Eighties Night b/w The Nightingale Routine
by The Monologue Bombs
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Eighties Night
03:40
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The Nightingale Routine
04:44
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credits
released March 10, 2015
Written by Scott Phillips. Arranged and produced by James Phillips, Scott Phillips and Reid Johnson. Recorded and mixed by James Phillips at Pleasant Drive Studios. Co-released by PotLuck Foundation and SuperFan Records. Copyright 2015 Job Or No Job Music.
Written by Scott Phillips. Arranged and produced by James Phillips, Scott Phillips and Reid Johnson. Recorded and mixed by James Phillips at Pleasant Drive Studios. Co-released by PotLuck Foundation and SuperFan Records. Copyright 2015 Job Or No Job Music.
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all rights reserved
about
The Monologue Bombs Raleigh, North Carolina
(Mostly) solo musical wanderings of Scott Phillips (from Raleigh's Goner).
discography
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Mar 2015 -
Jan 2012 -
Jul 2007
contact / help
- Track Name: Eighties Night
- There's a bouncer at the door with a serpentine grin. Me and the beasts and the prophets all shuffle down and in. Seven DJs spilling out vials full of song. Saints' blood from the barkeep helps you sing along. Eighties night, eighties night every night. Dry ice and laser light, eghties night every night. High beams circling Babylon town. Foul, dirty cranes building up and tearing down. Angels on the dance floor, wailing and impaired. The bouncer shouts a sermon from the top of the stairs. End times, end times all the time. Your hand in mine, end times all the time.
- Track Name: The Nightingale Routine
- Well my line comes down from a Northwest town suffocating in the lowland firs. Ma worked the burn unit up at St. Raphael's and came home to call the old man "sir." Well I swore on those holy pines I'd never end up like her. So I scraped up the cash and I jetted out fast, hit the restaurant raids in the South. I took sad counter boys to my bed every night, taught 'em what mercy was all about. And I'd cross myself with relief every time they walked out. Yeah, but Cal was an angel with jet-black bangs, just moaning on a one-foot stage. I dragged him to the fields where the vans stall out and got him ribcage to ribcage. And in the heat of the hardest promises, we set those fields ablaze. And the stars fell dim, and his scorch was soothing, and with a sigh and a shudder I let him in. Well the weeks rained down and I got lost in the sound of my black-haired angel's song. We'd dance in his kitchen, nod off on my porch, light the candles and kiss till dawn. But I could never stomach something that sweet for too long. Now it's girls' night out and the dance floor's soaked with shadows at the Lazy Star. Some Romeo clocks me. He's as pretty as sin leaning over me at the bar. Sometimes all it takes is a story, a smile and a decent scar. And he strokes my wrist as I bite my lip, and the room and the lights and the bottles all start to drift. Grab my phone buzzing off my hip. Cal's asking me if I'm okay. Romeo's warm and closing in, and I can hear my Mama say: "You better bring him some water, girl, or let him burn away."
