Words and music written by Alexis Harte. Produced by Alexis Harte and Gawain Mathews. Mixed by Marc Daniel Nelson.

I spent Sunday untangling extension cords, putting things back in drawers. Sunday: digging up bramble shoots. Gotta get ’em out by the roots. Gotta show this kid how it’s done. On Sunday, waiting there on hold, trying to be a kinder soul to everyone I meet on the way. I spent Sunday in my own church, my own little church. I spent Sunday hauling heavy stones, resting up old bones. On Sunday, rolling in an unmade bed to clear some room in our heads, so we can do it all over again. Next Sunday: tying up loose ends, trying to keep up with old friends so we don’t fade away. I spent Sunday in my own church, my own little church. I spent Sunday praying for peace at last, praying for peace that lasts, past Sunday, licking my old wounds, trying to write a brand-new tune and hope the pain starts to fade away. On Sunday, cleaning up this dive, trying to keep my trees alive so, in their shade, one day I will lay. I spent Sunday in my own church. I call it my church, my own little church.

Alexis Harte: acoustic and electric guitar, percussion, lead and backing vocal. Mykhailo Kobets: trumpet. Gawain Mathews: acoustic and electric guitar, bass, drums, Hammond B3 organ, percussion.

Words and music written by Alexis Harte. Produced by Alexis Harte and Jon Evans. Mixed by Marc Daniel Nelson.

Wade me down the streams of my youth, down the big Dipsea. I want to see the wind on the hills once more, before they take me to the big empty. Give me the shiver of a red-winged blackbird, turning into the sun. May light alight upon your face once more, before your race is run, till they run you down, run you down to the big empty. For a moment in time, I was yours, you were mine. It was all just the blink of an eye. ’Cause at the end of our days, we’ll all part ways, and we’ll all walk alone into the big empty. Shoot me down the snowy red banks until the seat of my jeans is gone. Show me the wonder of a newborn child, the amazement of her mom: pushes her out, and we pull her out of the big empty. Plant a kiss on these old cracked lips: Sunday morning heaven. Hold me tight, don’t let me fall. Don’t let me fall into the big empty. Save my spot at the oil seed bar with all you sad house finches. Say our thanks to the merciful one, keeps refilling the feeder. She won’t let it get empty. She won’t let them fall. ’Cause at the end of our days, we’ll all part ways, and we’ll all walk alone into the big empty.

Matthias Bossi: drums. Jon Evans: backing vocal, baritone guitar, bass, electric guitar. Alexis Harte: acoustic and electric guitar, lead and backing vocal, melodica. Stephen Spies: backing vocal.

Words and music written by Alexis Harte. Produced by Alexis Harte and Ben Leinbach. Mixed by Ben Leinbach.

Whatever happens in the end, what a thing it’s been to know you well, better than I knew myself. We had a good little run, but you know when you know: it’s time to walk away. A thousand ways to keep me up at night. I want to go to sleep, but I’m thinking about the things I might have said to you. But if that is all we’ll know and this is all we’ll get, I will forgive. I will forgive you. Won’t you forgive me too? And if we ever meet again, can I call you an old friend? A thousand ways to keep me up at night. I want to go to sleep, but I’m thinking about the things I might have said to you. But if that is all we’ll know and this is all we’ll get, I will forgive. I will forgive you. Won’t you forgive me too?

Alexis Harte: acoustic guitar, lead and backing vocal, mandolin. Ben Leinbach: backing vocal, bass, drum and percussion programming, electric guitar, keyboards, synthesizer. 

Words and music written by Alexis Harte. Produced by Alexis Harte and Jon Evans. Mixed by JJ Wiesler.

My hummingbird knew where each columbine grew and each flower learned he always returned, till one day they were gone, and he woke thirsty. Who left this old cup that never fills up, punched a hole in my heart so I can’t drink enough? Is it any wonder I woke up thirsty? Walk a mile in my shoes, I’ll wear your coat of deep blue. Little red rover, send somebody over just to see about me. Did you ever wake thirsty? Did you poison your well and think you’d live to tell? A little spot on your film, a little rust on your bell. Now the ants are on the march, another dry year and they’re parched. The Golden State in a state of alarm. You can live by the sea and still wake thirsty. Walk a mile in my shoes, I’ll wear your coat of deep blue. Little red rover, send somebody over just to see about me. Did you ever wake thirsty?

Matthias Bossi: drums. Jon Evans: upright bass. Alexis Harte: acoustic and electric guitar, lead and backing vocal, melodica. Dave Lebolt: Hammond B3 organ. Megan Slankard: backing vocal. Stephen Spies: violin.

Words and music written by Alexis Harte. Produced by Alexis Harte. Mixed by Dave Lebolt.

