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Lyrics aren’t the peanut butter that hold my record sandwich together. I’m more of a beat and potatoes kind of guy. Why aren’t there more sandwiches with potatoes on them, fried or otherwise? Anyway, it’s not that lyrically-driven songs don’t appeal to me, it’ s just that sometimes I get easily confused. So most of the time the tone of the vocals get lodged in the old noggin but not the meaning.

However, there are exceptions to every rule. Why?’s Alopecia is a prime example of this. The lyrics in this album are becoming more and more ingrained within my subconscious with every listen. I’ll wake up some days and have one line stuck in my head all day and wonder what the hell it all means. Is frontman Yoni Wolf monitoring my dreams? Yes?

I think that’s entirely possible, seeing how we both lived at 33E McMillan St. in Cincinnati, albeit at different times . He very well could have installed a dreamcatcher under the floorboards beneath my bed before I moved there. Or he could have installed it behind the door that led to 33E’s Otherworld. The Otherworld was a secret staircase which overlooked a secret outdoor courtyard which sky nor God could ever touch. I know I shouldn’t have spent so much time in the Otherworld; the whispers in the stairs told me this from the very beginning.

The fact that I was in high school while he placed the dreamcatcher only solidifies my theory because I was the captain of my high school roller hockey team, which brought me lot of publicity. He must have read one of the many Enquirer pieces that featured my slapshot skills and said, “That guy must have some pretty interesting dreams. I’m going to capture those dreams, examine them, write lyrics to an enjoyable album based on those dreams, and then reexamine his dreams again after the album’s been planted deep withing his dome.” It’s just crazy enough to work.

This is an album that grows on you. After the first listen I didn’t really know what to think. I was told this was a hip hop album, which makes sense because it’s on Anticon Records. I was also told this was an indie rock album. I was told a bunch of things that made me expect something else. You have to go into this album leaving all preconceptions behind and just take it as something strangely beautiful. It’s taken me a few years to fall completely head over heels for its sound, which is dry and succulent at the same time, but it was total worth being patient.

Here’s a handful of lyrics from the album’s first side. I wanted to post lyrics from every song, but Yoni’s style of lyrical delivery exhausted my fingers. Yoni: the man with the golden lung. So you get a taste of what’s to come, but you’ll have to throw on the headphones to experience the rest. Also, I recommend retrieving those BIG headphones from their carrying crate for this one because there’s a lot to capture.

I’ve tried to get the following lyrics completely correct, but there may be small errors. After all, I’m the guy who thought the chorus lyric to the following song was, “Everytime you go away you take a piece of meat with you.”

-I’m not a lady’s man, I’m a landmine filming my own fake death. Under an ’88 Cavalier I go, nothing but the rear bumper’s blown.

-If you grew up with white boys who only look at black and Puerto Rican porno cuz they want something that their dad don’t got then you know where you’re at.

-Mortaring your earholes shut in a rush with wet coke in a Starbucks bathroom with the door closed, on booze. I’m left in residue and confused like the first time you used soft water. Down on my luck like Houdini when the last fist struck.

-At your house, the smell of two living human bodies and oven gas. You pray to nothing out loud; two first names and an ampersand embroidered proudly on a kitchen towel. You’re a beautiful and violent word with the skinny neck of a Chinese bird in a fading ancient painting, and if you’re in heaven waiting you made it there fighting, the tightest kite string in a bad storm with lightning.

-In Berlin I saw two men fuck in the dark corner of a basketball court, just the slight change of pocket change pulsing.

-Putting three quarters into a washing machine next to a caulked, cracked wall in the basement of Fairmount St. I feel like a loop of the last eight frames of film before a slow-motion Lee Harvey Oswald gets shot in the gut and killed–alone.

-I sleep on my back cuz it’s good for the spine and coffin rehearsal. I know a psychic who reads her own palms and the findings are personal. She keeps her fists closed tight and she sleeps on her side. Maybe she knows something I don’t know.

-There’s nothing more appealing than the sound of high heals down the marble tile hallways of your district’s one allotted city-funded steiner school, bilingual or Montessori, followed by a single high-pitched scream followed by breaking glass.

-Could your anger be mapped into an interpretive dance for a hip hop track, or could it be bowed out on strings, or could it be strung into a pattern for a God’s eye to bring to your alma mater’s holiday fundraiser boutique thing?

>>>Click Here to Download Alopecia 320 kbps


A1 The Vowels Pt. 2 4:04
A2 Good Friday 3:50
A3 These Few Presidents 3:04
A4 The Hollows 3:55
A5 Song Of The Sad Assassin 4:13
A6 Gnashville 3:49
B1 Fatalist Palmistry 3:53
B2 The Fall Of Mr. Fifths 3:16
B3 Brook & Waxing 2:35
B4 A Sky For Shoeing Horses Under 2:29
B5 Twenty-Eight 0:44
B6 Simeon’s Dilemma 3:33
B7 By Torpedo Or Crohn’s 4:04
B8 Exegesis 1:37