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    Official release date is December 1, 2013, but friends and fans may purchase the album now. Physical copies ship within a few days of ordering.

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about

No. 8 Wire is the second full-length recording from the Worthless Son-in-Laws, recorded at the Fidelitorium with Mitch Easter (Let's Active, R.E.M., Game Theory, etc.), with songs inspired by wayward adolescence, snail-mail, evolution, Edward Abbey, New Zealand, friends, family, and other things close to home...or halfway around the world.

credits

released December 1, 2013

The Worthless Son-in-Laws / No. 8 Wire

Recorded at the Fidelitorium, Kernersville, NC
Additional tracking at Lazy Limbertwig Farm, Vilas, NC
and at The House in the Hollar, Fox Cove, NC
Engineered by Mitch Easter / Bob Engel / Worthless Son-in-Laws
Produced by Mitch Easter / Worthless Son-in-Laws
Mastered by Scott Craggs, Old Colony Mastering

The Worthless Son-in-Laws are:
David Brewer: drums, additional percussion, harmonies, noises, rude comments, porch, music trivia
Rich Crepeau: bass guitar, chips, candy, mod-art practice room
Rob Brown: electric guitar, vocals, gear fetish, roots
Jimmy Davidson: vocals, acoustic guitar, piano, sound effects, insatiable appetite, pacing, staring off into space a lot

Additional musicians:
Electric guitar on 12 by Mitch Easter (mitcheaster.com)
Rolling sea of violins on 7 by Melissa Reaves (melissareaves.com)

1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 11, 12 ©2013 James M. Davidson
4, 10 ©2013 Robert N. Brown

Orchard Hill Media #OHM0002

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The Worthless Son-in-Laws Boone, North Carolina

“The songwriting...is through the roof here both melodically and lyrically, bolstered by a band that nails the songs with pinpoint perfection.... The vocal delivery...is rock solid on what can only be deemed one of the most pleasantly surprising releases of the summer. This one rests near the very top of the ‘highly recommended’ list.”
—Bill Hurley, The Alternate Root
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Track Name: All Your Might
ALL YOUR MIGHT
(for Vivian)

Put on your red stocking cap
You don't want to get shot at
Walk the Horton-Shipley line
And stitch together that blue sky x2

And sing with all your might

Conquer kings and queens and rooks
Dig down deep into your books
Know what's right, write what you know
And make them prove what they say is so x2

And learn with all your might

Help your mama make the bread
And help her plant the flowerbeds
Gather the eggs and thank the hens
Speak your mind, but love your friends
Listen to and love your friends

And love them withal
Love them with all your might

Don't worry about heaven
Or the old prevailing tide
Don't worry yourself with worrying
Just live your life
With all your might.
Track Name: Not That Far
Not That Far

Well, I’ve been to the top of the mountain
And I was duped by the youth ministers
And I attended all of those meetings
But I was mostly there for the girls
And that turned out to be a pretty good reason.

I’ve been arrested for a misunderstanding
I’ve been busted for telling the truth
I’ve done worse that I never got caught for
I almost got away with wasting my youth
Trying to keep all my options open.

It’s not that far, it’s not that far
From the case to the crush.
Not that far, not that far,
From the look to the lust.

I’ve climbed the towers of the ancient cathedrals
I have walked along the Great Wall
And seen the ruins of the old Roman forum
I’ve marked how the mighty fall.
And how they leave mostly rocks behind.

I’ve spent hours in the libraries
I’ve pored over the old documents
And translated the faded handwriting
And I haven’t been back there since
I started feeling like the end of the line.

It’s not that far, it’s not that far
From the forge to the rust
Not that far, not that far
From the core to the cusp
Only one small surgery
Between the boom and the bust
Barely one slight century
From the dust to the dust
From the dust to the dust.

Just one singular sliver,
Just one tiny taste
Of this one sweet second.
Where there’s no second place.
Track Name: And Now For the Good News
And Now for the Good News

In the fading of the evening light

In the middle of an uncertain life

With the seven hours gone

Working the wheel, the wire, the hammer, the hill, and the stone,

With the coaching and the talismans, and still

You are wet to the bone

The bodyguards of the breakneck pace

Kicked you out of their crew

Here's your chance

To stand up straight

And embrace
 this good news

You're sleeping
to compress the time

You're leveled out

And glassy-eyed.

The bodyguards...

Here's to the misfits and the loners,

The comediennes and the stoners.

Love to the lost philosophers,

Love to the maidens of honor--

I honor you.

Oh, how I would lift you up

And carry you home.

C'mon, let's go home.
Track Name: Things You Say
i write myself a note to speak less and try to hear
when talking turns to feeling my words aren't very clear
i analyze the things i say i turn myself to stone
the words i say are useless now like plastic beads they throw

sometimes i drive real slow and take the curves with care
forget about the mirror's light i contemplate what's fair
i ask you what i ought to know i'm feeling guilty all the time
you're in this thing and close to me
I hope everything is fine

it happens all the time
and it wont be pushed away
i feel it down within my chest
i don't mind the things you say

the idea dawned on me last week or was it twenty years ago
careless laughs are tossed right off and weeds of anger grow
my friends are all around me now no attacks come from the rear
so take it easy take it slow
i think the coast is clear
Track Name: The Luddite
The Luddite

Dozers and loaders and shovels erase the terrain
They carve out the coal and remake of a mountain a waste.

Where the machines have spoken
Digging the devil's token
What the machines have stolen
Won't be growing back.

The water ran black from the tap into his great-grandmother's sink
No one came to explain, no one paid, no one fixed anything.

The blasting and rude repacking
The walls in the basement cracking
Then when the flood came rolling
It all went down...