I know, Mom, the kids want to see you too. Three more months: we can make it through. Come on, Mom, pull that mask up on your face. Come April, we’ll see you smile again. Born from the Greatest Generation, right into the war, show me Rosie with her rivet gun, looking like she’d already won. Come on, Ma, I’ve gotta say, this must be like child’s play. Hold on a little longer now. It’s your turn, Dad. I took my queen back to C4. Come next spring, we’ll sit across your board. And I’ll raise a glass to you for teaching me the game: when to push my pieces forward, when to sit back and wait and leap from the Greatest Generation, you never missed your call. Show me Fannie Lou Hamer, Freedom Riders standing tall. Come on, Pa. Once a great nation put a man on the moon, and after all you done and saw I don’t suppose you’d take a draw—hold on a little longer now. Hey kids, I know this ain’t ideal. It’s hard to care about a thing that you can’t touch or feel. Keep your head high, meet that camera lens. Once we’re through this latest wave, you’ll see your friends again. The greatest generations are born into a war. Show me Greta skipping out of school till the world begins to cool. An impossible situation, but that was always true. So come on kids, get on your boots, pull yourselves up by the roots. Hold on a little longer now.

Nicki Bluhm: backing vocal. Jon Evans: bass. Alexis Harte: acoustic and electric guitar, drums, lead and backing vocal. Dave Lebolt: piano. Damond Moodie: backing vocal. Megan Slankard: backing vocal.

Words and music written by Alexis Harte. Produced by Alexis Harte and Elad Marish. Mixed by Marc Daniel Nelson.

I think tonight I’ll go fishing, wander down to the river, follow it wherever the hell it goes,

chasing great ideas, with my glass half full. When my glass runs dry, I take another pull.

You got naked eyes, I can see you’re tired. From a thousand miles, I can see you’re tired, tired of my great ideas. Had a great idea; it’s my best one yet. Don’t worry, babe, I think we’re set. But please don’t wake me in the morning, takes a while to get back in, when you take a swing at what makes it all go round and round. You got naked eyes, I can see you’re tired. From a thousand miles, I can see you’re tired, tired of my great ideas. All my great ideas: some big, some small. They’re my best ideas, you can take them all. You can cross on over, nothing’s gonna change. You can even supernova, and the world’s the same. It’s a big sky. No one’s gonna know your name, boy. All the great ideas, there was no shortfall. All my great ideas were never mine at all. With my naked eyes, I can you’re tired. From a thousand miles, I can see you’re tired, tired of my great ideas.

Alexis Harte: acoustic and electric guitar, lead and backing vocal. Elad Marish: electric guitar. Ian McArdle: keyboards. Mike Quigg: drums. Keith Waters: bass.

Words and music written by Alexis Harte. Produced by Alexis Harte. Mixed by Gawain Mathews.

I’ve been tuning in, turning on, turning into a pile of tin, turning into an old Volkswagen:

half a Beetle and one-half a magic bus. Some days I’ll start without a fuss. Got a headlight grin. I hope my baby still loves me even though I’m turning in, turning into an old Volkswagen. She took me down to get smog-checked, barely passed, we held our breath: good to go for another year. Come on, let’s get out of here. I packed my tools, packed my spare; she packed her fancy camping chair. We went out into the desert night. I swore I would not let her down this time. I threw a rod, I hit a rock, I got some mean old vapor lock. Then she had to take stock of the place we were in: on the side of the road with my damn fool grin. And I turned the key, while she stared at me—silently, regretfully—turning in, turning on, turning into an old Volkswagen. I said, “Still got good wheels, and who else will make you feel this young again?” You gotta take care of your friends. Got a loud tailpipe, a bellyful of rust. I spent years eatin’ dust. Hope you found someone you trust to work on me. I’ll take us camping by the sea. When the sea gets rough, I’ll be your shell, I’ll be your shell. And when the sun goes down, all is well, all is well. But my baby only loves me ’cause I tuned in, I turned on, I turned into a pile of tin, I turned into an old Volkswagen.

Jon Evans: bass. Alexis Harte: acoustic and electric guitar, drums, keyboards, lead and backing vocal, percussion. Megan Slankard: backing vocal.

Words and music written by Alexis Harte. Produced by Alexis Harte and Gawain Mathews. Mixed by Marc Daniel Nelson.

Hats off for blackberries. Lay down my bike for blackberries. I’m just a fool on the roadside: I hear them laugh as they whiz by. Through their sweet, short lives, hats off for blackberries. I slow down for Rosemary; I’m breathing deep for Rosemary. You might know her from the store, but in the wild she’s so much more. I want to show you how to score sweet Rosemary. I keep my nose sharp for chanterelles. I’ll ditch my trail for chanterelles. I follow the fog down through the trees, get down on my hands and knees, ’cause this little piggy went for sweet chanterelles. I never saw the mountain lion, but I looked good to mama lion, and, while I was fresh out of my mind, she crept on up from behind: that’s how I went home in the jaws of a lion. So I said a prayer for the sun and rain, a prayer that woke the world again, and, from the pile of lion dung, what’s this thorny thing that’s sprung? Hey, mama, look what I’ve become! Hats off for blackberries.

