super_low

Veggies

First track off of my latest EP "On the Clock." Be sure to check out my Spotify page for the rest of the album.

Senseless

A track off my new EP "On the Clock." Be sure to check out my Spotify page for the rest of the album

Easy

A track off my latest EP "On the Clock." Be sure to check out my Spotify for the rest of the album. 

🎧 Track: Blonde in the Blackburn Shirt
Genre: Indie Rock × Jangle Pop × Post-Punk
Mood: Melancholisch • Ironisch • Bittersweet • Literarisch
Tempo: Midtempo (~90–100 BPM)

A jangly, bittersweet tribute to the kind of girl who breaks you with nothing but a glance and a football shirt.

Glittering guitar riffs collide with dry, punchy drums and a melodic bassline straight out of an 80s UK indie B-side. Baritone vocals trace a poetic obsession — a blonde phantom in the home stand, wearing Lewis Travis' number like it’s stitched to your fate.

This is romantic melancholy in floodlight blue, built from chip-shop queues, cider nights, and the existential loneliness of chanting for love that never turns around.

📍 Inspired by outsider culture, matchday myths, and the beautiful futility of wanting what won’t wave back.

“She don’t wave, she don’t flirt — but she’s killing me in that shirt.”

Lyrics:

Queued for chips — she skipped the line
Smiled like sin, boots laced fine
Ponytail snapped like a crossbar kiss
Blonde flash in a working-class myth

She don’t cheer — she testifies
When Travis scores, she doesn’t sigh
I mouth the chants, but I’m not there
I’m tangled in the flood of her hair

She’s got strut like floodlights hum
Late game chill — I come undone
27 stitched to her back
And I collapse — straight through the cracks

Blonde in the Blackburn shirt — oh God
Moves like regret in a hometown fog
She don’t wave, she don’t flirt
Still, she ruins me in that shirt

Blonde in the Ewood row — so close
I’m two seats deep in silent hope
She’s got poise, she’s got verve
Blonde in the shirt — more than I deserve

Burger van smoke, her voice cuts clean
Curses fouls like a matchday queen
“Southern ref’s a joke,” she says
Still flawless in that cheap terrace haze

I saw her tagged in someone’s snap
Pub light, chant night, cider laugh
She’s not a dream, she’s pitch and breath
And I’m a poet choking on regret

She don’t pose, she don’t play
Just shatters hearts each Saturday
Number 27, pride and curse
And I’m the first… to write this verse

Blonde in the Blackburn shirt — oh God
Moves like a sigh in a packed old sod
She don’t wave, she don’t flirt
But I’d trade my soul for that shirt

Blonde in the Ewood glare — no lie
She’s pure midwinter in July
She’s got grace, she’s got nerve
Blonde in the shirt — more than I deserve

She’s not famous — not online
But she walks like clockwork misaligned
Every lad writes her name in chalk
She don’t reply — she just walks

Blonde in the Blackburn shirt — oh yeah!
Burns like a flare in the match-day air
She don’t wave, she don’t flirt
But she’s breaking blood in that shirt

Blonde in the home stand crush — so near
I’d buy a scarf just to breathe her sphere
She’s got rhythm, she’s got nerve
Blonde in the shirt — more than I deserve

Blonde in the shirt…
She don’t know…
She just hurts…

Blonde in the Blackburn Shirt

Of course, once a week, because we are civilized Austrians, we walk these two and a half miserable minutes there, and two and a half miserable minutes back, carrying our empty glass, our conscience, and our existence in our hand, as if we were part of some state-enforced ritual of absolute idiocy.

And naturally, we always walk the same block, past the same crooked houses, past the same decaying gardens, past the same neighbor with the same dog that shits on the same patch of grass every single day, and we think,
"Maybe today will be different,"
but of course it never is.

Because there we are, standing in front of this concrete monstrosity of a recycling container, this hideous state-sanctioned monument to environmental virtue, and we drop it.
We drop the glass.

CLIRR!
— and for a second we think, perhaps this is freedom,
but then WHOMP!,
and we realize nothing has changed.
Not the street.
Not the block.
Not us.

And this absurdity, this infinite repetition of useless gestures, this Austrian glass-throwing Gesamtkunstwerk, we have now transformed into a song, because of course we did, because what else is there to do in this land of eternal Sundays, where everything stands still except the seasons, where the glass is always empty and the street is always full of ghosts.

So here it is:
An Indie Rock x Jangle Pop x Post-Punk exorcism of your weekly recycling despair.
A jangly hymn to pointless routines.
An anthem for everyone who ever wondered if throwing glass away is secretly the Austrian national sport.

Listen loudly.
Hate quietly.
Drop it — CLIRR!
Glass goes down — WHOMP!
Your life doesn’t change.

But at least the bassline slaps.

Lyrics:

One afternoon a week…
Two and a half minutes there,
Two and a half back.
The block, the walk,
The ritual begins.

Step by step, slow pace,
Empty glass in my hand, no chase.
Brain’s awake, but time’s on mute,
The street’s a loop, the thoughts reboot.

Last time — a red car passed,
Last time — her shadow crossed so fast,
Same street, same frame,
Different story, same game.

I hear the city breathe,
I feel the seasons shift,
But one thing stays,
One thing stays…

Drop it — CLIRR!
Glass goes down — WHOMP!
Same old block, same old sound,
Drop it — CLIRR!
Glass goes down — WHOMP!
This is my ceremony ground!

