Calling Whitetails to a Tuned Bow

by Those Darn Gnomes

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All objects are empty Light shines through, and under A black veil stretches around the dry earth Every inch is run through and ridden No material spreads The pieces are loose, they will -- Own the pieces Branch out Yes, or not built But instead, stretched for days and days, No separation The roots, they spread out But the blood that runs down the drain is easily forgotten But wretched, close, in defiance Birds know it Pulling shut down the blinds 'til I forgot what lies outside I fell asleep with my shoes on I'm tired - smell some ammo - my eyes are closed While bridge of my bridges burned I'm here, in the flat desert without -- I can sing to an empty room And I know my angle in me There is a bell ringing underground There is a bell ringing underground There was a thing they can swallow They can see the back street Where the sad status fell Perfect dress on broken glass I was almost thirsty enough to drink the rain It's pouring rain but I am not wet I have heard the thunder, haven't seen the lightning yet Oh, but I've gone and said too much Or so I did assume Autumn breeze between the trees Fallen leaves are red Lonesome tones of hollow bones resting on the riverbed It's pouring rain but I am not wet I have heard the thunder, haven't seen the lightning yet Oh, but I've gone and said too much Longing and lament Waves and water dragged away the envelope you sent I will not let you go alone, come and take my hand It's pouring rain but I am not wet I have heard the thunder, haven't seen the lightning yet Oh, but I've gone and said too much Gone and said too much Gone and said too much A scratch A scratch at my door Who am I to judge? Because all I remember Is the way you looked on our anniversary Down by it all Let me lay underneath Let me lay underneath Found myself Rolling deep Beneath that Oregon pine Beneath that Oregon pine So I'll take you down To where the whippoorwills lay We'll go fishing We'll go fishing We'll go underneath it all
(...smell of wine...) But you're not what you want to be The way they stare at you is the way they look at me I'm going far to-- I'll just stare at the ceiling all night I'm going far to see the land I'm running far to see the land While back at my house the sun's out high I want to keep flowers on the kitchen table forever Eat them before they rot Put them between my teeth and my lips Make you speak My yellow smile Smiles nicer than a bowl of cornflakes We don't keep milk in this house anyways Paying the support of the line Lying together in barb-less hooks Like they were open to the words I saw, I crushed Still not over Children, look! Look at them luring the big one I just know Your mother's the lure What the bait looks like just before The big ones are taken and hidden in the cracks Oh, the riverbed They want something more Than a blank, empty slate They need movement Vivacious, Flash of color She cast out And back and forth a lure Glittering black fly with bright red mouth Red lips at the end of a barb-less hook You are a single singer (We're all sitting now But the smoke lingers Lines in the sky Hang from trees Days and nights Spent in the gutter of the world We're all sitting now But the smoke lingers) [hello, my love...] You ain't never been nowhere like this before Girl, what you waiting for? I know that you're onboard I know you can't get enough I know that you want me And you know that I want you I can't even describe the way you make me feel I just want you, girl To rock my world There ain't nothing else that you could tell me To change my mind I want you And I know I'm on your time I ain't really worried about that Cuz anybody can't say anything They ain't really doing it like me
Her still singing limbs turned away to hide her face and lips and guilt among the trees, Even their leaves, to haunt caves of the forest, to feed her love on melancholy sorrow Which sleepless turned her body to a shade, first pale and wrinkled, then a sheet of air, then bones to thin-worn rocks, and lastly just the voice vanished in forest, far from walks on hills and valleys, heard by all who call Daughter of a voice There is another Built so I could say I'm all alone and someone would hear and echo Rival of time A place to put these things we do And hold eyes to the past Learn now and warn later I would die before [You give yourself to him] Look up at the sky The hours passing Echoes down an empty cave All the voices and shadows and photos of a sound From a cliff in our garden Flung back, and in the sky's blue care reborn There is no cure for loneliness But itself. The wide glare of day? Endless. The night was luxurious. And with it, All your dead friends, Who kept you warm. But then the day begins A car, a bird, the bell rings "Wake up, sucker!" The Happy People Are At Your Door! This is the hour of smiles This is the hour and there are another twelve that tell you: "You have lost and will not recover Your god is gone: he is gone forever. The light is piercing Even though through the burnt holes of your black curtains will emerge some sign of life someone is passing that knows your name that someone that you hate that knows you are awake. Who will not leave you because waking up is all you do for most of the day BLACK TAPE IS GONE! Where is it? "Look again!" Block the light It burns your retina It burns your brain It burns your skin. The shout of dawn: "Find it!" There.. "There it is." Black-taped and Whole again the noise is louder and there are people laughing They are SAYING 'Good Morning!" They are giddy minnows floating atop a sea of dumbness. The bell rings And you smile the smile of the man who holds the key, "Keep ringing buddy!" They want to take you Out of here They know what's good for you is anything but you And you are rich You are RICHER STILL with knowing that your living death is a death with dreams... that no confidence man can pry away They may be all you have these thoughts, these memories, these dreams--these hallucinations of the things you could have done, what you might have become all just impossible but only just out of grasp. The thought is the deed! The deed is out of grasp! Out of the fingers, sweaty but fully-fleshed still comes to you like a gift unwrapped. And wise men know that the thing is always better than the thing itself. The bell has stopped its ringing. And there is another roll of tape. The minutes pass. You have locked the windows: There was a noise. and now you are airless like a bat with a human face. It whispers. "Once I was a fool like you... but having been forever scarred by the smiles of stupid people smile myself now forever downwards liek the smile of Death, the great reliever. For what is lonely is really just lonely for a man. Not for a God.
Bound in blood, feral cries burn out these holes Memories you hold dear peel away I hear your screams from the very edge I fall with the rain and bleed with your about-face So hush now while these idle hands carry me home to the edge Where the lights, they hang low Oh, these hands Boiling with my blood I hush Feral cries bound in blood I know the way you suffer Counting Afflictions burning Right to the bone Bleeding piece by piece I only cry when I see the white of your eyes So carry me to the edge on idle hands Carry me While this blood is boiling I see the stars beneath the oak tree where I pray for my sealed fate Idle hands Bound in blood Bound in blood You fade all away Bound in blood Bound in blood Bound in blood


