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Tyre Fire

by The Wind-up Birds

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Don Lolo
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Don Lolo Deux excellent morceaux, mais ils sont tous deux présent dans l'album the land, donc cet EP présente à ce jour moins d'intérêt. Favorite track: There Won't Always Be an England.
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1.
Tyre Fire 04:44
No one can help when she feels insignificant She lost some fingers in an industrial accident She met a man, he was transparent After a time his eyes did wander He sidled away, another absconder He said he was bored, she admired his candour So won’t you give me summat so I can sleep ‘Cause I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up All night vigils at the window I can’t see you through all the smoke though They kept in touch, the occasional email He dropped hints about his luck with females It made him look like an imbecile After six months he had a change of heart Wanted to try and go back to the start Ashamed to say that she just might So won’t you give me something so I can sleep ‘Cause I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up All night vigils at the window I can’t see you through all the smoke though Yeah, it was a body blow I can’t see you through all this smoke though In the end she told him to shove it (Not in person, she couldn’t face that…) It felt good but it was fleeting He would mooch around outside her work Among her friends it was a standing joke But to her it wasn’t that funny So won’t you give me something so I can sleep ‘Cause I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up All night vigils at the window I can’t see you through all the smoke though Yeah, it was a body blow I can’t see you through all this smoke though Through the window she can see black smoke And in the shadows this idiot bloke In a leather coat outside her work She used to like the twinkle in his eye No she can’t think why He’s like the photo on the cover Of one of those macho gangster books And the fact that people find it funny And are probably speaking behind her back Makes it almost unbearable Her privacy is the only thing she has ever valued And it tires her out And she can’t sleep And she varies her route home And she lingers in the light And sometimes she’ll stay in when she wants to go out And sometimes she’ll stay in when she wants to go out It’s the third day of the tyre fire “Keep your windows closed” Is it safe out on the street? No one really knows Fire engines dance through a crowded street of clones Capturing the flames on their camera phones Calendar and Look North compete for the view The kids clown in the background like they’re supposed to Once you’ve seen the smoke you can’t avert your eyes Cars pull over, gawping in lay-bys Something ancient stirs in your insides Primitive man in the cave where he hides Tears evaporating, pure heat stings your face Overwhelming helplessness puts you in your place Your history means nothing Consumed by the flames Lightened of your language Deprived of all your names
2.
I have, it seems, committed a crime I didn’t cry tears for this country of mine Some rich blokes in a sporting arena Got beat by some other blokes, hungrier and leaner Then a bloke on a bar stool; his life in tatters Squealing into his pint, as if it all matters He’s torn off his top so his arms are on view And his tattoo says, “English, through and through” All I said was, “I’m not that bothered…” He leaps from his stool; his mates all hovered He gives me a potted history then I show some sense and I fail to correct him He mentions some wars and some of his heroes I nod along…they mean nothing to me though He makes factual errors based on our borders And he finger-draws a map as they call in last orders Then he turns his attention to racial matters To my shames I say nowt ‘cause I think that he’ll twat us And I head for the door with his voice in my ears An unbearable echo of his unfounded fears In my head, a better man than me, by far Turns on his heels and he steams back to the bar Drags the man from his barstool by his hair Pulls him away from his mates with reasonable care And he finds a quiet corner by the glass bottle bins And he quietly proceeds to explain a few things Such as: the borders of England adapting through time And the invading forces that diluted his bloodline And the noblemen’s deals to pay off their debts That lead in to decisions affecting us yet And the rich men laughing at his patriotism That keeps him hemmed in, as sure as a prison Then look into the future; his dreams are a mess Like any invention overtaken by progress A relic from the past, hidden from view His England evolved into something brand new

about

"a raw, caustically passionate clatter with Fall overtones ... further listening reveals less often cited but still more than worthwhile reference points. Fans of mid-90s smart shambles Animals That Swim definitely need to look this way." Sweeping the Nation

"If John Peel were still alive then the Wind-Up Birds would be his new favourite band." - The Devil Has the Best Tuna

"A bit like a Northern take on Art Brut but obviously far less shit, Leodensians The Wind-Up Birds whirl through the sedated scourge that is their hometown's music scene. Bizarrely, as The Night Soil bursts into effervescent action with a recklessly bruising Manics bass line thoughts scurry back to the jaunty DIY wiry guitars of Peel-approved punksters I, Ludicrous and their heinously neglected snarly sneer at the pretense that's pegged back the Brit capital for decades. Pertaining to a somewhat ramshackle ethic, similar to Teeside truants The Chapman Family and sounding somewhere along the lines of The Wedding Present reeling from backhanded backstreet ADHD pills, they're quite something." - Dots and Dashes

"Is it any good? Very." - Unpeeled

"Little slices of English life finger drawn before last orders as things evolve, lightened of language and consumed in the tales... two fine fine songs, alive with it all and more" - Single of the Week, The Organ

"Stark, intense and with lyrics that’ll bring you to your knees before clobbering you over the head repeatedly." Subba-Cultcha

"Notable for the sharp, contemporary kitchen-sink lyricism of frontman Paul Ackroyd - an evocative recountment of doomed luv and subsequent stalking, backed by a driving slice of post-Libs indie rock. Ackroyd's deadpan vocal delivery is particularly effective here as his gently increasing urgency nicely supports the sense of urban claustrophobia created by the song's narrative. There Won't Always Be an England' is a prescient dissection of nationalism and the way in which it is commonly assumed that everyone gives a fuck about the fortunes of the England football team." Mudkiss

credits

released April 26, 2010

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The Wind-up Birds Leeds

New EP - "Pop. Thinking" is out now.


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