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Caminando por la calle with the heavy purple brim and tinted shade,
Writing verses in the kitchen where the morning light starts to fade.
The diary-entry chroniclers are whispering their tears while pages burn,
While the quiet indie-diarists sit patiently waiting for their turn.
The stage-choreography kineticists are moving through the strobe-lit haze,
Caught inside the kinetic gravity of the modern-day maze,
While the dark alternative vocalists linger in the moody twilight gleam,
Haunting the edges of the neon dream.
{smooth west-coast cadence with nylon guitar} The dashboard is radiating heat on
the coastal interstate, Singing every melody we chose to celebrate.
The vinyl crackles rolling through the independent record store shelves,
Asking who we are pretending to be ourselves.
{sun-drenched indie lift} It moves right through us like a shock to
the open heart!
Tearing up the rulebook and the blueprints right from the start.
The nylon-string virtuosos strumming where the alchemists play,
While the rust-belt acoustic troubadours cry on a rainy LA day.
From the sun-baked Madrid rooftops to the endless electric blue,
We claim our sovereign throne in the name of Tiguidou!
Yeah, we bite back hard,
we're neon and pearl,
Ruling the world like an untamed sovereign girl!
{stadium pop-punk explosion} Towers of unread paperbacks stacked high upon the wooden
floor, Leaving all the emotional baggage outside of the locked door.
Swear we're holding it together,
yeah, we got the master plan,
With a battered guitar strap and a drink held in the hand.
Blending high-fashion Madrid elegance with raw industrial noise,
Writing all the operational rules for the girls and the boys.
Sketchers squeaking on the pavement as we sprint away from the past,
Knowing damn well that this manic summer won't last.
{rapid fire confessional swagger}
Every single stylistic archetype locked into the digital grid,
Doing everything they whispered that we never could did!
(Un, dos, tres, c'est parti — watch the sky ignite!) Holding the
sovereign compass through the hyper-electric night!
{acoustic flamenco arpeggios into distorted crash and 808 drop} The council of
the architects is assembled.
The sonic circle
is complete.
Captain Tara Quinn holding down the absolute center of the street.
Captain Tara Quinn.
{flamenco strum into distorted chord crash}