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Parkwood

by Mayor of Donutville

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spicyinvalid Exceedingly prolific Leighton Cordell, jolts and jars the imagination in rapt attention. Using his woodshed-studio-work to fabricate an illustrious world of warmly compressed drums, tight bass and soaring lead guitar harmonies; all of these laced together with the most tenderhearted, story-filled lyrics sung with incredible vocal harmony and dexterity.

MoD honorably endows his hometown with perhaps the greatest anthemic concept album since "The Village Green Preservation Society" by The Kinks. Favorite track: Said and Done.
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1.
Every day becomes the same A walk down the darkened hallway Falling leaves, the limbs are bare A cape round the garden walkway Chain fence a mirrored fort Guardian of tennis courts The garden globe reflects the sun Take the kite roll down the hill The boy with the nunchucks flailing Branches sighing in the breeze The wind of the south exhaling Splintered on wicker chairs Paperbacks and calendars You blushed about our uncle’s laugh Crooked memory Is true but not for me And I could still believe If I could see and hold Thru the looking glass Tricked by a folded past The least but not the last Covered in light and gold Cinder blocks and old garages Attics and stairs and basements Overlaid the books I read On the places we stood in my head Jump cross the path of stone Never lonely but alone I peered down from the maple tree Thru the looking glass Tricked by a folded past The least but not the last Covered in light and gold How the years have gone Fading into stone The planters by the stairs Broken still Round the block again The looming halls are bent To cloud my memory, had I been there at all Crooked memory Is true but not for me And I could still believe If I could see and hold Thru the looking glass Tricked by a folded past The least but not the last Covered in light and gold
2.
Out through the bay window, headfirst in ivy Moonlit escape from a world left behind me Woken from boredom, the stillness of life To visions untethered and endless Scaled up the oak tree to survey the city Blocks from my shortened breath, miles from your pity Your wings were lost when you circled the sun My wings were left by the window Out of the city away from lights and the sound Into the unknown, the stars to the treetops a crown Tripped down embankments and parking lot valleys Walking in shadows thru driveways and alleys Charcoal and kerosene fresh in the air The clothes on the laundry lines waving Pitched up in bluffs by the edge of the water Further and further from farther and farther Onward the cliffs and the meadows await The joy and the endlessness: freedom Out of the city away from lights and the sound Into the unknown the stars to the treetops a crown
3.
Useless. My hand in a cast Stared up at the ceiling, as the shadows passed I watched the pages burn but had no words The first words were always my last I was a meaningless jab Cut in to stop you from feeling glad What a stupid thing to be out of everything A loathsome and terrible lad Over rivers and thru tangled woods To the home by the halos and pines Broken down by the crack on the mirror The drop of blood on the line I was the fly on the wall Plundered the bookshelf to read them all I sat for hours on end on the middle step Waiting for someone to call Trapped in a snare of my own You ran the race while I stayed at home Crushed down in an ugly chair, in the dark and bare Four walls to keep me alone Over rivers and thru tangled woods To the home by the halos and pines Broken window the crack on the mirror But each clock still rings on time Useless. My hand in a cast Stared up at the ceiling, as the shadows passed I watched the pages burn but had no words The first words were always my last
4.
These are the strings that held me up but kept me in my place Walked down the halls and thru the parking lot to be erased Had i ignored the words, I could lift my hands up to the sky Cloaked in the stars and full of hope This was a notebook full of stupid thoughts from a broken pen Tearing the pages out, erase the past begin again Head in a thundercloud, so obnoxiously oblivious Head full of thoughts and thoughtless still Into the dumpster fire, into the great revise Each leaf a memory, replaced in history I had forgotten more than I could ever recreate Held by the fear of death, but crushed by life’s unnerving weight I lived a thousand lives in the shadow of your crooked lines Cover to cover marble bound Into the dumpster fire, into the great revise Each leaf a memory, replaced in history Hold to the times and dates, between the lines and rates Mine was a heart and soul, a mirror and stranger
5.
Every day becomes the same as the last Pushed through the fog and I kicked at the past I mopped the floors and I turned out the lights I knew your name but you never knew mine This is the camera, the film holds the thoughts This is the door but the key has been lost Climbed out the window and into the night I knew your names but you never knew mine
6.
My face in a comic book for eleven years Dear friends, oblivion and hidden tears Cold blistering air outside, the still within Repeating words over and o’er again To be in the present and not in the past To remember always I sat with broken hand beside her In silence praying to remember Each leaf the warmth of the sun, the path behind Eyes closed I held the picture in my mind To be in the present and not in the past To remember always Every day becomes the same, a distant sound Each and every passing year a darkened shroud But now is now I’ll hold it tight, I’ll keep it close I will not let it fall down to shadows My eyes are open i am wide awake I won’t forget again the same mistake But live in the present and not in the past I’ll remember always
7.
Once we lived between the halos and the vaulted pines Sleeping soundly where the sun helped the ivy climb Here we saw the footprints walk off between the rocks but I recall The place we called our home Once we lived between the halos and the vaulted pines How I rested in a cloud above the haze of smoke and fire Here we heard the footsteps say their last goodbye But I recall the place I called my home
8.
Threadbare 03:55
From the root to the bough We adorned the maple crown All the books in the shelf Made us homesick Watching the squirrels in the tree There I wrote a song to sing But I don’t know how it goes anymore Put my letter in the mail Echoing the nightingale I, “too happy in my happiness” Out the door and through the town Threadbare rug of red and brown I had walked to the church for the service Some of the things that you said Hung around inside my head But I can’t hear any words anymore Put my letter in the mail Echoing the nightingale I, “too happy in my happiness”
9.
Starlit dream, a mystery The sun behind the clouds is free To sigh and weep at tree and hedge The shadows by rivers edge That hold the city streets Vacant eyes and drudgery To rise to eat to work to sleep Behind the flags and laundry lines The shining coasts just out of sight For all is said and done Rubies gold and diamond bright The angels cry again Now the cage is wired shut The grids the lines the curbs are cut We rest our backs and fold our hands To labor a forgotten land And sharpen up the axe See the fires that dot the land? The trees plucked out of rightful stands The mill, the wire, the rope, the ring The angels laugh the cherubs sing For all is said and done Rubies gold and diamond bright The angels cry again
10.
Broke my nose again, in the sloping of the drive The first time hurt the worst, the second hurt my pride How are we shaped by trees, falling in falling leaves The air, the wind, the earth, the mud, contains us Here I lost my thoughts, a blackbird on the ground Watching from my perch, and lighting down to land Out by the ditch I spied, we both returned alive The air, the wind, the trees, the storm, remade us Thru open windows I could be the black bird I will remember this day Boy inside a box, and the bird that fell instead The second hurt in ways, but the first one hurt my head You know truly I wanted to be like you The air, the wind, the trees against the sky, blue Thru open windows I could be the black bird I will remember this day Thru open windows I could be the black bird I will remember How we were delivered Thru golden leaves We watched the street Forgotten but not gone Thru open windows I could be the black bird I will remember this day