Aaron Brinkerhoff: drums. Alexis Harte: acoustic guitar, vocal. Fergus Lenehan: bass. Gawain Mathews: accordion, Hammond B3 organ, harmonica, jaw harp, marimba, melodica, vibraphone.

Words and music written by Alexis Harte. Produced by Alexis Harte and Gawain Mathews. Mixed by Gawain Mathews.

I was watching time: she was doing all the hard work, all this busy work. I had my feet up; I was watching her march by. That’s just time: she’s a heavy lifter. She’s a mean shape-shifter. She’ll clear your room with a wink of her eye. You won’t get overtime or out from under time. Don’t wait until halftime to start playing double time. You cannot lend your time; you can only spend your time. Can’t beg or borrow time from anyone. But things’ll get better, I heard them say: you just need time to wash your pain away. Oh, but time, she was doing all the hard work, all this other work: had to water all the whiskers, had to burst all the blisters. She had to paint all your faces gray—and then carry all your bodies away. You won’t get overtime or out from under time. Don’t wait until halftime to start playing double time. You cannot lend your time; you can only spend your time. Can’t beg or borrow time from anyone. Things’ll get better, I heard them say: you just need time to wash your pain away. Poor old time, she was doing all the hard work, all our dirty work: plucking rings from hands, breaking up your band, eating all your cans, counting all the sand, then pouring that all that sand into your eye—all while singing you a sweet lullaby. Sweet lady time, you’re doing too much hard work. Stop doing all the hard work. Put your shovel down, ’cause it ain’t my time. Put your feet up and rest with me awhile.

Alexis Harte: acoustic guitar, lead and backing vocal. Gawain Mathews: acoustic guitar, bass, dobro, drums, piano. Megan Slankard: backing vocal.

Words and music written by Alexis Harte. Produced by Alexis Harte and Gawain Mathews. Mixed by Marc Daniel Nelson.

All the girls in my rose garden park far away and wander down in heels, taking pictures with their lovers. They’ve been coming here for 90 years, with gin and juice, for 90 years. Take you back to ’33: families sleeping on the streets, same mean and dirty streets, same as today. But they gave ’em jobs with decent pay, 8 million ways to pull their weight, not a giveaway. They built you a rose garden. All the kids down in the playground, they’re so perfectly arranged. They’re all thinking about that big slide, and will they be afraid that they might not make the grade? Takes you back through memories, creeks flowing ’neath the streets, same narrow, winding streets, same as today. Kids will need a place to play, air to breathe and a hideaway. They can hide away: it’s their rose garden. All the girls in my rose garden, they know Fame’s so Easy on the Eye. Look at Bewitched, Betty Boop: she’s dancing in a Moonlight, Stiletto, State of Grace. ’Twas a King’s Ransom on Opening Night, but Mr. Lincoln was off on a Mayflower Roman Holiday, with the American Beauty: Marilyn Monroe. So Remember Me, Sentimental Trumpeter, when that Knock Out punch brings me Peace. I see old friends in my rose garden: they all come back to say their goodbyes to their parents, friends, and lovers, to the petals from the vines. And all the love that’s yet to be: oh, the visions you will see. The future that you see, it starts today. It starts today.

Alexis Harte: acoustic guitar, lead and backing vocal. Gawain Mathews: accordion, acoustic and electric guitar, bass, dobro, percussion, piano. Megan Slankard: backing vocal. Andrea Vancura: trombone, trumpet.

Words and music written by Alexis Harte. Produced by Alexis Harte and Jon Evans. Mixed by Jon Evans.

The year we lost our lemon tree, I did not take it down. I left it standing drying there, a sculpture in the sun: its crown of thorns laughing as you lost your faith in me. Humbling was the year we lost the lemon tree. It started with a little down, a few spores in the wind. I did not pay them any mind; I did not see it begin. By June the hate had covered each and every leaf. Angry was the year we lost the lemon tree. The year I killed the lemon tree, my blood ran sweet with too much wine. The skies burned red like Chinese dragons, kites out on the sea. By August the leaves were curled up, all sleepy and serene. Thirsty was the year we lost the lemon tree. I forgot to be the money maker. Who’s going to pay the undertaker if not me? I was never any kind of sloucher; I did my time down in the weeds. The year we lost the lemon tree, with one part sorrow, one ecstasy, saw all the beauty in the world fall far beneath my feet, and no one down there was laughing half as loud as me. Lonely was the year we lost the lemon tree. The year we lost our lemon tree, I did not take it down. I left it standing, drying there, a sculpture in the sun: its crown of thorns pointing the way back down for me. Humbling was the year I lost my lemon tree.

Matthias Bossi: drums. Jon Evans: upright bass. Alexis Harte: acoustic and electric guitar, Hammond B3 organ, lead and backing vocal, melodica. Shay Nichols: backing vocal. Shivpreet Singh: backing vocal. Meena Ysanne: violin.