And when the last bale was piled on
He covered his head in nylon
Put all of his blackest clothes on
And stuffed his pack.

As he shouldered his fireworks through rubble and mud
His red light split the night into shadow and blood.

He set the tubes, lit the fuse, and flew staggering away
When they blew, how they blew,
And the new dark became his new day.

The plans of the malefactors
Didn't count on the counteractor
Backlit by the burning tractors
Returning medicine.

Leaving the land he grew in
At the end of his great undoing
Ruin begetting ruin
One battle down.

He made up his mind to kick out all the teeth
Of the beast and its priests and their wretched machines.

He would never sleep…
Until…

All the machines are broken...
Track Name: Origin
Origin

The silent sun climbs up the morning
It warms the air and primes the sea
Its light is life that even fuels by night
The auroras' fine fireworkery

The color still within the thin magnolia leaves
The flightless flies inside the golden amber beads

Make clear the crystalline endeavor
Through fleeting windows in the earth
To stitch and staple all the world together
And to launch the living matter from the dirt

The holy rollers flinch and fight with their own shadows
Those frozen lives residing somewhere after now
But out in the wider world of sediment and sparrow
The bleaching bones promote the flowering of doubt

Without
The feral fears
That paralyze and faze
Orchid and amaranth
Still easily amaze

All those threads parallel
Twisting and splitting
The mighty minuscule hands
Ever ticking…ticking…ticking….
Track Name: New York Times
New York Times

They work hard in Lyttelton Harbour
Where container ships roll in their berths
And the diesel smoke flows from the tunnel
He supposes it could have been worse

He thought he might see seven wonders
But mostly he saw seven seas
And the bottom of the bunk above him
And maps marked with depths and degrees

In the evening, he leaned on the railing
And watched the world move beneath him unchanged

He made friends with Russians in Sydney
He danced with Brazilians in Rome
He fell in love once in Dublin for most of a week
When anywhere was more or less home

He scrawled on the pages of sketchbooks
Where he graphed out his Grand Unified
But one warm night out on the Pacific expanse
He dumped them all over the side

He lived such that nobody noticed too much
Kept to his place in the line
But one day he sent off a letter
That got published in the New York Times

The New York Times









© James M. Davidson
Track Name: Francesca, the Field of Flowers in Our House
Francesca, the Field of Flowers in Our House

The sun gets up, but we can wait
Morning glory wants to sleep a little late.
After an hour, it will be time
To wake my pretty, procrastinating columbine.

You're as full of life as they come
My joyful peppermint geranium;
Calm and kind, what a spirit you've got,
I'm in awe--you are a true forget-me-not.

It's Saturday, in field and arbor,
In the greening garden--all over.

You're pulling flats in an antique wagon
Painted poppies following my fine snapdragon;
And there's a smile--I hope you know
I want you to be my only heirloom rose.

In the yard, new leaves,
Slow honeybees, drunk with spring.

And I am buzzing with that sense of purpose,
I am dizzy, doing circles in the doorway;
I'm homing in on a favorite--
It's you, it's you, it's you--and I will have no other.

If we take a walk around Cedar Lake
I always want to travel in your jasmine wake;
If we're on the couch, I take a look:
I see a delicate delphinium, pressed into a book.
Folding up the evening hours
With my sweet south-of-the-border sunflower,
You're my comfort, you're my love,
You're my shooting star, my lily, my foxglove . . .

In the air, vines climbing;
Roots intertwining underground.

And I just want to put you in my pocket,
Pick you up, and dance you down the hallway;
I'm holding on to a favorite--
It's you, it's you, it's you--and I will have no other.

Every moment, every hue, fully saturated;
You're the field of flowers growing in our house.
Track Name: Still Life With Cake
Still Life With Cake

The class clown is out of practice

All his lines come a minute too late

The journalist is out of questions

She is shocked to be in such a foreign state



The rate of change changes just enough...

It's hard to say where it all sped up.



The photographers hide out in the corners

Finding and freezing their fractions profound

The storyteller sweats in the spotlight

Even though she is purely background.



Sidelined and superfluous--

The special guest is a total bust.

(Down in flames.)

There is no finer way to go.
The interpreter who once was golden

Quickly recognizes his mistake;

He sees the awkward interloper

Hunkerin' down on his piece of chocolate cake.

The cool command is Kill! Kill! Kill!
There’s no reward for standing still.

(Beat the clock to a pulp.)

There is no mercy to mete out.

There is no favor; your luck’s run out.

There is no later; there's only now.
Track Name: Last July
Last July

I got your letter
It’s been a year
I know I shouldn’t have
But I read it fifteen times

Usually,
I frown on superstition
But here I am, giving heavy weight
To your every little move

Valentine awakened
Puncturing my armor of regret

So count me in
For another late night
With lightning hours

Will you accept
My backwards invitation
To extend
Last July?
Track Name: My Pocketknife Says "Life is Strange..."
My Pocketknife Says "Life is Strange…"

All the basic needs are met.
If I could only stop window-shopping, I'd be set.
Chemical delivery, aching electricity on the wire;
Old magnetic resonance relegating common sense to the fire.

Somewhat civilized,
But animal inside.

Forgot my hat again, and it's cold on my poor bald head.
Up one little hill, and then two or three, up to the fence-line hickory on the ridge.

A privilege to stand
At the finest spot in the land.

Chorus:
Etched on my pocketknife
Opposite the name
Time-worn and elliptical
The words, "Life is Strange…"

It's curious how it all tends to go astray
But sometimes the design dissolves in such a lovely way
Destinies and best-laid plans handed off to the idle hands of the Fates
Histories of missing years whisper into the willing ears,
"No, it's never too late."

And vital in the void:
The unexpected joy.

(chorus)