Act I: Gussle's Backward Way
Act II: Gussle Tied to Trouble
Act III: Gussle the Golfer
Act IV: Gussle's Day of Rest
Written, directed, and produced by Josh Spurling
Includes unlimited streaming of Schizophonic Symphony: Anti-scores For the Films of Reggie Gussle
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Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
Where's the sun on these cold, cold days? Where is home when you steal away? Nothing is sweet. Starving to eat. I've been down this rabbit hole for far too long.
Don't hold your breath while I suffocate. A pound note short and 20 years too late. Rising to shrink. Poison to drink. Forgetting to think. Climbing to sink.
Pitch black, back on the river. Drowning, soul left to wither. Who are these beasts who live here? Floating along to who knows where.
For the money and for the show, we dance in circles for the devil that we know. We wave our flags, root for our team. An exercise in futility. A buffoon platoon trained to blow the trumpets. Patriotic or idiotic, we fantasize to win the prize and close our eyes until we do.
Just black or white, no gray here. Conform or just disappear. Dance 'til we're tangled in our strings.
The more you hear, the less you know. Alternative facts now run the show. We'll feed the hate to make us great.
Opened up like a telescope, 12 feet tall. Knees to my chest and back to the wall. I've grown too large for my own little bed. I'll be sleeping in my grave until the day I'm dead. When did the monkeys start running the zoo? And when did I start running, too? Carry my cage wherever I go, peering through the bars at everyone I know.
Who am I when I'm not me? Fill me with electricity. I sniff the salt of awakening. But how can I sleep when my life's incomplete?
I won't be your pawn anymore. Come for the lies, but stay for goodbyes. It's time to fly.
We're all mad, so whichever way that you go, you'll sing me a song that rights all my wrongs. It won't last too long.
I'm accused of killing time, singing songs that never rhyme. Beats to which no one dances, riddles that have no answers. I'm the death of the party, making noise in my own key. No one takes my picture, requests my time signature. A schizophonic symphony.
But aren't we still trying to find our way home like in the stories we were fed as kids? Follow the rules and you get to go to heaven whatever the hell that is. In the garden of fools, there's no room for me or you.
At least mouth the words or you're mad as a hatter. Fill the plate to make the fat cats fatter.
You wear the invisible crown until life beats you down. And the moral is they can't topple you if you're already on the ground. I'm the mock turtle in primordial soup, an endless feedback loop. And the moral is never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others you were otherwise.
Will you, won't you, will you join in the dance?
Thievery isn't a crime as long as it's only our minds. And the moral is the more there is of yours, the less there is of mine.
We had reeling and writhing in turn. Uglification is all I learned. And we had ambition, distraction, derision, drawling, stretching, fainting, laughing, and grief.
We have a treat for you all. The cast of characters return for curtain call. The liars, the cheaters, the drunken wife beaters, the lazies, the crazies, the lowlife bottom feeders, the greedy, the seedy, the junkie gang leaders, the dregs of society, and me.
This is the part where I awaken and wipe these nightmares from my eyes. If only this was just a story, I could close the book.
Come on in. It's time to end this game that we call life. We cannot win.
Very little is known about the band at this time. Witness accounts say the band includes between 1 and 13 people. Their
impromptu performances range from 30 seconds to 13 hours and are performed with various disguises and under alternate band names. These shows are rarely announced, often in remote areas, and occasionally even without an audience. No one knows why....more
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