Recorded by Ben Brodin at the Record Company in Boston, MA in September of 2016. Mixed by Ben at Another Recording Company in Omaha, NE
Mastered by Carl Saff.
Artwork by Nick Pyle.
Violin and Viola played by Elisabeth Fuchsia

Matt Becker – guitar
Matt Connery – bass
Kris Kuss – drums
Rick Maguire – guitar and vocals

A Hairshirt of Purpose

The Death of Speedy Ortiz & Cop Kicker ...Forever

Hexxy Sadie

"Summer Girl" by Mary Anne's Polar Rig, released September 13th, 2022. 
Video: https://youtu.be/CWH-vvW1Cns

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Mary Anne's Polar Rig - Summer Girl

In the Garden Digging

☄️SURFACE OF THE SUN☄️ IS OUT NOW!!!

https://lnk.to/SurfaceoftheSun

🖤

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Surface of the Sun

All Fiction

It Comes Closer

This tune is a reminder and a plea. Our current economic climate doesn't make it easy for all to step outside and breathe, take notice of the small things and reliece the pressures that exist in our individual worlds. How wild swimming and standing by trees can regulate our vagus nerve, grounding us in our nervous system allowing us to connect with each other, relax. So it's a reminder, that even if accesss is hard, and housing is hard, and everything is hard, get a bit of fresh air, fresh water, when you can, find a plant, even in the most concrete of landscapes there is always a bit of life.

Opening with a variation on the Georgian folk song 'ბინდისფერია სოფელი' Bindisperia Sopeli taught to me by @nino.naneishvili
Part of the lyrics translates as -
The color of the world is twilight, and is getting darker. In an age where it is easier to imagine dystopia than a hopeful future this song really touched on some of what I was feeling whilst writing 'staring at the grain'.


Lyrics -
Slate and grass and water running fast and o’er over hill,
Over hill and to the lake here there will find the freshest fill,

Undulating mountains pasture slowly beginning to fade,
Hoping that the life clings on here even in the summer’s shade,

Our trees are arteries and our trees are arteries

Twigs and leaf and bark are witness
To the drowning of the hill
Over copse and to the vale here
We won’t find the waters still, mmm...

Beckoning the forest shelters
Axed and planed and sawn in shape
Sweep away last cherry stones
Burn humble hope in fire place

Our trees are arteries and our trees are arteries

Cos nothing cures delirium like staring at the grain the tiny knotted faces help the trees to explain about their life before the plank, the twisted beech and straightened ash

Fingers

Pile

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