31 Shouts - 1,324,403 Scrobbles
Laura Stevenson was born and raised on Long Island into a family of mariners and music makers. She spent many of her younger days on the sugar barges of NY harbor with her father and uncles, who all made their living on the water, at one time running one of the largest fleets on the Hudson. Meanwhile, her mother’s parents were successful musicians; Harry Simeone, the composer and choral arranger responsible for such works as “The Little Drummer Boy” and “Do You Hear What I Hear?” and Margaret McCravy (stage name McCrae)...
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Top SongsTotal plays on Last.fm over the last 6 months
- LyricsTo give yourself a little bit of hope's a lie, you said, "we're just spinning where we stand." And if you cling to tokens for your life you find you wind up with imaginary men. Static transmit me to the other side of another room in pieces. Like a steady beating, the summer hurts. The telescopic pull of what you know's a lie, it's broken down 100,000 times. The parts collapse, in caving they're inside the atmosphere, we're carving out our names into the air. You are a runner, the steady balance as you're gaining in speed, a photograph to scale the thrashing of your feet. And it won't be over until the big, backhand of the sun, beats the tar out of the road you are on until it's won you, the summer hurts. And as for all your suffering you won't escape the sting until you're buried in the ground. The beauty that you breathe into the air won't clear your name you have been sinning since the day you came around. You are a runner...
- LyricsI wouldn't mind if you left me here, standing on the other side of a locked door in a big, big fire. There comes a time when you decide if you fight it off or learn to die, I'm fine. This city pulls itself around me. It pries apart so it can see what you and I have taken, but it hasn't taken anything. I couldn't lie if I wanted to 'cause all I'm wont to do is hide out away from you. If it's white and it's piled high enough so I can float like smoking paper. You can stay, or you can breathe, two or three until you make it to the street. You can wait and you can scream but that won't keep you from burning. I wouldn't mind if you left me here burning.
- LyricsRene make a promise to me, let your hair grow to your knees, and I will not be far, you'll not be in harms way, Rene. The stragglers bring mud to your door, and trouble for all those who mourn, but do not answer it, stay inside and leave the lights unlit, and night and day I watch you hide away Rene. Oh, the full moon, can't afford the pull that's coming from the likes of you. And oh, to tell you. I bet it said, "if it wasn't for me, the waves won't come." High in its bed it goes moving with your moving car, it said, "the hardest part is getting older, the hardest part is getting old." Rene you've a way to row, through a lake of fire and fog of cigarette smoke. The dirt-eating moon, don't hurt her, be good.
- LyricsIt's too bright out, the heat dries my eyes out and we, we turn over, we turn over like a wheel. No one stays here besides devils and rockscalers, and they know better, they are gonna disappear but we'll be here. We will be here. Under the rough that grows itself outward toward the four corners of the earth, not downward. There is no water under the gravel, there are no wet-throated travelers. And we turn over, we turn over like a wheel. Under the traps of scavengers, bat your eyes and you are wrapped up in them. Kicking of limbs and wriggling endlessly won't set you free, you are a tumbleweed, a jumble of feeble parts, can you even see in the dark? You're carrying all that you own, carrying all that you own and on and on and we turn over, we turn over like a wheel. We turn over, we turn over like a wheel.
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