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▓█▓▓█ Artist.....[ Archivist ▀████▄█▓
██▓▀ Album......[ Learning To Live On Poison ▀▓██
▄ █▓█ █ Label......[ Self Released █ █▓█ ▄
█▒█▓█▄▀ #..[ ▀▄█▓█▒█
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▓█▀ ▀▀█▓█▒ Source.....[ CDR ▒█▓█▀▀ ▀█▓
▓█▄ ▀▄ ██▓ Genre......[ Indie ▓██ ▄▀ ▄█▓
▓▓█▓▀ ██ Language...[ English ██ ▀▓█▓▓
▀ ▄████ Rip Date...[ 2009-05-06 ████▄ ▀
▄ ▀ ▓█▓ Store Date.[ 2009-06-02 ▓█▓ ▀ ▄
█▀▀ ▄▓█▀ Rip Tool...[ EAC ▀█▓▄ ▀▀█
▓█▄████▀ Encoder....[ LAME 3.97 -V2 --vbr-new ▀████▄█▓
▀█▓▀ Quality....[ 172 kbps AVG VBR 44.1/Joint Stereo ▀▓█▀
▄ █▓█▄▓█▓ Url........[ http://www.myspace.com/archivistmusic ▓█▓▄█▓█ ▄
█▒██▓█▀ ▀█ █▀ ▀█▓██▒█
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█▓ 01 Opening 2:47 ▓█
█▓ 02 Sunday Morning 2:58 ▓█
█▓ 03 Educated Hand 3:03 ▓█
█▓ 04 Jagwagger 4:20 ▓█
█▓ 05 Son Of My Sorrows (Genesis 49:27) 4:45 ▓█
█▓ 06 Pop Litany 4:56 ▓█
█▓ 07 Speaking 3:16 ▓█
█▓ 08 Love Sick Man 2:59 ▓█
█▓ 09 Anne Carson 3:15 ▓█
█▓ 10 Seeing * ** 5:30 ▓█
█▓ 11 Closing 3:46 ▓█
█▓ 12 Flowers: A Poem 2:41 ▓█
█▓ ----- ▓█
█▓ 44:16 ▓█
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▄ ▀ ▓█▓ ▓█▓ ▀ ▄
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▀█▓█▀ █ ██▀█ ██▀▀ ██ █▄ █ ██▀█ ▀██▀ ██▀▀ ██▀▀ █ ▀█▓█▀
▓█▓█ ▀ ▓█▄▀ ▓█▀ ▓█ ▓█▀█ ▓█ █ ▓█ ▓█▀ -▀▀▀█ ▀ █▓█▓
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▀▄ █▓█ ▄ ▄ █▓█ ▄▀
█▒██ ██▒█
█░█▒ Hello Ideal Reader / Listener, ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ I hope things are well with you, my Little Bird... ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ (I love this greeting. I can't remember which of ▒█░█
█░█▒ his many renowned teachers Marcus Aurelius used ▒█░█
█░█▒ this greeting with, but how wonderful... You'll ▒█░█
█░█▒ pardon, i hope, the familiarity.) ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ This passed winter, Lisa (my love) went on tour ▒█░█
█░█▒ with the Dears. I couldn't sleep, failed to eat ▒█░█
█░█▒ properly (i was kinda broke at the time too), was ▒█░█
█░█▒ drinking with Katye, was drinking by myself. I ▒█░█
█░█▒ wasn't working. I was keeping odd hours. But for ▒█░█
█░█▒ two weeks or so there, while Lisa was off ▒█░█
█░█▒ gallivanting with Emily Haines and the boys from ▒█░█
█░█▒ Tokyo Police Club i was in our bedroom telling ▒█░█
█░█▒ myself to a microphone. ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ A record is the result. A recorded album, yes, but ▒█░█
█░█▒ a record of a season as well. A season in hell, to ▒█░█
█░█▒ borrow from Rimbaud ("make toward death with every ▒█░█
█░█▒ sin and every desire intact")-- but i'm dramatic to ▒█░█
█░█▒ a fault. My point is, while yes, i have made ▒█░█
█░█▒ something, produced something consumer, something i ▒█░█
█░█▒ will hawk in an alienated form on itunes and Villa ▒█░█
█░█▒ Villa Nola and every other bleeding place it might ▒█░█
█░█▒ get picked up, the disc itself will be read, i ▒█░█
█░█▒ hope, as an archive. Not just of my little angsty ▒█░█
█░█▒ existence, but of our moment, both musical and ▒█░█
█░█▒ temporal. ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ I want you, Ideal Reader / Ideal Listener, to see ▒█░█
█░█▒ yourself in my music, in my vanity, in my weakness, ▒█░█
█░█▒ in my pouring out, in my failed attempt at ▒█░█
█░█▒ decreation. ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ I know artists who will sing of unassailable love, ▒█░█
█░█▒ sing of how their faith makes them abject, but in ▒█░█
█░█▒ their life bear out no such sympathy, who are mired ▒█░█
█░█▒ only in their own excesses, lacks and terminal ▒█░█
█░█▒ omphaloskepsis. I have tried to make on, despite ▒█░█
█░█▒ this disconnect seeming so often to be the result: ▒█░█
█░█▒ here's a man trying to tease out a detailed, ▒█░█
█░█▒ complicated, sometimes paradoxical history, that ▒█░█
