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The Rightful Pivot

by Enablers

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Dominic James
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Dominic James took me a while to come around to this one for some reason but this might be the most well rounded of their albums. Favorite track: Look.
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Nonentity Followed this band for more than a decade. Still a soulful, grit-laiden mix of words and rainy, thunderous streetlamp atmosphere. Favorite track: She Calls After You.
Martin Doležal
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Martin Doležal I heard this album so many times that it just felt bad not properly paying for it. One of my most favorite records of all time, the combination of great instrumentals and thought provoking spoken lyrics is just incredible. Favorite track: West Virginia.
Tim Grady
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Tim Grady This record really works for me. I love the spoken word combined with the instrumentation. Immersing yourself in this record is like experiencing a wild night on the town without having to leave your house. I love it! Favorite track: She Calls After You.
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Went Right 03:56
Went Right Instead of left Out of the closing bar And at E. 7th and C Walked smack into a stand-off Between neighborhood grunts In wife-beaters and jeans Holding bats and chains And, turning, one says “What the fuck?” And another, higher voice says, “Yeah, what the fuck, white boy?” And white boy says, “Oh, fuck….” And goes fuck-fuck!-FUCK!!-fucking away In a dead sprint, down-and-righting south And west, south And west, maybe Half a dozen of them Hurling batteries (“?”) and rocks and half-drunk Cans of soda Piling on insults and jeers About mamas and sisters Until the last three Then two And one Give up the chase And fall back as a summer rain Comes down heavier and heavier And drenched on a corner somewhere Unable to light the smoke dangling aquiver in his lips A cop car cruises by and slows to this wet Panting figure in a doorway failing to light match After match and, laughing, one of them says, How’s your night, chief? And the car moves along, a couple Of honks for luck. And one year, many stories, and newborn urban Legends later, E. 7th and C, to the day and at the Identical time of night, saw a mother strolling her baby And smiling at the man standing on the corner With the curious look on his face, holding his arms Wide and asking her, “What the fuck?”
She calls after you by name in the quiet garden, forestalling eventualities to have one more look at you, knowing you’re less a presence than an urge to be moving on. Walking fast is a simulated act of contempt, a leap away (and what a leap: last night’s clothes pressed to the body—airborne!-- and a glad little bastard at that), but in a quiet garden, under a too-bright sun, contempt is just an overbearing lack of the right words. Wincing asserts a shy yet firm departure. Despite yourself, the weather offers its cue for a walk, and leads you among mothers walking babies, among parts of a small dusty town more than the sum of its heat and its primroses, to a valedictory itch in the loins, overslept: there’s an unexpected grace in moving on, in those words to be. They’re rarely ever used for any other reason than to take up a role, to be somehow above all the insouciance of manhood but acquire what? That leap? You just fucked each other and dried out in the light of day. You must get into the car, ride, and wait for the moment you forget what day it is. What you did not say.
In the hallway she turned toward him, what he called the rightful pivot, and it wasn’t in the lamplight’s newborn rite of petition (Ok, yes, I fucked around), or even the tears all over the rug that forced acquittal. He lied willingly, a lot, which is the heart soaring, not listening. If it was, it would drop, beating woefully in the temples of his head, and by this singular force permit that nervous, quivering motion grief allows in the door of his mouth to state its case, without the harsh clauses of redemption to weigh it down. Victim. The peculiar sleeping patterns, and the beautiful, evil confessions that come seeping out of her like the scent of dust from the bed. He goes over them all, calibrating names of cities, dates, places-- the whole rotational flux of images, true or not really, and they’ll just lay still in the dark, each of them—information, him, her-- knowing the other is awake, itching for more.
Look 09:52