Summer sweat on a cruel hot day,
Autumn breeze takes the heat away.
Winter coat, wool hat, thick glove,
Spring wakes up the street I love.

Every season paints the same routine,
But inside my head, it’s a movie scene.
Different faces, same concrete,
Glass in my hand, history on repeat.

Frames in motion…
Memories collide…
I see me walking,
I see me passing by…
Every step,
Every sound,
Everything changes —
Except…

Drop it — CLIRR!
Glass goes down — WHOMP!
Same old block, same old sound,
Drop it — CLIRR!
Glass goes down — WHOMP!
This is my ceremony ground!

…and the glass hits bottom.

Glass Container Ceremony

Verse 1
I found you in a garden of neon,
Every flower flickered, every beat was gone.
Your shadow glowed against the screen,
We were dreaming inside a machine.

Pre-Chorus
Colors bending, hearts collide,
In the static we can hide.

Chorus
Electric Eden, take me home,
Through the wires we’re not alone.
Every circuit feels alive,
Electric Eden keeps us high.

Verse 2
We burned like sparks in a midnight storm,
Digital fire kept our bodies warm.
Your voice was coded, sharp and clear,
But still it pulled me near.

Pre-Chorus
Colors bending, hearts collide,
In the static we can hide.

Chorus
Electric Eden, take me home,
Through the wires we’re not alone.
Every circuit feels alive,
Electric Eden keeps us high.

Bridge
Even when the lights decay,
Eden glows and shows the way.
We’ll be fire, we’ll be free,
Electric Eden’s part of me.

Final Chorus
Electric Eden, take me home,
Through the wires we’re not alone.
Every circuit feels alive,
Electric Eden keeps us high.

Electric Eden

Imagine walking into the Department of Love like it’s a Monday at the DMV — except instead of a ticket number, you’re handed a disco ball and a stack of bureaucratic heartbreak forms. That’s basically this track.

Originally a smooth dancefloor banger, it has now been re-filed under indie rock / jangle pop / post-punk: guitars with too much coffee, vocals that sound like they ironed their shirt in the dark, and a rhythm section that may or may not be employed by Section 8 of Cupid’s office.

It’s about love applications gone wrong, tear-drops that won’t pass quality control, and the eternal truth that sometimes the only approved document is a selfie with a pug meme. If Franz Kafka had joined The Smiths after a night out at an Italo disco, this would be his HR complaint form set to music.

Play loud, sway too wide, and don’t blink when the chorus stamps you “Not Quite Okay.”

Lyrics:

Filed the form, he wore cologne
Typed his heart on a monochrome
Box five blinked, "Have you felt before?"
He typed, "Yeah, maybe once, not sure"
Passport thick, a moody frame
Backwards glue, he blamed the name
They asked for proof of kissing style
He sent a selfie, took a while

The clerk said, "Filed, your vibe's too great"
Section nine gave you away
He rewrote tales of passion bright
Auto-correct dimmed down the night

The memo said, "Bring joy, not dread"
He showed a meme of a pug instead
They asked for love, deep in the beat
Form B-13 got dancing feet
I once had butterflies in spring
Now I just hum and never cling

Filed for love with mild caffeine
Submitted dreams in a dotted screen
They said my hugs were out of sync
I swayed too wide, I didn't blink

They wanted tears, fresh, full of flair
He sent some drops caught in his hair
"No return" was strict demand
Tears must sparkle, fall on hand
My friend said, "Bro, just fake delight"
He danced in socks under disco light
But still they stamped, "Not quite okay"
Filed as love in the lost display

Form C-3 from pigeon corp
"Do you deserve a warm report?"
He checked, "Maybe", spilled his tea
The box got wet, "Oh, yes, for me"
They asked for love, checked all the marks
But they found gaps between the sparks
I bubble-wrapped my heart with care
They said, "Too fragile, unaware"

Filed for love and danced too late
Now Cupid works for Section 8
I passed the rhythm, missed the flame
They stamped my joy with someone's name

Love delayed

Filed for Love (Indie Rock Version)

"RUST" is a haunting blend of Alternative Rock and Indie Pop, carrying the raw edge of guitars and the vulnerability of stripped-down vocals. The song paints a picture of time, decay, and the weight of memories that never fade — like metal weathered by years of rain. With its moody verses and soaring chorus, RUST speaks to anyone who’s ever felt broken but still standing, scarred yet unshaken.

This track is for late-night listeners, for the ones driving with the windows down, for anyone holding onto hope through the cracks. RUST is not just a song — it’s a reflection of survival, beauty in the damage, and strength in what remains.

Rust

Solo musician/artist
ur_friends_house.WAV

@b1ueyard - ig

Hi there — welcome to my corner of the web.

I’m here for one simple reason: to share my music with you.
Take a listen, explore, and I hope something here resonates with you. Enjoy the vibe!

Atlanta-based lo-fi slacker rock, somewhere between a shrug and a daydream.

I write, play, and record everything myself — usually in my kitchen — blending nylon-string guitar, deadpan vocals, and surreal lyrics that wander between dry humor and quiet existential weight.

For fans of Pavement, Silver Jews, early Beck, Alex G, and David Berman.

Songs about carpet stains, paper boats, and the slow hum of summer afternoons.

New tracks tagged #retroindie