... did I dream ... you dreamed about me ...

Death My Bride

Saw the weakness of my generation. 
All enjoying a bottle or two.
And who quickly progressed from those dancing young nights and then searched till their minds were shot through.
Who are sad that they're still by the ocean? But why would that be? 
Who's castles of sand crumbled right in their hands as they entered into their thirties?
Oh, these are your days and this is your life.
Pitied the best minds of his generation.
And watched as they struggled to breathe.
Who has seen them descend into madness?
Stressed out from the ordinary.
Who is glad that he lives by the ocean?
Why wouldn't he be?
Who with just a bit more education. 
Could of turned into a somebody.
Oh, these are your days and this is your life.
Your heads gone to pieces.
Give yourself a break and make a new start.
Who is sat with little miss Moffat.
Glugging down all her peaches and cream.
Who is moving on to bottles of vodka?
To get to that place more quickly. 
Who feels sad as she looks at the ocean?
And why would that be?
Who has wasted the rest and is failing the test?
Passing out never falling to sleep 
Oh, these are your days and this is your life.
So don't worry too much.
Never stood a chance right from the start.
Cos nobody told yas.
Starting drinking at Twelve. 
What did you expect?
Your heads gone to peices.
Give yourself a break and make a new start.
Before you start fading away.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness starving hysterical naked
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake light tragedy among the scholars of war
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley death or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares alcohol and cock and endless balls
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement.


Madness, Starving, Hysterical, Naked.

Howl At Nowt

BUY ON BEATSTARS: https://bsta.rs/871d8d1e5

POST PUNK TYPE X GOTHIC ROCK TYPE X DARKWAVE TYPE X NEW WAVE TYPE X ALTERNATIVE ROCK TYPE X SYNTHWAVE TYPE BEAT INSTRUMENTAL 

TIRED ANGEL (NEW WAVE X post punk x goth Rock type Beat INSTRUMENTAL)

Derealization

Never Enough Time

Twelve Little Dead Ones

Family Tree - Combstead / Robert Grigg

Found here is the initial installment of the Vankmans Hydrophilic album. Hydrophilic is an ode to Southern California summers and the rich musical history of this area. 

In this chapter: All I want to do is dream! We must sadly move along! What's the word? I dream that's all that I can do! 

Meet me at the pool. No Time To Play...

Death of a Sea Monkey

Like the track? Please repost, Like & comment. Thanks :)

We're So High

Don’t miss the video 🎥

https://youtu.be/oOfujR5Ctx4


The Lockdown Sessions is a conceptual instrumental Jazz EP composed and recorded during the covid-19 lockdown in April 2020.

The album reflects the perception of the artist before, during and his hope for the future.

SOHO
This is a song that represents past. A more relaxed and classic Jazz club take on experiencing live music. You can even hear people clapping together before social distancing was even a thing. At the end is noticeable that something happen. It all have been so abrupt. 

WHAT’S GOING ON? (INTERLUDE 1)
This short statement transition us from an unexpected situation to an emotional state. Uncertainty comes to mind.

QUARANTINE
This song represents present, the lockdown state. Fear, sadness, acceptance. Everything into a sensible deep instrumentation form of chords waiting to transcend into emotions. This song really reflects the way I’m feeling (at the moment of writing this) regarding this crazy situation. (By the way, today is easter Sunday. )

WHAT NOW? (INTERLUDE 2)
This interlude is very calming and soothing. I was emotionally tired when I was composing this piece, So I created the music I needed to hear at the moment. An easy and warm transition to the future ahead, the kind of music that tucks you into bed. Tomorrow will be another day.

NOVEMBER
A song that represents change, a new beginning, a future cohesive sound to embrace. November will deliver an immersive experience. We don’t know when and if things will get back to “normal” November is just a dot in the horizon to think about the future. There will always be another November…

The Lockdown Sessions

November (Future)

The world is very serious
Everything lies in ashes
People cry, they miss their old world
People cry, they miss their old world
Children cannot go to school
Everything is toxic
People cry, they miss their old world
People cry, they miss their old world
You look at the street
But you see only dirt
You see the faces of the people
But see only masks
People cry, they miss their old world
People cry, they miss their old world

People Cry

based in the north east of England indie rock ,acoustic rock , alt rock

Never Enough Time

82 ( Ian Willis )