The next album from Time. Space. Repeat. - the soundtrack to a utopian society, destroyed by hubris and unforeseen events. Everything has its consequence.

Bossa Never

You can sit wherever you like, but
Don't distract the autopilot
For your safety and mine
Please be orderly behind the line

The future's bright
And the past is dead
Put your trust in the power of rust
At least I think that's what he said

Please can I politely advise you
To do whatever the autopilot says
Please relax and enjoy the ride
As we plummet to our fiery deaths
We could try to fight or run but
I guess it all depends
If you value your freedom or comfort more
It's all the same in the end

The future's written
And the past is gone
For your safety and convenience
The camera is always on

Invest your every movement with meaning
That's the only way we'll beat them
Are you certain who you're talking to?
Are you certain that you've thought this through?

The past is yours but the future's dead (repeat)
Ah I think that's what he said

Don't distract the autopilot

You can sit wherever you like, but
Don't distract the autopilot
Or he might bring your vehicle
To a sudden stop

Don't Distract the Autopilot

Elephant

Blue

This is my single submission for the 2023 Album Writing Club.

Here is the complete playlist of the entries: on.soundcloud.com/GLd3t

Please vote for your favorites (up to three) here: forms.gle/o9NTgKWpqWqKVx7x9

Dark horse, came from nothin’
Disregards whatever makes his life complete
Black sheep, started runnin’
Traveled far, searchin’ for something to beat
Black eye, hindered vision
Head aloft, forcing us to understand
Boxed ears, you never listen
Shouting off whoever wants to lend a hand

What a struggle when you’re always right
How difficult that seems
If only all of us would see the light
We could start building your dreams

Reelin’ mad, so pathetic
Debate is trash when winning is the only goal
Feelin’ bad, sympathetic
Watching as you spiral down a rabbit hole
Honor bound, keep on talkin’
Right or not, you’re acting like a total douche
Turn around, just start walkin’
Haven’t got the energy to deal with you

Can just imagine all the bridges burning and fences you’ve built up
Walls and chambers, battlements as you refuse the drawbridge lowered

Fair play that fateful Tuesday
Shot a dove and pushed away an olive branch
His way or the highway
Makes a peace sign with his fist and calls it righteousness
Can’t miss the looks and comments
I’ve been catchin’ all the salty vibes you’re sendin’ me
If this is how he treats us
Just imagine what he visits on his enemies

All the demons and the feral winds that you loose upon your home
Can maybe chalk it up to arrogance as to why you die alone

Scenes From an Empty Stage

Fences

Written, performed and produced by Ian Allison.

From the Marzihu EP 'Four Minute Warning' – a snapshot of the lives of four people at the moment of the Four MInute Warning. 'Sysiphus' is the story of a woman whose relationship is ending due to relentless, monotonous, unsupported, thankless domesticity. Told in the style of HP Lovecraft/Geezer Butler… Lyrics:

Have you… ever been to a dark place?
A place of promises and lies?
She sits, all alone with the vaccuum,
It’s where her hopelessness resides.
Her dreams feel like ashes in the morning,
She dusts the dust, to earth it must return.
She waits for an absent invitation,
Ignores the place… where fires used to burn.

Now even Sysiphus must die!

Sysiphus

A song about emerging from challenging times, in glorious fashion. It was inspired by a few visits to Birmingham and includes a few references to the city in its lyric - along with Edinburgh and Reims, which are perhaps associated more with opulence and glamour (even if it isn't always the truth.)

Distinctly Continental

The Kiss of the Enchantress 

High up in the Sierra			
both sides are terrified			
It’s so hot in here 				
the snow waits outside 		

Sweat drips from the ceiling
Blood slips on the floor 	
Fear takes its icy grip		
The wolf is at the door		

Release me from this fever		
Release me from this spell		
High up on a snowy mountain 	
But my angel fell				

Like a Murnau movie 			
Monochrome and vivid red 	
The Kiss of the Enchantress 
An evil crown on your head

KISS OF THE ENCHANTRESS

The partners of HJJW present to you Playing Office from their business themed album ‘Sound Investments’. Combining the skills of Andrew Hartshorn, Cosmic Bos (the Jackson brothers) and ASeaWarren, this musical slice of modern office life takes you on a journey through the 9 to 5, examining the existential crisis of work life balances and overtime taxes, timesheets and insurance policies, major lifts and minor falls. The themes of the album are directly represented in Playing Office, with its references to Michael Scott and David Brent, and a couple of other hidden Easter eggs for the office media savvy, the job is what you make it, so make it fun.

HJJ&W are here to represent music made by the people for the people, vote for Playing Office and help HJJ&W become the legitimate musical firm they are destined to become.

