This song started out as a poem that I wrote in the subway on my way home. It came to me as I changed trains, in the corridor between the 4 and the Q at Union Square. I tapped it into the "notes" app on my phone, and tucked it back in my pocket before returning to my book.
The poem is longer than the lyrics that appear here. I don't typically write lyrics before music; without the rhythm, my words dislike any sense of consistent meter. As such, the back half of the poem diverges, and would need a totally different song in order to be sung. Perhaps at some point I will write it.
Just as I tapped out the words on my phone without the ceremony of my pencil or notebook, I decided to record the music on the very same device. There are a few previous Mount Everest songs that came to be recorded this way. The result is a compelling argument against wasting money on recording equipment. What an age we live in!
This song is the subway that birthed it. The rubble above our heads is the city itself. I realize upon reflection that my description of my daily spaces might sound ugly. I didn't mean it that way. As I wrote it, I felt a sense of tranquility. I tried to make the music match that feeling.
This is a place I'll return to
And the faces will change but they won't change
And the metal bolted to metal will still be here
The snaking path well traced will always be here
Daylight at midnight
Not a cloud in the sky
Not star in the sky
Or a sky up in the sky
Just a layer of rubble a mile a thick