1. |
Lamentation
08:00
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Sometimes Daddy would handle snakes in church. Carried on the tradition from his daddy. Two preachers, two snake handlers. I remember Daddy would work odd jobs during the week. Sometimes he would fix cars or mow lawns. Hard to make ends meet being a preacher in a coal mining town. Daddy said he couldn’t work the mines cause he needed to be available if someone needed him in a time of crisis. Not down in some mine. There was a makeshift garage out behind the house. Daddy had a shortwave radio and would sit out there at night and be on that radio til’ 3 in the morning. Said sometimes if the weather was right he could get a signal all the way to Russia. Sometimes I felt Daddy communicated with these other places because he wanted to be somewhere else.
Mama sewed a lot and smelled like cough syrup something terrible. She would bake sometimes for folks who weren't doing well in the church. I think she meant well but she was disagreeable and would holler at the littlest thing. I always had the feeling she was afflicted by something that was deep inside. Maybe she wanted to be somewhere else. I generally just tried to stay in my room and write.
At times, when I was by myself I would talk to God. There was an old oak tree, probably been there since before the Civil War, just beyond the property. I would go there sometimes and sit under that tree and shut my eyes. Pretend I was somewhere else. I guess that was my way of praying. Close my eyes and recite over and over, I just wanna be away. I want to be away from this place. I want to float away. I want to be away. Please take me from this place. Please God take me away. Please take me away. Please God, take me away from this place. Please God, take me away from this place. Please God take me away from this place. Please God take me away. God please, let me be anywhere but here. Please God take me away. Please God. Take me away from this place. Please God. Take me away from this place. Take me away from this place. Take me away from this place. Take me away from this place. Please God………..please take me away from this place.
Samuel Goff - Vocals, Keyboards, Electronics, Drums, Percussion, Samples, Turntable
Lucas Brode - Guitar
Zoe Olivia-Kinney - Cello
Richard Schellenberg - Bass
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2. |
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Samuel Goff - Bowed Cymbals, Gong
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3. |
Ache
05:12
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I need.
I want.
I ache.
I crave.
I give you all I have that’s left.
You break me down and spit me out.
You speak of fire, I feel the void.
Your lips are sin, I taste the dark.
I need.
I want.
I ache.
I crave.
I give my blood, my life for you.
You feel my need, your poison, my lips.
Your heart is dark, your words are wet.
You take it all and leave me dead.
I need.
I want.
I ache.
I crave.
Samuel Goff - Vocals, Keyboards, Samples
Richard Schellenberg - Keyboards
Opal X - Drum Programming
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4. |
Witch Spit
10:02
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Samuel Goff - Vocals
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5. |
This Is My Body
05:30
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This Is My Body. This Is My Body. This Is My Body. Broken For You.
This Is My Body. This Is My Body. This Is My Body. Broken For You.
Repress your mind, reclaim control.
Transcend this skin, lose your faith.
Redemption, subjugation, strangulation, my body for you.
Salvation, redemption, crucifixion, my body for you.
Bondage and sin. Taste the flesh.
Wear the mask. Caked in shame.
I want to be godlike. Obey the chain.
You ask for devotion. Crave the pain.
I want to be
I want to be
I want to be
Godlike.
I want to be
I want to be
I want to be
Godlike.
Samuel Goff - Vocals, Keyboards, Samples
Damion Champ - Keyboards, Bass Programming
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6. |
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One time when I was about 11 or so, mama pulled me off to the side. It was a Saturday afternoon in the summer and mama said she had to run out. She told me she would be a couple of hours and for me to watch my two younger brothers. Instantly something felt wrong and a knot of anxiety welled up in my stomach giving me a sick feeling. She had never left us alone at home, not even for a second. Daddy had been gone all afternoon, he would usually go counsel folk from the church on Saturday so it was not odd for him to be gone. Mama must have caught wind of something else going on. There was a traveler’s motel at the edge of town, just beyond the creek, close to the highway. This motel was mostly used by traveling miners and hobos who would wander about looking for temporary work. There was also a train that let off right by the holler, so there was never any shortage of stranger about town. Somehow whether through town whisper or other means, Mama heard a rumor and decided to go see for herself. Come to find out later, daddy had been giving counsel, not to church folk, but to his brother’s wife at that traveler’s motel.
That night after the sun had long set deep in the holler mama came crashing through the front door. She looked something horrific. There was blood smeared on her face like a tattoo and blood all over the front of her cotton blue dress. Her hair was wild and unkempt like it had been pulled and was also wet with blood. Her face told a story of confusion, anger and sadness and her tears were mixed with the blood. She didn't say a word and walked past me to my horror. She walked slowly to her and daddy’s bedroom. She got on her knees in front of the bed as if to pray. There was an old family bible on the nightstand. It was one of the only fancy things that we had. The pages were wrinkled with time and much reading. Passages were underlined to study and remember later. She placed the bible in front of her on the bed as if it were an altar. She started ripping pages out of it one by one, and throwing them in the air, crying and cussing God and screaming. This went on for a while as if she was in a trance. Seemingly hundreds of torn pages from the bible, some smeared with blood lay defeated on the floor. I stood in the doorway watching, unable to speak. Finally I opened my mouth and just started to say the same thing over and over to her as if I wasn't talking to her at all but praying. “Please stop mama, please stop. Please stop mama, please stop mama, please stop.” She looked up at me, speaking my mantra, my faux prayer and considered me as I started crying myself. And as if coming out of her bible tearing and god cussing trance she stared at me with her blood caked and tear stained face. Finally she looked at me and said with her ruined voice…….”Son, faith quenches the violence of fire. But tonight I lost my faith. And gave in to violence.”