But it wasn't, on a mid-winter evening, rising ---not the moon; it was actually some uptown building’s peak light appearing at a glance out the train window, just as round and propped in that occurring, hyper-real clarity, low in the sky. The surprise alone was striking enough to jot down in a rumpled matchbook, the only thing I had to bear witness (and to extend your amusement) until some seconds passed and you tapped me, saying, "like that," pointing behind us, “over there.” “Look.” Climbing up the backs of skyscrapers and still so yellow, not yet rinsed of the horizon, just as the sun’s melting behind Jersey. (( I am the sea and the land And I run through your hands )) Struck again, only deeper this time: all those desolate evenings & erratic early mornings waiting on phone calls, continents apart,staring out of windows and up at moons like we were banished from everything critical to time & place, asterisks in a story of fugues. Or like we were lofted too, and were now coming down through winds and meridians into the solid presence of this train, these seats, the passengers around us, the shitty but welcome light--- everything taken captive for our new eyes’ sudden appraisal, our own keeping, together. (( Sun runs through your veins Comet trail in your brain Sunrise in your veins ))
Solo 05:24
Ana slips deep into the corner of the sofa lights a smoke and curls her legs fast among the crumbs and coins saying little or nothing at all to withstand that deepening stare that whips up a pass through anonymous but inviting climes and comes perched despite her critical stores of boredom One frail shift and that brittle perch comes undone collapsing one blink at a time into the low opiated rumble since departed from her ears once she really snapped to, hissing shit! suddenly mindful of the fresh nail polish she daintily avoids smudging despite her burning cigarette and mother’s mothering calls she could be rising again padding barefoot into her room like that shutting the door just like that to him to him turning that strange blue
Good Shit 04:43
We were told the bubbles should look like little pebbles you could pour clean into your hand. “Go on, shake it,” said Peanut, junk dealer, mechanic, and feral cat wrangler by day, shiner by night. “Shake 'er up and pour some in the cap.” We shook our samples, twisted off the caps and poured. “See that?” And they were like little pebbles squeeze-rising atop a float of clear liquid, rolling over each other, fighting their way to the surface. “Now,” he said, dropping his voice to a firm, reverential whisper, “that there, boys, is good shit.” It hit us like a vow, and then became one, and we each bought one of the re-used plastic Mountain Dew bottles for a couple of bucks and took them back home and drank them slowly that night, feeling the good, tippling shit roll down the lengths of our throats and simmer in our guts, so that each passing sip became a deeper nucleus of lush darkness, whetting some soft, citified manner we could never lay claim to nor hope to abandon in another dark, balmy night years later when Peanut’s loose-limbed, drunken body plunged end-over-end from the water tower, reclaimed by the backwoods of northern Florida.
Darkness batting from the gaps of forest trees, and above us, “clouds like great, great brains….” By nightfall Louisville is blacked out & reduced to crucible-quick chatter in candlelit bars and other spotty garrets of light way up the road’s vanishing point. Nothing in over 500 miles was sky but rippling aerial geographies licked by wind & rain, wholly something more baleful & not simple at late sunset.... Somebody please fire up the bath salts! This weather’s telling too much truth--- lightning sizzling down like so many strung links of torched pearl--- and it’s been dogging us all along. It’s been madness from the evening-purled crests of the Shenandoah peaks to this barren town waylaid in the final morning stars mobs of sparrows are breaking through like cackling disembodied heads, like arias, like eerie legend: our eyes forced wide open to a desiderata of noxious, weeping tree smoke dawn lights up over West Virginia.
Enopolis 05:08
He’s claimed ether for bones and coils a curious, magnetic way up and up and up along a nameless vector Rhythm’s pithy tendrils comb and warm to till a familiar caress roots, dipping down sinuous anchors like falling stars to feed this gently tricky surge more astral flux And here things turn spooky: more white hallways’ hatches open up, accreting and voracious, and through every hatch he plummets down-spiraling in ape face, accorded its place as defined target, so the target may take its muted blows into godhead.


Joe Goldring Guitar, Sam Ospovat Drums, Pete Simonelli Words, Kevin Thomson Guitar


released February 7, 2015

Recorded and Mixed By Desmond Shea and Joe Goldring May/June 2014
at Coast Recorders S.F.
"Enopolis" vocal and trumpet (Paul Watson) recorded by Ethan Donaldson July 2014 at Picasso Machinery, Brooklyn, NY.
Mastered by Doug Henderson at micro-moose Berlin


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Band Members: Joe Goldring (former Swans, Toiling Midgets, Touched by a Janitor) on guitar; Kevin Robert Thomson (former Nice Strong Arm, Timco, Touched by a Janitor, now Hazel Atlas) also on guitar; poet, writer, and narrator Pete Simonelli on vocals. Rounding out the line-up is drummer Sam Ospovat (Ava Mendoza, Brendan Seabrook, tUnE-yArDs, William Winant). ... more

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