█░█▒ you too are sharing in. So listen to the music (if ▒█░█
█░█▒ you're reading this [especially if you've made it ▒█░█
█░█▒ this far], you're probably a listener) and have ▒█░█
█░█▒ faith in it, because although it is a carefully ▒█░█
█░█▒ crafted representation of my music, my ideas and ▒█░█
█░█▒ blindnesses i have tried to connect it as ▒█░█
█░█▒ faithfully as possible to what i hold to be me and ▒█░█
█░█▒ us. ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ When Satan alights in Eden in Milton's Paradise ▒█░█
█░█▒ Lost he takes a moment to reflect on the beauty ▒█░█
█░█▒ that he finds there. This is a character who claims ▒█░█
█░█▒ he cannot escape hell, for he has hell in him-- he ▒█░█
█░█▒ is himself hell. This is a character who begets sin ▒█░█
█░█▒ and death, and ushers chaos and darkness into the ▒█░█
█░█▒ erstwhile perfect world. This is the Son of the ▒█░█
█░█▒ Morning, who out of jealousy and vanity brought one ▒█░█
█░█▒ third of the empyreal court against it's very ▒█░█
█░█▒ maker. He is meant to embody all evil, but he ▒█░█
█░█▒ reflects on the beauty, the beauty that weakens ▒█░█
█░█▒ him, and returns him to a self without hell for a ▒█░█
█░█▒ moment, before he sets out to eternally and finally ▒█░█
█░█▒ imperil it. This is the level of paradox, at a far ▒█░█
█░█▒ less epic pitch (though, forgive the vanity in me ▒█░█
█░█▒ that attempted to equal so much), that my little ▒█░█
█░█▒ attempt at archivism means to capture. And like all ▒█░█
█░█▒ the marginalia of any archive there is at work a ▒█░█
█░█▒ dance of permanency and ephemera. ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ This is why the album begins with a sort of ▒█░█
█░█▒ invocation of the muses (in 'Opening'). Not the ▒█░█
█░█▒ Muses of Mount Parnassus, nor any angels of truth ▒█░█
█░█▒ or beauty, but with the end of desire, and ▒█░█
█░█▒ submission of the self. The vein attempt is to ▒█░█
█░█▒ invite the other in; the cost would seem to be the ▒█░█
█░█▒ very desire that defines who we are, not as ▒█░█
█░█▒ individuals. Just the opposite; we the all-related, ▒█░█
█░█▒ we the every-one-of-us. ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ The album ends both with an ode to the failure of ▒█░█
█░█▒ beauty to sustain us ('Closing'), on the one hand, ▒█░█
█░█▒ and on the other, an affirmation of the beauty that ▒█░█
█░█▒ the undoing of desire would have entailed the loss ▒█░█
█░█▒ of: it is precisely beauty, not on a momentary ▒█░█
█░█▒ scale but on geographical timeline, that can give ▒█░█
█░█▒ each and every one of us a sense relationship with ▒█░█
█░█▒ the other (the hidden track 'Flowers'). ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ So the record will not, finally, define a ▒█░█
█░█▒ generation, the way perhaps Win and Regine's ▒█░█
█░█▒ Funeral i believe will. Nor will it even act like ▒█░█
█░█▒ the Proustian madeleine, thrusting one back to a ▒█░█
█░█▒ given period in their life, the way, say Of ▒█░█
█░█▒ Montreal's Skeletal Lamping, Final Fantasy's Has a ▒█░█
█░█▒ good home, and Destroyer's Rubies does for me. But ▒█░█
█░█▒ hopefully like the Smiths 'Heaven knows i'm ▒█░█
█░█▒ miserable now,' or Diane Cluck's 'Yr million ▒█░█
█░█▒ sweetnesses,' or Sunset Rubdown's 'Us ones in ▒█░█
█░█▒ between,' you can listen, and say, 'by Christ, if ▒█░█
█░█▒ that isn't me in there.' And if it can feed the ▒█░█
█░█▒ self, maybe that nourishment can feed that ▒█░█
█░█▒ knowledge, starved in so many of us, of the other. ▒█░█
█░█▒ Maybe pop can make us better people... ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ But maybe all of us go through a period, like my ▒█░█
█░█▒ friend Andrew, where you begin to see pop music as ▒█░█
█░█▒ false, ultimately unable to help anyone, where they ▒█░█
█░█▒ see it as perhaps always being the vanity project ▒█░█
█░█▒ of the artists or hacks who churn it out. I don't ▒█░█
