Remember Me John Lydon Forever

by Doubting Thomas Cruise Control

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1.
03:09
2.
02:34
3.
03:28
4.
03:25
5.
6.
03:07
7.
07:56
8.
04:48
9.
03:43

about

All Songs by Doubting Thomas Cruise Control

Bobby Cardos: Guitar/Vocals, Keyboard/Xylophone on “Chain Supply”

Sean Kelly: Guitar

Chris Sprindis: Bass

Joe McCarthy: Drums, Piano on “Lenny Bruce” and “Ghosting”, Keyboard on “Lillehammer”, Trumpet/Tuba on “Nice Guy”, Organ on “Shed”

Recorded by 1989 Recordings (Dara Hirsch and Kegan Zema) at Gravesend Studios in Silent Barn 7/19 - 7/20/2014 and 11/9/2014. Mixed by Dara Hirsch and Kegan Zema.

Mastered by Alex Saltz (APS Mastering). Cover artwork by Gina Macari based on a painting by Virginia Dunn. Photo behind this text by Robert Dunn.

credits

released August 14, 2015

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Doubting Thomas Cruise Control Brooklyn, New York

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Track Name: Chain Supply
Write my name in sand;
I don’t need it.
Let it wash away
with the evening waves.
It is okay;
it was in the way.
Everything’s safe.
And I don’t wanna hear that sound
when I’m around,
so keep it to yourself.

Intersections are what matter.
Names mean nothing.
I am everything, I am everyone now.
Who I’ve met and who I’ve haunted,
what I’ve wanted.
It’s indelible; it’s incredible how.

Acted on and acting outwards.
I am something.
I am relevant; now my presence is felt.
Strangers irked and children dying.
I’m not lying:
I’m uncomfortable, but I’m comfortable now.
Track Name: Nice Guy
Invite me in to your apartment, baby.
We could play a game:
backgammon, gin, parcheesi.
I don’t get the joke—oh.
Please take off your shoes.
You’ll get dirt on the carpet.

Sure, I heard your band.
It sounds like Frank Sinatra.
No it’s not my scene,
but I’ll come anyways.
See you at the show
if there’s not something better.
I will bring a friend;
she likes that ambient shit.

Oh, won’t you please
excuse my dear Aunt Sally.
She was never taught
the order of operations.
First you make a claim,
then turn it on its head.
First you act so nice,
and then you stick the knife in.

I go on hunger strikes
when I am starving.
I am celibate
when I can’t get laid.
Track Name: Lillehammer
And to set the scene:
watch documentaries.
They're movies of made up stories.

See the scream on screen
as friends and enemies are practiced,
victims established.

We'll revel in the scene
where everything is deconstructed,
the myth debunked.

Because she's not what she seems.
She comes from humble means.
It's something; she'll still get nothing.

They look to her and they sigh.
They ask "What will it take to comply?"
And she says, "Quite frankly,
I'm not impressed with the test that you stressed,
with which you wish to assess me."

History repeats,
and still we always get entangled
by newer angles.

The victories, defeats
decided by a partial jury,
the same told story.

The narrative precedes,
and Lillehammer rings in my head
with a newfound dread.

Cause the pursuit of dreams
is tenuous. I'm not complaining,
but man it's draining.

But everyone wants to try.
And my consolation is wry.
It's relief in the belief
that freedom is pride in a suicide
that never seems to get redeemed.
I accept life because I am polite,
and I wouldn't wanna feel mean.

They look to us and they sigh.
They ask "What will it take to comply?"
And I say, "Quite frankly,
I'm not impressed with the test that you stressed,
with which you wish to assess me."
I accept life because I am polite,
and I wouldn't wanna feel mean.
Track Name: Shed
Saw the picture on the box.
Envisioned it built on our lawn:
a storage shed.

Took it home, opened it up.
Directions vague and pieces lost.
But soon enough
we built it up.

And if you fake it I won’t make a sound
anyhow.

Put in the tools and closed it up.
The spiders crawled in. Webs were spun.
A shelter found.

