by Two Houses

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The tequila left us shaking as we walked away from the car we crashed into a cedar tree just south of the Potomac. And by the time we'd sobered up I had landed back home in Chicago and you were waiting for the bus to Paris Island, South Carolina. Summers drift like a gasoline haze and beneath the burned out skylights of Seaside Heights, the girls are streaming clothes into the Atlantic. And we're just trying not to talk about the prosthetic leg the government says is unrelated to the Purple Heart you've got locked inside the glove box of your Ford. In the dark, where the roller coaster used to shine, you said "Hey Mike, do you remember when we used to drive the hills of our home town, just listening to Hearts of Oak, talking about how it was we wanted to live?" I said "Isn't it sick we're just growing old in these dive bars, murmuring while nostalgia festering in dried up hormones, working dead-end jobs until we grow numb?" You said "We don't need to live like that, I wake up every morning and I thank God for these calloused hands, these lungs full of smoke and oxygen."
Buck short for the bus ride, I’'m walking home on the West Side. Melanin, I can’t hide. Undercovers arrive. “Son, have you ever done drugs?” Geic’'d eyes, that'’s me. Sixteen on picture ID. Hide my little hands. White man on Kimball and Grand.
I check my visage in the bathroom mirror. I do the dishes to temper my shakes. I sit down and I write you a letter. I throw it away, I don't have a word to say. Sable sky I rise and shine to leave. When I get home everyone's asleep. Clock becomes the pulse inside of me. Sacrifice to subsidize a dream. Christmas lights do a lot for me. Shivering on Malort and ecstasy. Hallucinate. I'm a bad bad sleeper. I'm seeing ghosts like every night. I used to run from my mother's father. Now it's too late, his face laminates my mind. Hide behind the restaurant to clear smoke, held down for seven years. I cannot remember getting here. February, looming in the dark. Why'd you tell me I was smart? Disapponter, always in your heart. Holes, I burn into my pockets. Sew them back with overtime. And if you want to count the hours I log, just look into my eyes. Bradley International alone. New time zones for anxious bones. Take my ticket bozo. Take me home. Cast aside the coast. The sound recedes. New canals, run fast and free. Dig to bring Atlantic back to me. credits
Six years old, mud on my knees, I planted a fir tree outside my elementary school. I wanted to go back when I was twenty-two, see just how much it had grown. Well I did and now it's a parking lot, but that's okay, that's okay. I spent most my time since then in parking lots anyway. Who am I to say "Fuck progress and fuck the suits?" Man, they pay my bills, I just do what they say, they pay my bills. Teresa's cousin walks through the door carrying Jersey rain and a smell I can't place. She sits next to Stephen, asks for a clipboard, he shrugs and she nods out. They're looking at me, but I can't seem that much better, after all, I can't throw no football, I've never ridden in a Cadillac. I'm just a well trained office monkey, getting pretty good at Microsoft Excel. All my heroes when I was younger are just overgrown boys. And when they killed John Henry, they gave us Bud Light and football, said, "Boy, if you don't feel like a man, well you can take this paper here, and you can sign on the dotted line. You can sign on the dotted dotted line. And when you get back you're hanging at the corner bar with all your old friends. Men with camo baseball caps are gonna buy you all the drinks until you can't stand. And if that ain't enough for you, its track marks outside the liquor store. And that's the end of you."


7" vinyl via Rad Girlfriend and Let's Pretend Records.



released June 14, 2014

Written by Two Houses
Recorded by Norman Marston and Mike Nardone at Minbal Studios
Mixed by Norman Marston
Mastered by Carl Saff
Art by M. Davis

Full length LP 'I Feel So Good I Can't Stand Myself' out November 9 2016 on Rad Girlfriend Records

January Southern USA tour dates TBA


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Two Houses Chicago

Triumphant sad bastard music. Reliable rock n' roll.

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