Skate Chills

by Mountain Schmountain

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03:19
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01:48
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03:59
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03:39

credits

released August 26, 2016

Written and played by Mountain Schmountain:
Beat Billson
Thomas Crabb
Simon J Curd

Recorded and mixed by Richard Collins at Snug Recording Co., Derby.

Mastered by Jesse Cannon at Cannon Found Soundation, NYC.

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Mountain Schmountain Nottingham, UK

Extreme MOR

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Track Name: Spectator Seating
I didn't know what kind of drink to bring. The beverage shelves went on for miles in both directions. But, lead by the sense that if our feet stay off the footpath it's like they've left the earth itself, there's four litres of ginger beer strapped to my back like breathing gear when shadows splay till they engulf themselves. In the grips of cinder bricks your father's business trips started parties – just slight strips of light which survived the dimming in the garden, but, leant against the wall, felt more connected to the net of nights stretched wide and spiderlike. I have this dream where every route I choose leaving changing rooms leads to spectator seating. I have never been told that I seem distant by anyone who wanted to talk about where we actually were.
Track Name: Murmuration
Remote control container ships slowly circle underneath the specks collecting and dispersing like coffee in convection after early evening sermons, done adorning aerials and awnings. How dismissively the willows trace the shapes the murmuration makes above suburban lakes. But this, this was a different thing, the nebulae in freckles on its neatly folded wings, cradled in little fingers between mittens swinging from winter sleeves. There was the ordeal in the florist – suddenly confronted with wall-to-wall bunches of lilies and orchids and the lady in the apron with the measuring tape, later the same day that it was explained why there was a bouquet on the railings of the model boat pond. The bokeh of the rain and the hobbyists gone. I'm okay but I'll stay till I've worked out what's wrong – why little wakes just lay while summer slunk away. Remote control container ships slowly circle underneath the specks collecting and dispersing like coffee in convection after early evening sermons, done adorning aerials and...
Track Name: Photocopy / Filter Coffee
The trace remains of night survive in smudged punk club hand stamps – added faster than the last ones got washed off – and look on, lost, amidst this choreography: Photocopy / filter coffee like the bleeps from these machines mean anything to me. Photocopy / filter coffee like they might be winching in a different theme to the immediate scenery. I said that I'd read something about the moon landings standing as the greatest act of taxpaid theatre. You said "how far, how fast, we'd have reached, had the bottom rung administration tiers not been spewing up on the lawns of concourses, making envelope trolleys wait, while the latest ritual failed to raise a mountain range from the morning haze". When we thought we needed things to get interesting, it would've been enough just to be a touch interested in anything. So go: Photocopy / filter coffee like the bleeps from these machines mean anything to anybody. Photocopy / filter coffee like they might be winching in a different theme to the immediate scenery.
Track Name: Dewey Decimal
Devoted throes of ceremony move in forecourt curves and trays of overpass fast food. And, caught up in amongst us, the service station swears its traipsing halls could lead the footfall anywhere. And it's halfway there. Finally, the chance to find out how long the flashlight batteries last as we fleetly weave between the shaky strokes of snowfield trees... Ducking branches forging paths, putting drawing pins in maps. There were boys you knew at high school who called you late at night to tell you lies but in the kind of voice you liked, so you shouldered the phone and hummed your go-ons just enough like oncoming trucks – just enough oncoming trucks. And hence, if the promise of dense, boreal forest seems far fetched let your window slip an inch, since it insists that this will improve whatever this is we're listening to – this slew of youthful tunes from a nineties I never knew. It seems each sliproad screams like there was something it forgot, 'cause we're not ducking branches, forging paths, putting drawing pins in maps. Devoted throes of ceremony move in forecourt curves and trays of overpass fast food, with all the desperation of soaring autumn spores that caught the dying light, airborne at evenfall.
Track Name: Happenstance
Low luna glow glances flanks of parks up cars on roads that fumble in the dark for things they swear should be right there. Each new account of how the ambulances found her includes the shattered glass and the branches breaking character.
Track Name: Treasure Maps On Paper Serviettes
Coastal firs fall away as beads of hard earned perspiration take the same trail everyday. A metal detector, like a rifle on the chest, emerges from some verges sudden crest. Just as earthy dusk unfurls and headlights first disturb its surging furrows, they play the strangest freeze-frames, aglow below the grain. It's said some surfers heard explained: "The rightful all-time lawn bowls champion slumps away his tenure at the bar, projecting faces from high school teams on the hockey players bunched up against the overhead TV screens". Since then each season's staff has hacked at what it means after hours in the swimming pool canteen, when, in the bin next to the drinks machine the empty vessels nest in screwed up treasure maps on paper serviettes. (You're a plate pushed away. You're a faint vapour trail.) You are usually viewed through canoes on moving roofs. Just as earthy dusk unfurls and headlights first disturb its surging furrows, they play the strangest freeze-frames, aglow below the grain, that they later won't locate again. All the waterpark kids at the end of the season that talk until dark sat just hugging their knees have to go, tomorrow, when their parents say so.
Track Name: Moth-Eared
How am I to sleep, when the nervous curtains keep flinching at every shift in daybreak that the witching hour takes, and tall grass makes the glare flicker and flare? Faint scraps of packing tape on the ferry shelter wait long past the need to keep adhering – these are the ghosts of party posters and missing animal notes I wrote to go with the bottles I keep finding and the salt stripped bones that line the coast, where tall grass makes the glare flicker and flare. Let brooding weather, looming low above the heather, break in shapes of webs and feathers and trawl flickering vignettes of supermarket signs, my best dress in the beverage aisle, and sprinklers synchronised on nightfall lawns. I want my body to slow in the punk show strobes – convulse to lightning pulses but know, any moment, I'll go, moth-eaten and dog-eared, home. Go, moth-eaten and dog-eared...
Track Name: (This House Is) Hardly Haunted (At All)
The skeletal gleam of car parks arcing in the dark, hellbent in all directions and showing off their scars, keeps eerily appearing, painstakingly rebuilt where midnight fridge-light's spilt. Distinct chills still sit in storage behind the attic hatch in piles of pining nineties sports bags set on dragging up the past. But this house is hardly haunted. No, this house is hardly haunted. No, this house is hardly haunted at all. Twilights might find it trying to forge alternate stories from punk band incantations and the things I filled junk drawers with, but this house is hardly haunted. No, this house is hardly haunted. No, this house is hardly haunted at all. Perhaps there were months upon months of spectacular jumps upon jumps. But with every one landed, and snack wrappers trashed or dispersed by the time that first light burst, no-one remembers 'cause no-one got hurt.
Track Name: Alpenglow
The last clacks of skateboard wheels mapping crooked paving slabs dash past ageing paint slouched against jutting shoulder blades. It was someone's kid sister, I think, who explained how she'd tested much worse than her parents and teachers expected so she could take maths in the class with the fish tank. And that's kind of where I am. What a strange place for lookout basement windows, they let the very edge of every sunset lock horns with warming fluorescents over who gets us best. But only with both, in this drinks chiller drone, am I following groceries home. Oh, that I could go and float in the alpenglow. Oh, in the alpenglow. It was someone's kid sister, I think, who explained how she'd tested much worse than her parents and teachers expected so she could take maths in the class with the fish tank. And that's kind of where I am. At my post in this drinks chiller drone I am following groceries home. (There are glimpses of dinner within visions of kitchens within windows that steam up and glisten.)