This is a song about being fake in a way that many of us are guilty of. I was trying to be ironic in the sense that even if you define your personality around trying to pre-empt other's criticism - that in itself will give them something to criticise you for.
Many thanks to Jed Cooke drums, James Scotney Bass and especially Freddy (https://soundcloud.com/savaloy) for his amazing vocal takes and help in production, I intend to give him the raw files soon and I'm sure he'll produce a much better mix, but for me, I'm quite happy with the raw live sound I've cobbled together here. Words and music by me.

Rylics:


You're the witty retort to a question, 
that you've fought to never be asked;
 Where's the face that dons the mask? 
You're the photocopy, but of who's ass?
Parce que je ne sais pas...

You're the tongue in the cheek,
 of the person you're afraid to be,
  a mystery, inside a riddle - you'd like to think,
 wrapped in fucking parody.  

 Like saving before the face, 
you are before the fact.
 I'm getting sick of this act,
 of pre-emptive exaggeration. 
It's just back-handed masturbation.  

You're so full of bullshit and sarcasm, 
I suspect that at the point of orgasm, 
all you can muster is ectoplasm.
Ectoplasm.   

  Pretending not to be; pretending to be, 
somebody else, all this hyperbole, 
cant be good for your mental health, 
you must be,  nostalgic for yourself.   

Securely in insecurity,  
surely it's plain for all to see. 
Don't judge yourself so harshly
 -  that's our job and we'll do it gladly.
 Don't be your own straw-man effigy.         

Auto-satirically faux-moronic,  
hypocritically meta-sardonic, 
 psuedo-cynically oxymoronic,  
self-analytically post-ironic.   

You're so full of bullshit and sarcasm,  
I suspect that at the point of orgasm,  
all you can muster is ectoplasm.  
Ectoplasm.  On your face!
 [all rise for guitar solo]  

Whilst counterfeiting prat-falls,  
how can you be sure to recall;  
that this caricature,  with these character flaws,  
ever really was a person, at all?    

Like parallel fun-house mirrors 
-  you are nothing; manifest.  
Nothing beats within your chest,
  except pause, for comic effect.  
You're under cardiac arrest.   

You're so full of bullshit and sarcasm, 
 I suspect that at the point of orgasm,  
all you can muster is ectoplasm.  
Ectoplasm.

You're so full of bullshit and sarcasm, 
 I suspect that at the point of orgasm,  
all you can muster is ectoplasm.  
Ectoplasm.  

Eggs. Eggs.  Egg on your face! 
Ectoplasm on your face!
Wrapped in fucking parody.
An ectoplasm and parody sandwich.

Ectoplasm

A song I wrote, recorded and produced over approx 4-5 hours for my EP deadline. It suffered from this admittedly but I think there's some potential and cool riffs here. I particularly enjoyed playing the ludicrous harmonic-minor bridge, maybe you will enjoy being assaulted by it. Intend to develop it further. Many thanks to https://soundcloud.com/lottie-holmes for her frankly awesome vox takes after never seeing the track or lyrics prior to recording.

Lyrics:

what fresh hell is this?
Jack smiles across my wrists,
what doesn't take this life, so lonely...
Only takes the piss!

No chance for hoping,
grasping and groping,
gasp as the rope pulls tight,
tonight, you know you're broken!

Hell, no, hath. Rot.

Locked doors, long lost and forgotten,
in your head it isn't dead - just rotten!

Convenient brutality,
blood charity,
obedient mortality,
brief clarity.

No devils won't drag you,
there's no need to -
you'll find you'll,
walk your own damn way to hell.

Hell, no, hath. Rot.

Locked doors, long lost and forgotten,
in your head it isn't dead - just rotten!

Rotten

A deeply personal folky-ballad thing about wanting to forget. A special thanks to Callum (https://soundcloud.com/calzone178) for being the voice I dont have with his beautiful vocal takes.

Lyrics:
  In dreams I stroll, slow by the sands, 
still is my soul, in your hands. 
And when I wake, to check my own, 
they only shake, now I'm alone.  
I'm by your side, once in my life. 
I'm by your side, every night.  

In my mind lives on, let me forget,
my best moment, your worst regret,
that time has gone, let me forget,
my best moment, your worst regret.

No room for breath, there are still shards, 
deep in my chest, still-beating scars. 
Closed eyes of mine, see only your eyes,
 through tears in tides, fresh golden skies. 
That time has gone, so hard to say. 
I can't move on, from dawn that day.  

In my mind lives on, let me forget,
my best moment, your worst regret,
that time has gone, let me forget,
my best moment, your worst regret.

 Let me forget. Let me...

Nepenthe

The prelude to my EP, I sat some people in a room in the dark and asked them to talk to themselves about dreams they had and then mixed it together over a guitar riff I wrote in my sleep. Thanks Holly for your help with this one.
It doesn't get much more pretentious than this, people. Check it out.

Bedtime

I learned a new word. "Cafune" means the feeling of running your fingers through a lover's hair. This is an instrumental interlude about that feeling.

Cafune

All music is totes mine and you must ask to use it and that.
Some older work at https://soundcloud.com/thelegsofaram
and
https://soundcloud.com/mballard-2/

Matt D Ballard