The songs that defined a golden era of British indie. Cover: Blur

Britpop, Etc.

Wreckage

I learned to make a fist from my older brother at five,
and trust me, that skill’s kept me alive more times than I can count.
He showed me how to square up before I knew how to spell my name.
We didn’t have bedtime stories—we had bruises and broken lamps.
Mama prayed, Daddy drank, and we ducked when the shouting started.
I wore my first scar like a badge and never asked for a refund.
By seven, I knew how to take a hit and how to hide the tears.
By ten, I stopped hiding anything at all.
I’m a fighter, always have been, even when I didn’t want to be.
This skin’s beyond thin—it’s paper stretched over dynamite.
One twist, one wrong word, and I’m back in the ring.
It’s not about winning—it’s about not backing down.
I’ve thrown punches in parking lots and whispered apologies in hospital rooms.
I’ve fought for love, for pride, for silence, for nothing.
Sometimes I fight just to feel something that isn’t shame.
Sometimes I fight because it’s the only thing I trust to stay.
I’ve been hit by friends, by strangers, by truths I wasn’t ready for.
I’ve lost teeth, lost time, lost the thread of who I was supposed to be.
I’ve seen the look in her eyes when she realized I wasn’t safe to love.
I’ve walked out of rooms I should’ve stayed in and stayed in fights I should’ve walked from.
I’ve buried the best parts of me under layers of defense.
I’ve told myself I’m fine while bleeding through my shirt.
I’ve made peace with the fact that peace never made time for me.
I’ve stared down mirrors and dared them to blink first.
I don’t romanticize the damage—I just carry it.
I don’t ask for forgiveness—I just keep moving.
I don’t know what healing looks like, but I know what survival costs.
I don’t cry anymore, but I still flinch when someone says “safe.”
I’m the kind of man who’d die from a blow he didn’t see coming.
Not because he’s weak, but because he’s always looking the other way.
I’ve got stories stitched into my knuckles and regrets tattooed on my ribs.
I’ve got a heart that punches back and a mind that won’t stay quiet.
I’ve got a past that won’t let go and a future I don’t trust.
I’ve got one truth left: I fight.
Not for glory. Not for fame.
Just because that’s what got me down the line.
That’s just me.
No anthem. No apology.
Just a man who learned to swing
and never stopped.
That’s just me.(That’s just me.)That’s just me.
That’s just me.(That’s just me.)That’s just me.
That’s just me.(That’s just me.)That’s just me.
That’s just me.(That’s just me.)That’s just me

All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
For more ride-and-rock tracks, click here: https://soundcloud.com/edwin-balder/sets/rusty-marshall-band?si=c5040230a7334213b5d7609527997d7c&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

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