An Airing Of Our Binaural Laundry In The Monophonic World (RPM 2017)

by The Retarded Potentials

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    An experiment with prose and noise rock recorded over a few short days in February. This served as my 2017 RPM album entry.
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01:12
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4.
01:11
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10.

credits

released February 28, 2017

In cases where there are words they were the foundation with everything else built around them. Myself on all instruments.
Thanks to Chad R. for his improvisational drumming on track 9 and letting me be my Bruce Loose to his Steve DePace.
Thanks to Grace W. for the inspiration.
Thanks to Brittany C. for the drawing I used without permission.
Thanks to RPMChallenge.com for the vehicle and thanks to everyone who sticks around and presses record one more time.

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The Retarded Potentials Tallinn, Estonia

One wardrobe malfunction away from commercial success.

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Track Name: Cliffhanger
Waiting patiently in darkened empty hallways
for myself to pass and engage in a rewarding confrontation.
The ill gotten gains worth less and less each day.
Excusing these crippling anxieties based on
nothing of real concern but never fully considering their implications.
Entertaining an improvised soap opera
cast exclusively in the imagination of the director.
Myself.
A cliffhanger is not how the show ends
but the reason it begins being revealed much later than you'd expect. Missed a turn and now looking down wondering
what could have been done differently with more consideration.

Traveling unpaved roads establishing a foundation
of justified means.
Unfamiliar landmarks dotting the way but not so
thoroughly unrelated as it seems.
Away. Its a distant place but you can get there. A way.
Escapism like time is only a concept but
can you imagine if a clock had consciousness?
It already has hands after all.
Track Name: She Was Never Looking
She was too much too handle never budging despite all leverage.
He was hardly able to cope or process without his privileges.
She heard it all a hundred times. He rarely ever spoke.
She would find anything better. He would never hope.
She was never looking.
He was never home.

She could always work around it. He worked best alone.
She might offer compromise. He may voice some hope.
She in kind redefines what's now considered change.
He self inspires never medicating his brain with symptomatic lies.
She will probably out last him. He has always known.
She was never looking.
He was never home.
She is the beginning. To him the end was always known.
She was never looking.
He was never home.
Track Name: The South Pole Is The Asshole Of Our World (Or Perhaps A Belly Button)
You can save a lot of rich things in a chest built for less than a penny.
A string of rash decisions crudely spun
into a sweater worn only inbetween the months
of November and one of the two ary's.
Watches that facetime and the names of all the enemies relations frustrations misgivings and needs.
Sympathetic plights, accreditation and major sleights.
Blackberrys, a reputation, a greater message.
The definition of wrong and right.

When the going gets bad, things go south.
And the south pole is the asshole of our world.
Or perhaps a belly button.
Plans have been better hatched without spies at the telegraphs.
Motion capture drone actors reused propped up with toothpicks and popsicle sticks sleeping under a roof of playing cards, all aces.
Funneled funny money foundations in the name of any inverted intention.
Free speech defined by cyphers and hash passed securely assuredly certified.
Privacy is no issue on the cellular level of brain tissue.
Cut the cords and bathe in gigabytes on frequencies
much stronger than sunlight.
Track Name: The Ride
I read our stories front to back wishing there were more.
My cover is me sitting in a lazyboy wearing a red shirt branded FUN
in all capital letters.
Yours is a large heart growing alongside a flower under a smiling sun.
Two years seemed really far not too long ago.
If I were the president I would make it so people couldn't get divorced.
You were only worried of ways to play when seasons change.
Leaves were fine and snow was good, nothing beat the summer pools. Any time really was good news.

Now its just a curse. It's darkness and the cold.
The freezing rain or burning sun aching aging bones.
It sometimes warms my back and reminds the heart of days gone past.
For now it gives me comfort that the knowing may not replace.
Tragic is always understanding. Accidents aren't all mistakes.
Mental trash compactor aggregate a city block wide.
No inventory needed or taken just give it all the ride.
I won't complain about the weather.
I won't lose sleep over whats right.
The cicadas are another story.
Track Name: Unspoken Opus
(instrumental)
Track Name: Gasket Blaster
(instrumental)
Track Name: The Beetles Of Our Lady
Bound to get thrown out
like good ideas and other wastes.
Holographic disks not yet pressed
with editorialized memes. Transcribed from the yellow pages of journals
left behind on our poison islands.
Encyclopedia summarized and trimmed
like branches at the leaves.
A technological marvel to many; but not a ladybug passing by.
Skylines left alone as roads to photosynthesis' chauffeured light.
Thermal receipt tape blank with no record
of any transaction. No claim to stake but you could find a ladybug
taking a drink sometime.
I like to think what he'd reply with when questioned about his life.
Whatever comes next will be in no hurry to arrive,
but it will appear as an oasis in the desert overnight.
Danger isn't something from which you try to hide
Track Name: Good At Pushing Start
trash80? check
coleco adam? check
intellivision? check
NES? check
DOS? check
Windows? check
SNES? check
Genesis? check
Game Gear? check
Saturn? check
Dreamcast? check
Playstation? check
N64? check
Gamecube? check
Xbox? check
Wii? check
PS2? check
PS3? check
PS4? check
wife? somehow
Track Name: Prophet Shrinks
(featuring Chad R. on drums)

selling salmon cookies
profits that will shrink
selling salmon cookies
dont consider it a treat
selling salmon cookies
dont consider it a treat

selling salmon cookies
dont consider it a treat
selling salmon cookies
profits they will shrink

selling salmon cookies
don't consider them a treat
selling salmon cookies
don't consider them a treat
selling salmon cookies

selling salmon cookies
don't consider them much of a treat
selling salmon cookies
the worst kind that you'd eat
they smell of feet
and rotten body
Track Name: Dedication (Not Much)
Sometimes I brandish crazy weird thoughts
carefully concealed like a deadly weapon.
Ready to wield at any opportunity given
yielding large damage to the opposition that is sanity.
For example, shaving off all non essential hair
to weave into a basket to carry around essential type things.
Spontaneously making mustard from scratch or a spoken word album.
Both can bring a man to tears and ruin a perfectly good ham sandwich.
This album is dedicated to everyone who listens to themselves
and thinks, "Why am I doing this?".
This album is dedicated to everybody that gives themselves a second chance
every time they press 'Record'.