Nothing was quite the same after that. Mama tried but she never regained her faith. The incident became almost folk tale, whispered amongst the town folk. Word has it mama confronted the two at the motel and a scuffle ensued and mama and her fought. And in the ruckus, mama who was always quite fierce bit one of her fingers completely off and spat it on her. I only talked to mama about the incident one time and the only thing I really remember is her telling me she was picking skin out of her teeth for days afterward. Before I left the town forever, sometimes I would walk past that motel and try to imagine the events of the night and reflect on them. Because it wasn’t so much the violence that I thought of but that it was the end of things. The end of mama’s faith. The end of innocent times. The end of my childhood. In some ways, the end of my family. Maybe even the end of my faith. I still struggle with that….believing. My faith wavers through time like the sea. Sometimes I would go sit by those train tracks and pray to be anywhere but here. Often in my life I would think of mama’s blood and tear stained face looking at me and telling me……”Faith Quenches The Violence Of Fire.” And stare at the occasional train that would go past and wish I could just hop on and leave. Not caring where that train was going. As long as it was going away from this place.
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7. |
Inheritance
06:01
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Passages taken from the “Handbook of Psychopathy” Edited by Christopher J. Patrick published 2005, the Guilford Press
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8. |
This Is My Blood
05:56
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I am what I’ve done
I hate what I’ve become
This guilt is all I know
Regret, mine to own
This is my blood
This is my guilt
This is my shame
This is my pain
Change this vile body
Forgive this vile heart
I’ve turned my back on you
My sin is who I am
This is my blood
This is my guilt
This is my shame
This is my pain
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
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9. |
I'm Never Coming Back
05:29
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I’ve said goodbye to every room I’ve stepped in. When I was a kid I would have this recurring dream, the voice of God coming down from above so massive and crushing. So loud it was painful. In the dream I would lay on my stomach in the front yard, scared and crying, covering my head with my hands to protect me from the thundering voice. God’s voice. Unintelligible, not meant to be heard with human ears. After some time as such happens in dreams, I found myself floating way up in the sky looking down on my own terrified body. In this version of myself, seeing and experiencing the dream from God’s vantage point, I felt calm and still. A sense of serenity. This dream with me as both participant and observer became a part of me. I often wondered about the meaning behind it. Was God simply just presenting himself as both comforter and terrifyer? Was the dream meant as a warning? Guidance? Maybe omen? I dreamt of God’s voice many times in my childhood. The last time was the day I left home forever.
Months before I had hitched a ride to a neighboring town and joined the service. It was the fastest way I could think to escape Appalachia and my family. I had always told myself if I left I was never coming back. So that last day, I walked the town, saying goodbye. To the creek me and my brothers would play in. Walking down by the train tracks, down by the holler. Bending down and touching the rail one last time. Seeing the tree I used to sit under and practice writing and dream about being somewhere else. I walked past the outhouse and stepped inside the house one last time. There was a record that brought me comfort throughout my childhood. A record called “Nearer My God To Thee.” I put the needle on the old scarred surface, listening one last time. And then I left forever. On the bus out of town I saw the mountains and the coal mines and I cried as I left.
Time has passed. Some of the pain has lessened. Trauma is like a tattoo though, time may fade it a bit but it's always there, always with you. Sometimes now I’ll sit on my porch at night, the only light, the dying ember of my cigarette. The only sound, the chirping of the crickets and I’ll think back to my childhood and my home. Sometimes I’ll cry a quiet tear. Sometimes I’ll miss the mountains and the holler where I’m from. And like pain I’ve learned that place resides in you as well. Home….residing deep inside of you. I thought by leaving I could escape that. I’ve spent a lifetime escaping, saying goodbye. Saying goodbye to rooms and homes and people and cities. Sometimes the desolation is crushing. Now after so much time I feel home calling me back. Will the mountains remember me? The passage of time heals old wounds. As I sit on my porch I think maybe I’ll go back one day. Maybe I’ll have the courage. Maybe the demons are gone. Maybe I’ll go back. Maybe one day I’ll dream of God’s voice again. Maybe then I’ll go back. Yeah, perhaps then. Perhaps then I’ll go back……..
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Cacophonous Revival Recordings Richmond, Virginia
Our aims and goals will be to not be constrained by genre or geography but to have a unifying theme. One of passion, excitement and experimentation in music. We want to release styles as divergent in genre as avant garde, world music, experimental, jazz, noise, metal, hip hop, punk, classical, etc. ... more
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