Old Blues

by Bad History Month

  • Record/Vinyl + Digital Album

    Yellow Vinyl and Full Size Poster!

    Includes digital pre-order of Old Blues. You get 1 track now (streaming via the free Bandcamp app and also available as a high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more), plus the complete album the moment it’s released.
    shipping out on or around April 24, 2020

      $12 USD or more 


Road To Good Intentions
Childlike Sense of Hatred
Low Hanging Fruit
A Survey of Cosmic Repulsion
Want Not


****** BUY DIGITAL ALBUM AT ******

Recorded by Mark Fede, Sean Sprecher and Greg Hartunian

Sean John Silver - Words, Guitars, Bass, Drums, Keys, trainee-with-a-key, edit shredder, mix muddler
Mark Fede - Studio Sensei, Logic Instructor, Moog on 1 and 7, Drums on 7
Greg Hartunian - Dimpling, Egyptian Flutes and Synths on 1, 5, 6
Colby Nathan - Whale Moogs on 1
Phil Hartunian - Space Clarinet on 1
Dan Angel - Mix consultant/telephonic hand-holder to an amateur Logician

Recorded mostly at Mark's in the Berwick Building, Roxbury MA between December 2017 and June 2019, except 7 and some overdubs tracked at Greg's in Los Angeles, January 2018

Art/design by Meg Coss, layout by Adric Giles,
photos by Mom, Dad, and various grown-ups.

Thank you: Mark, Greg, Dan Goldin, Dan Angel, Adric, Meg, Dimples, Mom, Dad, David, extended family/friends, You, for listening, MassHealth insurance and my landlord and employers for continued solvency and relative sanity as the tide rises...

For booking/inquiries please write to lovingdadmakes@gmail.com
Released by Exploding In Sound Records as EIS101


releases April 24, 2020


all rights reserved



Exploding In Sound Records Brooklyn, New York

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Track Name: Waste Not
The Wisdom of Age is learning
it can always get worse.
But the misery of Endless Childhood
is a self-inflicted curse.

I was right about hindsight being blindness,
though I didn't really know what I was talking about at the time.
Having aged several years, lost a mother, and some hair,
I've been living lots of days that are trashed in advance,
beached on the shore of a backward glance,
bloated, trapped and helpless.

So how do I roll down off this beach,
and learn how to swim again?
I'll have to evolve new limbs,
and learn how to crawl,
and learn how to stand,
and learn how to walk on land.

I wasn't always a washed-up whale,
beached and bloated and trapped in the past.
In fact once upon a time I was a little plastic beach ball,
and I could move pretty fucking fast...

My boyhood was buoyant and insane,
tossed by the wind across the tops of the waves,
all along the safe shallow shoreline,
on a bright sunny day...

when I brushed the blunt edge of some grown-up's impatience,
my immediate reaction was total deflation,
even in the absence of strong-arm persuasion,
my thin skin burst, and I lost my elation.
Sinking in the shallows, a broken beach ball,
The Kid With No Skin,
ashamed, and red, and raw, beyond reason,
way too sensitive, blurred eyes blinking, hot shame rising,
cold heart sinking, and singing with the savage howling wind,
which blew through the ragged, growing hole in the skin of my belly,
soft underbelly,
all over underbelly,
it's all one big vulnerable belly,
when you're a ball, with nerves all over...
I follow the feeling, and allow it to surge,
and cover me up 'til I'm further submerged,
and then sinking and sinking and afraid,
on the verge of submersion, up to my eyes in aversion,
when miraculously there's an inversion
as I cross the thin line,
between the green and the blue,
and suddenly the whole world is new...

I close my mouth and lungs,
I hold my breath and open my eyes.
Sunbeams are columns here,
they hold the roof that blocks the sky.
It's nice and quiet here,
and nothing can touch me.
My limbs and heart beat slow,
and no one can rush me.
My fingertips and toes resolve themselves into a steady engine,
I am a submarine: silent and safe and absolved of tension...
Then a lifeguard reached down,
touched my shoulder,
and broke the spell...

I awaken on the beach, Now,
the sun has set,
"God what's that smell?"
As I lay here, stinking, under twinkling stars,
I begin to notice tingling in my newborn legs and arms.
I've been dozing in the present while my mind was
floating in the distant past.
As I lay here, sand piled up all around me
like the bottom of an hourglass.
"How much more symbolic can it get?", I laughed,
and though I still felt grim,
I decided that I'd better get to work on learning to improve,
and move, and make use of my new limbs,
very carefully at first...
and so with slow, delicate intention,
I ease down the sloping beach.
I can hear the sound of ceaseless, peaceful rolling waves,
they're almost within reach.

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