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Landscape of Ghosts

by Carl Philip Louis

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1.
Earth Beneath Our Feet 02:00
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Ripped and tattered Blue and battered Behold my shattered dreams Torn and scattered But nothing matters We'll all be dust in the breeze In a world gone wrong Full of stupid songs That sound like misery But you and me Really all we need Is the earth beneath our feet
2.
Dance of the Lost 03:21
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3.
You're The One That's Make Believe 03:30
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Staring at a fucking screen I'm lost in my own purgatory Word and number melting minds Frozen still my stolen life Staring at a fucking screen I'm lost in my own purgatory Frozen still this stolen life It's all a fucking waste of time Frozen still a techno thrill Make me real make me ill Make me keel take my mind You want to kill with dynamite Frozen still its techno thrill Make me feel give me chills On the reel take my mind You want to kill with dynamite Its triple time this kind of life The noise and pain and thoughtless eyes You see their soul it's true that phrase Wide mad eyes that see for days You see their soul it's true that phrase Wide mad eyes that see for days Whilst wire weaves inside you brain No use to bare this tragic blame It warmly whirs away with ease Like stale hot air through summer breeze That winter scent of wine and tears And arguments that last for years It warmly whirs away with ease Like stale hot air through summer breeze That winter scent of wine and tears And arguments that last for years Shall settle down so dullness reigns Consigned these lives to endless haze Omniscience you make me heave You're the one that's make believe
4.
Landscape of Ghosts 03:28
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5.
I Try (Sometimes) 02:34
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I try sometimes I cry oh why oh why I might just might Be right to live my life my way Tell me why I'm wrong and I'll stop being individual I'm living like I'm free but in your world I'm just a criminal Treat me like I'm human and you'll find I'm quite hospitable It really isn’t my fault that this world is hypocritical Double think and double down, double shot of gin Just to drown the trouble out and wear a petty grin Pushing up the daisy has seemed lately like a laugh But then again this world could end so I wont yet depart I try sometimes I cry oh why oh why I might just might Be right to live my life Think about the future then I think about the past But never mind the middle bit it's boring and its fast If things could just be different how this life would be blast But there's politics and fascist pricks and poverty and class Say nothing of the sort of men who keep us in this state Bellies full of greed that they can never satiate Plundered earth forgive us please before you start to quake For every heart that lives with love another lives with hate I'll tell you what I mean with a scamper and a quip Crush my skull under a vice and teach me with a whip The power of a ruler is to shower in the shit But freedom love and anarchy is how I shall resist I try sometimes I cry oh why
6.
Questions Need Asking? 03:39
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7.
Hell's Already Here 01:00
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Sitting in my lonely room I try to see things differently I make no claims I keep my ways Seek no defence and make no plea Paint is dripping from the walls Whilst cracks appear beneath floors One day hell might open up I'll curse my name and curse my luck Fuck that hell's already here Its peaking through its gold veneer As light escapes through every page I'll curse my thoughts and curse my days It's running out I'm running round Headless, hurt this mourning clown Make up made of broken dreams I'll paint my face until it bleeds Colour red to line my eyes What lies inside must hide behind My every word this subtle cry scream and shout and say goodbye
8.
A Final Gift 01:26
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9.
Too High to Hear, Too Low to Feel 04:56
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It's cold. And I'm tired. It's 15:05 and I've not long got out of bed. I feel alone. I recall that I have not always been alone, but I do not recall ever feeling anything but alone. Sometimes I am proud of that. Sometimes it keeps me awake. The hairs on my body stand as if something is near. I shiver. Is someone standing on my grave? I laugh at the thought anyone would visit my grave when I am gone just as the bugs that dine on decay shall leave me be. I was an artist. I never chose this. Why would one choose this. As my art was sound, art was no help to me. I never did consider myself to be that vulgar and useless thing, crawling through the mud and clasping at whatever pale and vein thought graces their addled and regressive mind, existing in the company of those who fall somewhere between fraud and shaman. The only artist worthy of respect is the piss-artist. They know how to live. A will lead to B and sometimes through to Z so what does it matter that through C to Y you know nothing but the need for the next satiation of an inner desire you cannot quite muster the strength the utter aloud and admit to yourself exists. Musicians are lucky. Their alphabet ends at G and infinitely repeats until it is too high to hear or too low to feel. I've always been too high to hear or too low to feel.

about

...tried to make folkpunk out of stolen Cuban & Brazilian musics, interspersed with instrumental pieces inspired by those rhythmic/melodic worlds.

In a computer since 2017, in 2023 I decided to do some words for some of the tracks and crowbar Mandola solos into it so I could tell myself they were complete.

The Landscape of ghosts title comes from the sample of Terrance McKenna talking about La Chorrera on the track of the same title.

But I see this world as a landscape of ghosts, things that die yet won't go away. Same as this music. It died, but it wouldn't go away.

The piece, A Final Gift, was recorded the day I got a Tres Cubano. My Dad bought it for me not long before he was given 6 months to live by his doctor.

So I guess after thinking about it, Landscape of Ghosts is an exorcism of it's own ghosts. Or an attempt, at least.

credits

released December 8, 2023

Words & Music By C P L Clark-Spencer

Tracks 1-3, 6 Based on Trad. Cuban
Tracks 4,5, 7-9 Written By C P L Clark-Spencer

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Carl Philip Louis England, UK

Folk-Punk Free Jazz mandolinist and sing/shouter of anarcho-romance poetry

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