Songs of The Mike Smith Company

by The Mike Smith Company

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05:35
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04:20
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05:25

credits

released April 26, 2019

Jonathan Adjemian ~ Korg MS-20
Robin Dann ~ vocal
Rebecca Hennessy ~ trumpet, vocal
Mike Smith ~ bass, vocal, maracas, Moog Little Phatty, programming

Music and Lyrics by Michael Smith (SOCAN)

Recorded by Sandro Perri at Sonology,
except for all the DI junk that Mike did at home.

Mixed and Mastered by Sandro Perri.

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All-Set! Toronto, Ontario

Dedicated to releasing sounds from Toronto’s left-field music scene, All-Set! Editions aims to cover everything from bent song-craft to wobbly synthesis, with frequent stops between and beyond.

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Track Name: Terms of Venery
A Hargreaves of Cuffnells;
the spoils of impropriety;
this reckoning of daydreams;
an innocence of misguided intentions.

A weirdness of flangers;
the sounding of abstract fantasy;
a fault of misatributation;
this mystery of actualization.

A punishment of welts awaits
your fascination of crushes.
An artifice of flames engulf
the opulence of distraction.

An ignorance of details prevent
a competence of facility.
A flush, a sord, a suit, a puddling
come out of the sky and they stand there.

What counts in counts, in actuality:
A drift, a drove, a charm, a colony.
An ostentation, a pod, a pack, a company.
A zeal, a trip, a must'ring, a lamentation, a murmuration.
A scurry, a host, a rookery, an unkindness.

When accounting for what counts it would be wise not to discount these terms of venery.
Track Name: Forced False Setting
Once imagined fate has forecast
freedom of your own creation.
Will (what once was) wastes its wielder
bound in blinkers to a station.
Ill fit image cut when cradled
trained by frame and grown in malformed expectation.

Forced false setting!
What's made is laid, tucked tightly to your tote.
A twist but for the knot around your throat.
Some scoutly spirit sold a safer self,
but packed you'll find there's room for nothing else.
Track Name: Something Fell
Something fell.

Something changed things for yourself
without means to express the change without.
There is no badge but your resolve to crush the one who has fallen.

You dig a grave,
drape yourself in mourning wear:
a roughly sewn uniform of something else.
A cherry-picked pantheon,
feigned formality,
callous rubbed against itself.

Where came this unyielding adamance?
This baseless authority?
An absolute rejection wears away at all who miss the question.

A spiky path for those who love you;
a twisted hedge to the centre of yourself ;
an intimidating invitation to a game you made yourself.

Something fell.

Nothing changed you much at all.
Track Name: Privateer's Bounty
All becoming deeply entertaining
Falmouth goers having just come lately.
Mountain's noble outlook planted roadside
Certain unknown variations waylaid.

Black ribbons wind through scented snow
Salt air sticks sweet in crisp morceaux.
This concrete daydream found a home
A teapot cottage now unknown.

This high voiced help shut down our pick
This bounty lost on Look 'n' Lick.
The oddest essence loud and clear
So easily forgotten here.

What Charles had seen he settled there.
Fascination poured.
How Mabel could have found her place in this eyesore.
Tucked wooded at a quiet point.
It was someplace near.
Unknown even to our most lore driven guided tour.

All becoming deeply entertaining
Falmouth goers having just come lately.
Mountain's noble outlook planted roadside
Certain unknown variations waylaid.

Privateer!
Hard to mask our crushing disappointment
Local flavour seekers’ lost anointment here.
Track Name: Hoots Haunt
What owl's hoots haunt fell-forced night's gown?
Haunts hawk on woods, grim notes fall foul.
Fear grips none near, wight waits his owl.
Go forth, now not!
Hanged woods urge out.

Winging orders, howling hastens.
Feasting feathers nearly grounded.
Who is hailing our dark winged foe?
Gathering nightly, faint lit fires guide
Freely grouping nether noones.

Winging orders, howling hastens.
Who is hailing our dark winged foe?
Freely grouping nether noones.

What owl's hoots haunt fell-forced night's gown?
Haunts hawk on woods, grim notes fall foul.
Wight waits his owl.
Hoots haunt.
Track Name: This Widowed Hoard
Widowed hoard,
cork jockey,
platter.
Out, set as empties.
Memory clean.

This widowed hoard,
once lined up like jockeys,
now set out like empties.
Widowed hoard.

All heads have their platters,
and wiped clean of memory
they're free to reflect anyone.
Could anyone echo the sound of her master's voice?

This widowed hoard,
so carefully collected
and now disconnected.
Once a whole, split apart.

Who could remember a lifetime of evenings?
This craft without creation.
Your only mark a gilded blemish:
"FROM THE LIBRARY OF…"
Track Name: Dark Sequin
Crested constantly in your dark sequin,
set in polished stone,
steel faced,
vested in velvet.

Crossed casually as if to cover it up,
arms a fell menagerie.

But what lies beneath a cowl,
and above a solid stance in brazen booties,
is an unseen detail as of yet.

A look into your eyes to surmise
somehow where the weakness lies,
without doubt mirrors only fear without,
cutting down anyone who comes around.

You'll be standing still, crested constantly
in your dark sequin,
set in polished stone,
reeking of your own rot.

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