But I forgot to buy a lock.
Some kids broke in and tore it up.
The tools askew.
But I refuse

to yell shirtless, acting up and down,
overwound.
Wasn’t perfect; was it worth the sound
anyhow?
And if you fake it, I won’t make a sound
anyhow.
Track Name: Laszlo's, 3a.m.
My words fall on deaf ears and silence fills the room.
They don’t see the humor. Spread the rumor: no one has a clue.
I could talk about it; scream and shout it. Work it as I do.

My words fall on deaf ears and silence fills the room.
I could talk about it; scream and shout it. Work it as I do.
They don’t see the humor. Spread the rumor: no one has a clue.
Track Name: Soft Focus
Sunday’s game has been postponed
in light of the recent storm.
Chalk was washed out, mud was thrown.
Scoreboards have returned to null.
Maybe we could catch a cold
watching rain turn into snow.

But you don’t know my name,
and I don’t think that will

change the landscapes you have sown.
Composites of what we’ve known.
Logic gates that trip the code
live in the layers below.
If you teach me, I could grow
and turn into something whole.
Elevate me for the fall
when I’m up against the wall.

Cause you don’t know my name,
and I don’t think that will change.
Track Name: Lenny Bruce
Tried to call you on the phone.
Never passed the dial tone.
Confidence: I’m not so full,
when I act out on my own.
Hard enough to say hello
when you’re never really home.
Maybe I’ll drink to my health
if I don’t do something else.

Words that mean what they seem
are discarded. Now they’re a quaint anomaly
rendering everything once simple
into a complicated theory
I can’t believe.

Presidential diaries
claim to expose everything.
Court stenographers agree:
truth is in typography.
He records the whole hearing;
hopes the transcripts disagree.
But it’s just a press release
sent to him by marketing.

Buckled knees, needles seem
to stick out from his arm quite too conveniently,
rendering everything so simple
there is no other possible thing
we could believe.

Pardoning, “excuse me”—
we act so politely when we should just be mean.
Hands are clean, torso lean
and thinking this could go on indefinitely.
Do we deceive?

Don’t fall apart on me.
Don’t you know the times that
I needed you to pull me through,
like when I was in Old England?
I was looking for the info kiosk,
another drink.
I was trying hard not to be distinct
while I was shaking hands in languages
that I can’t understand.
I was really hoping you could lend a hand,
but you weren’t around.
Track Name: Ghosting
I caught my friends smoking in the back room.
I left without speaking.
Told a girl about a band,
she said she’d give it a listen.

There’s a line to the bathroom.
The light is out, so leave it open.
No one is gonna come in if you’re in there trying to get distracted.

Your intelligence is relevant
only if it is relevant to you.
Your objectiveness is so affected.
It is just another tool you use.

When I exit I stumble.
No one noticed the space that opened.
When it’s time to call a cab at 4 a.m.
then I am already sleeping.

There’s a man on the corner.
No one knows who he was, or what he was after.
In line at the bodega I wonder if I am skirting disaster.

Your intelligence is relevant
only if it is relevant to you.
Your objectiveness is so affected.
It is just another tool you use.
I never thought that I’d be caught
inside this constant cycle of abuse.
Track Name: Texas-T
Feel the heat:
lemonade and sweating beads.
Ninety-three,
hydrants flowing, children in the street.
Rockwell’s dreams
idealize these wasteful things.
And I think:

I’d rather sigh than cry or stutter;
turn frustration into fodder.
But it seems
my nostalgia’s not so different;
participation is implicit.

Magazines
place me right inside the scene.
The imagery
tells me how I ought to want to be.
Disagree,
but I can’t help questioning:
is it me?

Who’d rather fight and bite, not barter.
You push me, I’ll puch back harder.
Don’t you see?
Twenty-five and lacking purpose,
haven’t even scratched the surface,
and time is not so infinite to me.

Texas-T
straight onto the H.O.V.
One, two, three:
will we ever kill the I.C.E.?
Feel the breeze:
roads that stretch on endlessly.
What’s it mean:

to move forward without purpose?
Haven’t even scratched the surface.
And I think
that I have always felt estranged
cause I could never speak the language:
dollar signs are pocket change to me.