.

The bird will boast his hubris at the stagnance of the snail.
The lion sits, awaits the blitz of feeding on the frail.
The snake and the swine never fail to realize
that the toad serves himself.
None of them serve you and I.
Track Name: Acedia Dreams
Clocked in late again today;
Lost my excuse and circadian sense
floating with the phosphenes, or swimming under folds of unlaundered sheets.

I dreamt that I hurt a friend, and I wondered what it illustrates.
I dreamt of diligence,
and the irony stirred me awake.

Make me up to be
made of blue & green.
Fold me from the knees and watch me bloom into a
luminescent thing.
I'm lifeless at the knees.

Midnight confessions will never bear fruition.
Midnight confessions will always grow their branches.

Confident but fearfully,
Covet productivity.
Chasing punctuality
(Bring my shoulders to my knees)
Coveting stability.
(Try to choke the jealousy.)

And I wonder what it says about me,
what should I assume?
I'm swimming in circadian gloom.

So make me up to be of blue and green
Fold me up at the knees.

Make me of harmony and spectral light,
and shed the rot within.

Make me weary of skeptic sight
My form hospitable,
My roots adaptable;
Saturate me in color and tone.