Chief

by Warrilow

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04:11
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05:38
3.
05:28

about

Chief is a dedication to forgotten, battered and broken tractors in the corner of a field, to time spent gazing at rocks overturned by ancestors and to any lives cornered and wasted by media-taught convention.

If anything at all, Chief is a dedication to Warrilow’s late, great stepfather ‘Chief’ West, who taught him how to play, but unfortunately missed the beginning of Warrilow’s solo musical career.

credits

released May 25, 2015

Classical guitar, vocals, lead guitar, bass - Warrilow
Drums - Charlie Vasiliou

Recorded and produced by Liam Gaughan at Loft Studios, Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

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Warrilow Newcastle Upon Tyne, UK

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Track Name: The Gallery
Are you one to look through a frame? Linger on the
corners while the picture frays. Fade. The pencil fades, fractured by
the day. Form an orderly line. Form up brothers. Are you one to stand
knee-deep in rills? Sun at your neck, while your shoes fill. Still. The
light is never still, fractured by the lake. Form an orderly line. Form
up brothers.
Track Name: XXII
Rust. You’re Tied. Weed clamped wheels, waiting on
a fine. Rust. you’re rusting for eyes. A cabaret of decay. may as well
make use of time. Whiskers of paint shorn by a finger, like moving
dust to find dust. Like digging soil for cinders. Trash for a battered
picture. A woven path acts out paragraphs, a soliloquy through
trees spoken to fast, and yet a battered tractor
gives the woods a corner. Bed, far from home. A
pointed hedge pricking like a duck-feather
pillow. Bed. Rest up for the show and dream of
straight lines in the sod. Machines will never
note the throes. A coffin ship scuppered by
sea-salt. Even the breeze corrodes. A
flint-knapper taps, a stone sings its faults and it’s
cast aside never to reach the vaults. You silence your sigh. So much
depends on you.
Track Name: Rope Bridge
Waiting in the barley in the wind. Her
hair a flicking flag across the sun-starved abyss. She whispers an
elegy and curses the howling gap, But even her laments are poetry to
the man this fissure trapped. He sang “I’ll make me a Rope Bridge. I’d
hang my bones from each side. And although it’s my life I make it
with, this chasm will never divide us again.” Words carried far lose
nothing in the breeze. His smile set, lustrous amber free from the tree.
Flightless on the promontory cleaved apart by time. Two cliffs
alight in revelry, lovers linked for life.