█░█▒ have much to say in defense of this. But pop music ▒█░█
█░█▒ got under my skin in two ways: first, when out in ▒█░█
█░█▒ the day-to-day things began to seem too ▒█░█
█░█▒ one-dimensional, seemed too often to misunderstand ▒█░█
█░█▒ the intricacies of my daily life, pop music was ▒█░█
█░█▒ there to smooth my brow, to say it all for me, to ▒█░█
█░█▒ say: "i'm selfish, harmed and harmful, and need and ▒█░█
█░█▒ need and need, but here, look here, a touch of ▒█░█
█░█▒ empathy, a touch of beauty, a touch of something i ▒█░█
█░█▒ can put in place of the ever-absent truth." Second, ▒█░█
█░█▒ because those chords, those harmonies, they climb ▒█░█
█░█▒ in my pores. They were there before man, vibrating ▒█░█
█░█▒ in the tree-branches, howling from deep in the ▒█░█
█░█▒ middle of the earth, laughing in the bodies of ▒█░█
█░█▒ water, and now even, spitting out of cheap ear ▒█░█
█░█▒ buds, it is still augmenting my subway rides, still ▒█░█
█░█▒ allowing me to think my life is somehow romantic. ▒█░█
█░█▒ It's a delusion you'll say. Suffer me this, i say. ▒█░█
█░█▒ And i invite you in: Come into this, because here ▒█░█
█░█▒ is my humble sonic cathedral, and i've tried to be ▒█░█
█░█▒ honest, if not truthful. The formula has been ▒█░█
█░█▒ simple: experience, ponder, relate (i did it. i ▒█░█
█░█▒ found it. i wrote it all down.), the object not ▒█░█
█░█▒ being to know what you experience (for this project ▒█░█
█░█▒ is abortive in its insemination), but to see it, ▒█░█
█░█▒ see it well. Like the woman says: "what do we ▒█░█
█░█▒ learn? we learn to notice everything." ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ I guess i will thank here Lisa, Brendan, Katye, ▒█░█
█░█▒ Murray, Camilla, Jason, Sarah, Chris, Nic, Howard, ▒█░█
█░█▒ Anne and everyone else who might have contributed ▒█░█
█░█▒ in some way to this album. What is good belongs to ▒█░█
█░█▒ them, what is bad to me. And thanks to you, the ▒█░█
█░█▒ Ideal Reader / Listener, without whom none of this ▒█░█
█░█▒ would mean so much. ▒█░█
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█░█▒ I hope you find something in the music. Even if ▒█░█
█░█▒ it's just music. Even if it's just one man's ▒█░█
█░█▒ fallible archive. ▒█░█
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█░█▒ Warm regards, Little Bird, ▒█░█
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█░█▒ ben ▒█░█
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█░█▒ p.s. ▒█░█
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█░█▒ Here are the words to 'Flowers,' as you will not ▒█░█
█░█▒ find them in the liner notes of the album: ▒█░█
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█░█▒ Flowers ▒█░█
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█░█▒ I gave her flowers when she came homeù ▒█░█
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█░█▒ though I could swear I taught her ever to be ▒█░█
█░█▒ suspicious ▒█░█
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█░█▒ of such a gesture in me. ▒█░█
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█░█▒ Yes, these blossoms really do ▒█░█
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█░█▒ ignite the room in so less feeble a way ▒█░█
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█░█▒ than bare light bulbs and electric heat. ▒█░█
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█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ She said, it really is all predictable. ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ We thought it could be different. ▒█░█
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█░█▒ I am the type of stern discerner who will concede ▒█░█
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█░█▒ we are leveled and bound each to all ▒█░█
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█░█▒ by sewage pipes and waste bins ▒█░█