PLAYING OFFICE by HJJ&W

Went to the music market today
We did a business and came away
With a bag full of bass lines and half whistled tunes
A four to the floor that we accent with spoons
Tidy melodies all stocked and shared
Progressive chord structures harmonically paired
Time to play office, we’re cutting it fine 
Under a tight rapidly approaching deadline

I wanna be Jim
But I’m probably Dwight
Or Michael Scott at threat level midnight
It’s entertainment 
Clear for all to see
We’re victims of the industry 

But it’s okay, we are artists at heart
Our dedication needs to be to our art
We’re playing office so we can pay the bills
While in our spare time keep developing skills
Turning hobbies into business is hard
Your wits must be sharp and always on guard
Reading contracts when you’re just a bard
That makes albums in sheds in a tiny backyard 

Feeling like Tim
But acting like Brent
So much time paid for and poorly misspent 
Wake up like Dawn
Take charge like Pam
The sweetest of sounds always spread like jam
Be your own boss
Bend all the rules
Stop playing office and start playing school
Learning’s cool
We are all fools

Break the habit, break, break the habit
Chase the rabbit, chase, chase the rabbit
We’ve never had it, never, ever had it
We blinked it bolted and no one could grab it

Change the pattern, change, change the pattern
Pass the baton, pass, pass the baton
It’s bound to happen, bound, bound to happen 
Right on the seats that we’re sat on

I wanna be Jim
But I’m probably Dwight
Or Michael Scott, Threat Level Midnight all right
Feeling like Tim
But foolish like Brent
Time milked for money just to barely scrape rent
Waking to Dawn
Open like Pam
Doing the business and not falling for scams
With my red stapler
I’m going to town
Say otherwise and I’ll burn the whole building down

Playing Office

Just Mad

Slinking down back through the alleyway
Hiding his face from the light of the day
Up to no good, or so the rumors go
Better watch your back ‘cause you never know
When he’ll be around 
When he’s out on the prowl
Get yourself back in the house now

A temper that’s fowl, a demeanor to match
Kerosene eyes, that ignite with a scratch
Dressed all in black he is one with the night
Looking for trouble, he’s ready to fight
He’s not one to cross
For he doesn’t forgive
With a baleful glare that cuts like a shiv

Little fluffy
When did he go bad?
He used to be cuddly
But now he’s just mad
Our sweet little angel
Fallen from grace
There’s no love in his heart
He’ll hiss in your face

With whiskers aquiver he creeps through the night
If his pink nose is twitching you’d better take flight
Don’t dare let him catch you when he’s making his rounds
He’ll sneak up behind you with nary a sound
He’ll leap on your back
And dig in his claws
He’d give Satan a moment to pause

Little fluffy
When did he go bad?
He used to be cuddly
But now he’s just mad
Our sweet little angel
Fallen from grace
There’s no love in his heart
He’ll hiss in your face

Little fluffy
When did he go bad?
He used to be cuddly
But now he’s just mad
Our sweet little angel
Fallen from grace
There’s no love in his heart
He’ll hiss in your face

Just Mad

for you/për ju

In the hazy heart of London's underground, Kaleido existed in a perpetual swirl of vivid, mind-expanding color. Their sanctuary was a smoke-filled loft studio in an abandoned warehouse overlooking Camden Lock—a chaotic haven drenched in the heavy scent of incense, scattered with threadbare cushions soaked in spilled wine and sweat, flickering candles casting shadows on walls alive with hand-painted mandalas that seemed to pulse with hidden life.

Days blurred into nights of raw, uninhibited inspiration, fueled by acid's electric visions and the velvet surrender of psilocybin dreams. Orion Kaleido sprawled cross-legged on the floor, his notebook a portal for feverish poetry that poured out like cosmic revelations. Jasper “Drift” Vale teased shimmering, feedback-laced riffs from his electric guitar and hypnotic drones from the sitar, notes bending and twisting like lovers' bodies in ecstasy, lingering in the air as iridescent haze. Milo Brine hammered primal, throbbing rhythms on drums and shook the tambourine with feverish intensity, driving pulses that echoed the heartbeat of the collective.

This was the throbbing core of the free love revolution, and Kaleido embodied it without restraint. Their studio drew a constant flow of artists, drifters, mystics, and hungry seekers—a fluid commune where boundaries dissolved in waves of shared ecstasy. Connections formed not just through words or music, but through raw, intimate touch: tangled limbs on piled cushions, heated skin against skin, breathless explorations of desire that blurred into one another. They paused not merely to rest, but to revel in carnal recharge—passionate embraces, lingering caresses, and uninhibited group intimacies that they believed channeled pure creative energy, turning lust into sonic alchemy.

As darkness descended, Kaleido emerged into the pulsating neon underbelly of the scene. They played in dimly lit beatnik dens, hidden tea houses thick with hash smoke, and fog-shrouded basements where applause came in finger-snaps and knowing glances. Their performances were erotic rituals disguised as concerts: swirling projections dancing over nude silhouettes, incense mingling with the musk of aroused bodies, music that throbbed like a lover's heartbeat—electric guitar stumming in psychedelic rhythm, sitar weaving Eastern mysticism, drums pounding relentlessly, tambourine shimmering in hypnotic frenzy—opening doorways to altered states where inhibitions shattered and collective euphoria reigned.


Don't Distract the Autopilot

The Big Grey Man