Tunnels

Knockin' On Heaven's Door

Sidewalk Chalk

New Sketchy Walrus single! Lyrics by Lilly Stannard, music by Conrad J. Gagnon, artwork thanks to Maddy Mae! 

Misery

A cover of my new favorite song- just in time for Halloween! Sorry for the incredibly lofi iPhone recording. Listen to the original here: http://www.brooklynvegan.com/archives/2014/10/roger_harvey_th.html 

Halloween (Roger Harvey Cover)

This is an example of my skills in digitalized music. This piece will probably sound better with headphones due to the amount of bass. Any and all feedback is appreciated. 

Digital Veil

My cover of Fake Plastic Trees. Sorry if I sound a bit iffy, I'm getting over a cold. 

Fake Plastic Trees

Android!

The Mountain Goats cover. My theme song for studying. 

This Year

Neutral Milk Hotel cover with an original story attached. 

“You look fantastic,” I told Janette. She blushed, and sat down on the bed to fix her shoes. 
	“Thank you, Frank,” she smiled. 
	It was a cold day in late December in New York. The clock read 4:21. I had on my new cap and pea-coat that Janette had gotten me for Hanukkah, and she wore the outfit I had bought her: a striped, black and white dress and a light grey woolen coat. The record player spun, whispering poetry and hymnal melodies into our room. I took the needle off the record player, and put Simon and Garfunkel’s Sound Of Silence back into its sleeve. 
	“Ready to go?” I asked, smirking. 
	“Of course, deary!” she said, jumping up off the bed. We walked together past Central Park in the cold breeze that bit at our faces like a thousand tiny mischievous fairies, and one couldn’t help but smile as they playfully nipped at your exposed skin. The newly fallen snow lay thick on the trees and buildings, like a blanket on a young, sleeping child. 
	“Would you like to grab some coffee before we go to dinner with your boss? We have a little time,” Janette suggested. 
	“Of course!” I replied, having to walk quickly to keep up with her youthful pace. I’ll need this coffee to make it through my boss’s dinner I thought to myself, smirking smugly at my own joke. We walked into the coffee shop, and I ordered our usual: two cappuccinos, extra sugar. The man at the counter handed me the two cups, and I went back to the table and sat with Janette. She sipped her coffee smiled. I smiled back, so happy to be married to such a lovely lady. 
	At that moment, a man walked by and gave me an odd look. “Kook,” he muttered under his breath. I frowned, confused at such a comment. 
	“Someone doesn’t like my new hat,” I joked. She giggled, and finished up her coffee. I finished mine, and wiped the coffee mustache from my face with a napkin. We set back off on the street, hand in hand, off to my boss’s lofty apartment. I got some more strange looks on the street. I was a little bit frustrated now. Did my shirt have a stain on it? Was there something on my face? I zoned for a moment as I dodged passer-bys. 
	“Are you alright, deary?” Janette asked. 
	“Of course!” I stuttered back. Finally, we were at my boss’s front door. I knocked. 
	“Coming!” I heard a woman yell from somewhere inside. The door swung open to reveal my boss’s wife, a woman who might have once been a beautiful blond, but now she had become obese and sagging with the weight of age and money. 
	“Oh come right in! Mr. Johnstone is waiting for you!” she said, “here, let me take your coats.” We handed her our coats, and walked to the dining room. 
	“Ahhh, Frank! My boy!” said a voice behind me. I turned to see my boss, with his pudgy face, bushy mustache, and bald dome. We shook hands and I smiled my biggest smile. 
	“Take a seat! Dinner’s just about to be served,” he said. 
	“Thank you!” I replied. Janette and I took a seat at the table next to each other. Sinatra poured from the record playing in the corner of the room. 
	“I’m so sorry about your wife,” Mr. Johnstone said mournfully. I frowned, even more perplexed than before. 
	“What do you mean? She’s right next to me!” I said, pointing to my wife, who sat nervously in her chair, tapping her foot on the ground. 
	Mr. Johnstone gave me an odd look. “Are you mad?” he asked me. 
	“No!” I replied. “Is this a joke?” 
	“Not on my side, is it a joke on yours?” 
	“Of course not!” 
	Mr. Johnstone sighed. “Frank, your wife passed away eight days ago. Don’t you remember? We attended the funeral on Saturday.” 
	I sat, stunned. I looked at Janette, questioning the truth of what Mr. Johnstone said. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she took my hand in her soft, pale hands. “Goodbye,” she whispered. Before my eyes, my wife faded away. I closed my eyes. Please let this be a dream, I thought, please, please, please! I wiped the tears from my eyes, and saw Mr. Johnstone take out a pen and wrote something down on a napkin. 
	“What’s that?” I choked, embarrassed to be seen in such a state in front of my boss. 
	“It’s the address of my therapist, I think you better see him,” he replied, a sorrowful look on his pig-like face. 

	“Mr. Gurovitz, I am diagnosing you with irritable heart and schizophrenia,” the therapist said. “Your wife was hit by a bus while crossing the street Thursday evening. The driver didn’t see her until it was too late, and slid into her on the ice.” He sighed. “I hope you don’t take this too hard. I have some medication for you and your boss has paid for two months of weekly therapy for you.” 
	I felt tears well up in my eyes, and my heart being clenched by some unseen force, like a demon of sadness and emotion. I put my hands into my pockets to get my handkerchief. I felt a small piece of paper in my pocket that I didn’t recall putting there. I took it out and unfolded it. In Janette’s handwriting, the note read: 
	“I love you, deary.” 

My Dream Girl Don't Exist.

I play in a band called Sketchy Walrus. 
Check us out here: soundcloud.com/sketchy-walrus 

Conrad Gagnon