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VIDEO CREDITS:
Director: Rob Shaw
Executive Creative Director: Jason Bacon
Executive Producer: Tsui Ling Toomer
Producer: Robert D’Esposito
Animation Directors: John Summerson & Dermot Lynskey
Production Company: Little-Giant
Based on filming by: Michael McCloud
Skateboarding by: Emile Laurent, Enzo Kurmaskie, Anthony Del Togno Armanasco, and Silas Baxter-Neal
LYRICS:
I’m a slow burn, crawl around the road work, something from the other side clawing at the known world, cough up all your cookies with the autumn air incarnate, he all-city by the time your eyes adjusted to the darkness, in parts uncharted, always found the corners cozy, you can send your fastest riders, I return the horses lonely, controller, the locals only note the lucky charms and army jacket, when your addy’s in the heart of thar be dragons, I know, no solicitors, waves away his visitors, from 10 minutes in front of a tainted energy signature, still bullseye-ing womp rats from the scenic route, sugar in his coffee like a seance in the tv room, the cheek swab came back half-amazing, half of what he make end up on his lab apron, if quieter than most, I’m mostly mastering the science of, keeping one’s composure while the limbic system’s lighting up.
Some try to combat any kind of odd force trying to make contact, nah, let it in, let it in, Some try stonewall any kind of woo-woo trying to make a phone call, nah, let it in, let it in.
Ring around the revenant, let it in, said he wasn’t ready yet, he never left the Etch-a-Sketch, stuck around for more than just a parlor trick or flickering fluorescents, had a couple still to visit with a million pressing questions like - Where were you the night of? What are you traversing earth in spite of? How are you adjusting to the triumph? I’m asking for a friend who caught a loss and never surfaced, simply curled up in his cubby, shutting down the central nervous, look, float up into urgent care, a checkerboard of blurry squares, flowers in the lobby shrivel back into the earthenware, humans in the lobby holding crosses up, I understand the caution but, some of you just wanna see the coffin jump, until the coffin jump, then it’s what I call a punk, didn’t even get to where he coughing blood and talk in tongues, not to mention once you hassle the horde, it doesn’t matter how much furniture you stack at the door, yea.
Hand drawn map, cross over, cross back, calling from the flight deck, I collect dog tags, tall grass, asphalt, or salt-flat, it’s all jazz, like an alphabet to Saul Bass, bratty to the basic anatomy of a death stare, passing through the old Manhattan, ectoplasm everywhere, pack a second teddy bear, I’m headed for the panic, take a second for some bacon, take his head off when in transit, I don’t co-exist, I don’t exist, even J.C. miss him with the loaves and fish, you feel dementia getting closer like the devil getting over, now his antennas are roaming for radio terra nova, going “ksht! Ksht! Sir, I think we’ve got a signal, it’s fuzzy, but they’re playing one that wasn’t from the hymnal,” I’m a faint scent of sulfur, I’m the source of the ooze, I’m security tape of a glowing orb in the room, sup.
#AesopRock #JumpingCoffin #SpiritWorldFieldGuide