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█░█▒ of one form or another. But the revelation that ▒█░█
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█░█▒ we twoù we tooù were susceptible to the ▒█░█
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█░█▒ achingly, daily ambience of a pot of daisiesà ▒█░█
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█░█▒ Ah, well, the noble cynic can well bear ▒█░█
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█░█▒ absolute human fraternity under the reek of shit, ▒█░█
█░█▒ but to be ▒█░█
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█░█▒ manacled man-to-man by a little mirthful marigold ▒█░█
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█░█▒ is more base than even we can stoically stand. ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
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█░█▒ We thought it could be different. ▒█░█
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█░█▒ ItÆs a funny thing, that first blindness of ▒█░█
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█░█▒ those who would be something otherù ▒█░█
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█░█▒ that such willful dark will sometimes ▒█░█
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█░█▒ court a sparkù but to grope ▒█░█
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█░█▒ so far-a-field in search of what ▒█░█
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█░█▒ you supposed subtler splendour, just to find ▒█░█
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█░█▒ your dearthful hearth in homely beauties ▒█░█
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█░█▒ can make you learn to loathe that effort ▒█░█
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█░█▒ and curse the hope that bore you there. ▒█░█
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█░█▒ Bury all effort and hope ▒█░█
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█░█▒ down where the dog canÆt find it. ▒█░█
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█░█▒ You will see things go just how youÆve been told ▒█░█
█░█▒ they go ▒█░█
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█░█▒ all along, little wonder. ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ Little wonder. ▒█░█
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█░█▒ You take the merest scrap of pleasure ▒█░█
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█░█▒ and you can swaddle-up all that we have ever been. ▒█░█
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█░█▒ What differences escape are as the deceptions and ▒█░█
█░█▒ sub rosa ▒█░█
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█░█▒ made infinite in the fertile decay of our dead: ▒█░█
█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ all that what-could-be, even yet, pushing up ▒█░█
█░█▒ daisies. ▒█░█
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█░█▒ ▒█░█
█░█▒ ------------ ▒█░█
█░█▒ As the summer of 2007 turned cold ben McCarthy ▒█░█
█░█▒ (lapsed writer; failed poet; M.A. drop-out) and his ▒█░█
█░█▒ band, which had never once performed publicly ▒█░█
█░█▒ together, parted ways. As the winter set in, ▒█░█
█░█▒ McCarthy lost interest in his studies, grew ▒█░█
█░█▒ impatient with the eternal wrangling of the word, ▒█░█
█░█▒ and foreshortened his already narrow social circle. ▒█░█
█░█▒ As the frost seized hold of the cityÆs soil, so he ▒█░█
█░█▒ hunkered into the strange masonry of his basement ▒█░█
█░█▒ apartment. The long months passed over him as the ▒█░█
█░█▒ turmoil of winter traverses the burrow of the ▒█░█
█░█▒ torpid beast, who sleeps but does not dream. But ▒█░█
█░█▒ into the hollow in him where once there was a taste ▒█░█
█░█▒ for disorder, for deconstruction, for decreation, a ▒█░█
█░█▒ new light stirred, a new language burst forth from ▒█░&#