released June 28, 2019

Catalog ID: NEF-51

Those Darn Gnomes are:
Mark Steuer – synthesizer, voice
Christian Molenaar – banjo, flute, guitar, saxophone
Russell Case – accordion, bass, synthesizer
Bryon Wojciechowski – drums

Additional musicians:
Lucas Broyles – guitar [1]
Tall Can – melodica [1]
Cindy Elizondo – piano [2]
Ken Fitzgerald – trumpet
Doug Hall – French horn
Willie Marshall – voice [2]
holy! – guitar, voice [1]
Queen Erika Andrews – violin
Mortal Bicycle – banjo, bass [2], concertina, harmonica [1]
Erin Monaghan – clarinet, trumpet
Noah Souza – guitar [2]
Raphael Tosti – percussion [1]
Katie Walker – viola, voice [3]

Recorded at Apollo’s Crotch.

Cover collage by Robert Khasho.

℗&© 2019 Nefarious Industries.

Praise for this album:

“You need to experience the wonder and majesty of this off the wall album. Some of you are just going to fucking hate it, others will worship this. Those Darn Gnomes have gotten into my brain and will not leave now.”
-The Doorway To

"A collision of avant-garde jazz, the wild, wooly experiments of composer Harry Partch, Beatnik poetry, shattered noise, shards of black box theater, the sinister weirdness lurking behind the childlike chaos of The Muppet Show. ...strains of minimalism, lysergic opera, and ancient campfire songs emerge before we're thrust back into a core of molten weirdness that provides total catharsis. 'Tis only the beginning."

“The improvisation-fuelled avant-garde noisegrind quartet and its myriad of additional musicians has crafted one of the most remarkable albums of the year.”
-Can This Even Be Called Music?

"To the outsider, noise music and free jazz might not be so different, but to fans these genres are usually worlds apart. Not only do Those Darn Gnomes successfully bring the two together, they do so with a grace and sense of dynamics that give the music a powerful atmosphere despite the overall abrasiveness of the material. The mesh of electronic and live instrumentation is seamless, and there is a depth present that rewards repeated listening. Calling Whitetails to a Tuned Bow is full of challenging material, but those who explore the nooks and crannies of the interzones between these experimental genres will no doubt be rewarded for their efforts."
-Burning Ambulance

"Calling Whitetails to a Tuned Bow should really come with a heart attack warning. ...the most unpredictable album of the year so far. Not recommended for the faint of heart or mind."

"Holy moly! A death/noise/avantgarde trip into oblivion."
-Scars and Guitars

"Nothing about this band is easy. And yet, Assembling Calling Whitetails to a Tuned Bow is somehow the band’s most ambitious and accessible work to date. Amid the weirdo jazz and noise, you’ll find yourself keyed in on haunting passages... I don’t understand a lick of this record but I like it."
-Toilet ov Hell

"If you’re an avid fan of albums like Lumpy Gravy, We’re Only in It for the Money, or some of Swans’ more out-there material, Calling Whitetails to a Tuned Bow may be the master stroke you’re seeking. It’s by no means easy listening, or easy to listen to, but for the adventurous amongst us it’s a wild ride."
-Angry Metal Guy

"Words simply cannot do this intoxicating whiplash justice, but the first few seconds of album opener 'Birds', which ricochets from a ragtime folk diddy to some of the most blood-curdling death doom laid to tape this year, should just about paint the picture."
-Free Williamsburg

"To try to describe this album will be a disservice to the actual experience of listening to it for the first time... It is legendary stuff."
-Spill Magazine

"Layers and layers of jazz, improv, grind, and straight-up noise are soaked in haunting vocals and poetry until your eyes are hollow and your face is golden and your mouth is coming apart at the seams, just like that glorious cover art. ...a highlight for the year."
-This Noise Is Ours

"Those Darn not seek to do the same as the others, and they must be among the most difficult bands to place labels on the style that they practice. ...It is not an easy album to digest, and it is not a band for everyone. If you are conservative, get away from this band, if instead you are open to musicians having this creative freedom, you will enjoy this album."


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