Voices & Vices Volume I

by Jonathan Atkins

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Life is filled with its hardships and letdowns and it's the vices that bring us through it all. This little one take ep is both personal storytelling and beautiful sung poetry. Written over the span of five days and recorded in an hour.

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released August 5, 2013

Produced by Jonathan Atkins
Recorded by Jonathan Atkins in the home studio basement AKA ASI Records.
Mixed by Jonathan Atkins
Mastered by Jonathan Atkins
Art work by Jonathan Atkins

All songs written by Jonathan Atkins SOCAN, ASCAP 2013

Jonathan Atkins - Vocals & Guitar

℗ & © 2013 Jonathan Atkins | Unauthorized reproduction, copying, and rental of this recording is strictly prohibited by law. All rights reserved.

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Jonathan Atkins Mississauga, Ontario

"A singer-songwriter with a devastating ear for harmonies and a delicate touch with lyrics that slide perfectly into a horrid winter. There's a definite Celtic touch, but far sweeter than something like Mumford & Sons." - Andrew Fifield (Metro News)

More music at discofox.bandcamp.com
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Track Name: Wine Through Straws
Crisis for diehards,
Vices in backyards,
Sipping the last of the wine from the bottle through straws,
Forgetting everything we knew about ourselves just because,
But amplifying all of the collective of flaws,
That run through our veins,
striking each nerve ending in pain.
But it’s not truth that leaves our mouths.
No it’s not lies that strike our ears,
It’s just a whole new accumulative peace,
A whole new accumulative peace.
It’s who we wished we were all the time.
A whole new piece of ourselves that we needed to find.
To hear our voices through vices seems to be the only thing we want to recognize.

Fighting through existence,
Hoping for a last chance,
To make a name for ourselves, just for ourselves to know our names,
These hardships are not unique I know someone else feels the same,
And I will not be ashamed,
Anymore of this pain that fills my heart,
I’ll stop ripping myself apart,
I’ll stop filling up on my vices,
I’ll remember who I was in those moments,
It’s who I wished I was all the time.
That whole new piece of myself that I needed to find.
To hear my voice through vices seems to be the only thing I want to recognize.
Track Name: Lorne Park (Stranger and All of Her Friends)
Do you know me?
I walk aimlessly along your night time streets,
Along winding roads, and valleyed crescents,
Struggling to drag my blistered feet in lessons,
Of beautiful romance,
NOT
Real romance,
But, you know,
The feeling of silent conversational meeting,
Where still air is spilled, but somehow there is meaning.
Along this deserted road where silence is screaming,
I never would have expected to meet anyone like you.
Do you know me?
Do you remember any fragments of my face,
Or any of the words that filled our space?
Are there lessons to be learned about stranger and her friends,
Because I’m starting to feel so alone again,
As the cold sun arises and you move away,
Oh I shouldn’t trust stranger and all of her friends.
Oh I shouldn’t trust stranger and all of her friends.

Lorne Park, your streetlights tend to rot,
The night time doesn’t last as long as I remember.
And while stranger lays down to sleep,
I lay awake and hold myself in my arms.
Keeping myself away from harm,
Waiting for the awakening of the cold sun.

Lorne park,
I’ll be sneaking around with you,
After dark,
We’ll be searching for things to do.
Track Name: Little Paper Planes
Little paper planes,
Holding memories,
Drifting far away,
Never to be seen.

Whenever we find ourselves,
Wishing for new saving grace,
Wishing we weren’t ourselves,
Wishing for a new face,

We write it down,
On little paper planes,
And we let them drown,
In a sky of careful free flowing melodies and grace.

Little paper planes,
Finding islands of nothing but sand,
to lay and be buried,
And never be seen by any man.

Whenever we find ourselves,
Wishing for our hands to be unchained,
Wishing for freedom from the very freedom,
That set us held bound in the first place.

We write it down,
On little paper planes,
And we let them drown,
In a sky of careful free flowing melodies and grace.
Track Name: Port Credit
A little less functional come night,
But more beautiful as beauty doesn’t depend on function.
Like small strands of identity in the central core of art.
They do not move. If anything they act as a junction,

Connecting mind and awareness to the very difficult thing,
That they themselves are trying to tastefully represent,
Without trying to represent them at all.
You see this is my city. This is my town, Filled with it’s kings and peasants,

By a beautiful lake side.
A little less functional come night,
But still functioning without bustling curb shattering mufflers,
rummaging through asphalt disturbing the beautiful lake line.

There’s a light house. In the middle of town.
It spins signal around and around and around and around,
And it keeps our sanity from spurring into sickness,
And it brings a peace through the late night city sound

And it wanders sinfully, wonders if actually,
It’s saving light is enough to redeem itself.
As smoke rises from midnight walkers and there cigarettes,
And sail boats come wandering back home.

You see this is my city. This is my town,
Filled with it’s swans and love birds, music,
And probably the best fishing spot around.
And I’m grateful of it’s daytime parade,

But there’s a stillness instilled in my heart,
With the calming glory of the lighthouses song,
A little less functional come night,
and if being less functional is wrong,

Then don’t let that lighthouses sin be right.
Track Name: Venice Is Sinking
To disprove the existence of a lost city,
Would be near impossible.
Plausible if someone were willing to scour an entire ocean wide,
Forgetting that discovery are often, more than not, accidental.

In searching for Atlantis,
One would have to remember to listen intentfully to the ocean waves,
Watching carefully each ocean spray,
Opening their heart to a passion and lust of unwandered caves.

‘Cause I dove into your heart,
Sifting through weeds and tidal waves,
Trying to close in on the myth,
That there really is a bay,

Buried deep below your ocean

I walked all along every bridge in the city,
Finding myself on the brink of La Dominante,
Curiously inviting myself to the boats of your stream.
Where any painter would have a day, home for a skilled columnist.

From closer inspection, it would take no genius to see,
From years of architecture, creation and building,
The water levels are rising, the ground is unstable,
You’re the only one who can’t recognise that Venice is sinking.

‘Cause I dove into your heart,
Sifting through weeds and tidal waves,
Trying to close in on the myth,
That there really is a bay,

Buried deep below your ocean

One day this whole city,
Will be lot to the deep,
News will spread quickly,
Until something else comes to sweep,

It’s memory away.
In a thousand years,
The city will be questioned,
Was it real or just a story that’s reappeared.

venice is sinking.