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(Warm tape
hiss, static hum, and a slow,
detuned analog synth chord)
Dust upon the synth keys,
Rust upon the wire,
Sitting in the corner,
Staring at the fire.
Tapes inside the deck are worn,
Stitching up a morning torn,
Moving through the quiet haze,
Counting down the shifting days.
Just a hum against the wall,
Catching every phantom call,
Wires tangled on the floor,
Waiting by a bolted
door.
And the rust turns into sound,
Echoes spinning round and round,
In the static and the dust,
We find something we can trust.
A resonance that cuts right through,
Old world fading into new.
Cracked guitar and coffee cups,
Watching how the morning lights up,
Messy lines and broken chords,
Speaking in our own records.
Flickering screen and quiet room,
Blooming in the analog gloom,
Nothing polished, nothing neat,
Just the rhythm on the street.
Just a hum against the wall,
Catching every phantom call,
Wires tangled on the floor,
Waiting by a bolted
door. And the rust turns into sound,
Echoes spinning round and round,
In the static and the dust,
We find something we can trust.
A resonance that cuts right through,
Old world fading into new.
(Beats drop away, leaving warm analog tape warble and close-up vocal whispers)
Let the oxidation rise,
No more disguises, no alibis,
Just the signal in the dark,
Leaving a permanent mark.
(Gritty, tape-saturated
electric guitar solo with heavy spring reverb)
And the rust turns into sound,
Echoes spinning round and round,
In the static and the dust,
We find something we can trust.
A resonance that cuts right through,
Old world fading into new.
(Fading analog tape drone,
slow tape stop effect) Rust and resonance...
Playing out the tape.
(Final low hum
fading into static)