The Architecture of Slums

by Krtek

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about

Sami Aartti - vocals
Lauri Palonen - guitar and bass
Kosti Uusi-Kartano - guitar and bass
Markus Snellman - drums and percussion

all music and arrangements by Krtek
all lyrics by Sami Aartti

French horn on The Architecture Of Slums played by Venla Katila

Recorded, mixed and mastered by Vesa Sillvan at West Studio, Rauma
Cover photo and layout by Janika Lähdes

credits

released February 21, 2013

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Track Name: The Architecture Of Slums
I'm hanging onto threads that I collect from science fiction and dictionaries. There's a festival inside of my head, but the headliner seems to be dead. But someone's on the stage yelling out: "The blueprints for us were taken from a book on the architecture of slums" The kids with the designer diseases are cheering with reckless abandon. It starts to rain and the mud beneath our feet forms an artificial unity. And the preacher man goes on: "It's our flaws that make us perfect, you should know that well. You're doing fine if you can afford a personal hell and learn to appreciate the ironies of life, like being loved by someone who hates everything, and the fact that a whisper is the most harmful thing for a voice." And the sweat is flowing like blood in Hong Kong 1989; in slow motion.
Track Name: Holland
Look inside myself, a much needed anatomy lesson. Imitation organs and fake memories side by side. With questions about humanity and more importantly of identity. Abigail, can you please guide my way? Abigail, can you please make the ghosts go away? How can one so isolated be so connected to everything all the time? His image is haunting me, the man who I was supposed to be. Instead of confronting I'll just sink back into the green. Suddenly a possible solution: I gotta bury Holland's bones. Back at one of my least favorite places, Where it all began and ended. the charred remains of your house at edge of the swamp. Inhabited by nothing but silence and ghosts and your dusty old bones. And I now know what to do but the weight of it all with your dead eyes glued to my back seems a bit too much. I have come to call this swamp my home and I promise soon so shall you. Grab a shovel, dig a pit and throw his bones in it. I gotta end this. I gotta bury holland's bones.
Track Name: The Listmaker
One of those days again. Thinking about the desert island question. Filling notebook pages with list after list. And on those lists the names of works of fiction, childhood favorite toys and favorite foods, but not a single person. Where are the deactivation codes for this condition? Where is the launch button for my ejection seat? A cup of cheap tea to accompany the chronicling of what you find important. It took a few days but now your whole life is arranged in neat lists. Maybe this has gotten a bit out of hand? But there's one list missing, because maybe your afraid that writing down the things you lack, the things you yearn and the things you need would be accepting defeat. Things like her tired eyes next to you in the morning, someone to sing ”There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” to and something concrete made by your own hands. But most importantly her tired eyes next to you in the morning.
Track Name: A Man Walks Into A Bar
The neon colored noise drifts to the streets from the house i'm heading to. There's people on the porch smoking and they give me that "you're not welcome here" look but i ignore them. I enter the house and the music's too loud and i look for a familiar face or a quiet corner. I say hi to the host and she tells me to grab a drink and enjoy myself, but i doubt i'll be doing either. I go sit in the kitchen like i always do on such occasions. There's a designated driver, someone already passed out on the table and a man who looks way too old to be at this party. He starts talking to me with that drunken slur that i find quite intimidating. He's asking questions and insisting on telling me something he calls a joke and for whatever reason it sticks with me and I leave. Passing through fighting drunks I'm reminded why I don't go to these things anymore, at least not ever again. I'm walking home all alone, obsessing over the things he said. Like he's trying to say something about me:

"A man walks into a bar and orders a bottle of Loch Lomond to celebrate the end of his seafaring days, with a heavy heart. Forced to leave the sea because of minor injuries and pressure from his family to start one of his own. And for a while he thinks that would make him happy. 18 years later, institutionalised he died bitter and alone. His last words were according to a nurse: 'I should have never left you my beloved big blue, my dear ocean. It should have been the embrace of your waves that finally took me away.'"

In another timeline I could perhaps relate but not tonight, because we didn't end it in a goodbye but a thank you for everything and a promise of no regrets. Despite everything, you were my everything, my everything. So you might've changed your mind, so you might've broken. It doesn't change the fact that despite everything, you were my everything and I wish you nothing but the best.