about

I actually have a lot to say about this, which isn't super-common. Most of the songs on this album are approximately 20 years old. I wrote them when I was 20-21 and I'm definitely 41 now. If you think to yourself, "this sounds like music from the 2000s," that would be the reason. I (largely) kept as close to my original vision as possible in terms of production, because one of my most enduring traits is a love of heavy guitars.

So at the time these ideas were written, I was in a band called The Great and Powerful Gizmo, and we had just finished recording our first album. When I passed that first album to my friend Cameron to listen, he said something like, "It's a bit like a concept album, but the concept is just fuzzy guitars." This comment was sandwiched between a bunch of compliments, but it stuck out to me, because it clarified something I KNEW was missing, but hadn't fully identified. There was no theme. It was just a collection of songs written around the same time. This is the same Cameron with whom I started the first band I was ever in. We used to spend hours coming up with ideas for albums and song titles while sitting in science class together, so it stands to reason that he was the one who caught that detail.

From that point on, I started curating albums around instrumental, lyrical, and timbral themes (not all at the same time, mind you). So the flurry of subsequent songs I wrote got placed in holding cycles until there was a unifying theme that could connect them all. And the themes were not super-solid at first. But also, not everything had a place where it would fit. The first theme bucket that filled up was the next album we recorded, and so on. At the time we recorded our second album, I had piles of songs in 3 different themes in the works. One of them happened get wrapped up in a single drunken night. That was "Why the Luggage?" and then we moved on. I have lots of unfinished songs, but even more songs that are kind-of-complete but don't have an album to call home. A veritable island of misfit toys!

These tracks are almost all parts of that collection from that time. There's one much earlier (99?) melody in there, and 2 later ones (04ish), and lots of combinations to fill in incomplete arrangements. Three of these initial ideas, when they were fresh, got instrumental demos recorded and sent to Cousin Jason (Gizmo's guitarist) with a note about not being able to come up with any good lyrics. It was a period of much, well-justified self doubt, in that I had been writing for long enough to understand how bad it was to commit to lyrics which a future version of yourself would despise. That was the main obstacle for me, and Jason helped as much as he could, but we never ended up finalizing or rehearsing them. The first and last tracks were two of the ones I made demos for, and I referred to them as "the bookends" right up until a year ago.

From an instrumental perspective, "the bookends" are also curiously connected to Cousin Jason. When we were active in Gizmo, he was also a classical guitarist and used to play shows all the heck over Oklahoma City. Sometimes when I visited him, I got to travel around with him and listen to his brilliant performances. Sometimes when he visited me, I got to record him playing. One day while I was listening to him play Bach's "Sleepers Awake" or uhh BWV 645, I was like "THAT COULD BE HEAVY." And it can be heavy, indeed! While I was playing with that chord progression, it morphed into the intro and outro to the bookends, in its different permutations. The inclusion of my ramshackle 3/4 adapted version of the actual Bach piece was a subsequent idea that seemed to complete the cycle, and I've already apologized to Bach for it. The title for that one is stolen from a Soundcloud comment (I think it was Gordon M) that was too good not to use. Baching Up the Wrong Tree. Get it?

So now we've covered the most important things I wanted to tell you. The album sounds like the 2000s for a reason, Cameron and Cousin Jason are both awesome. But why now? About 4 years ago, when I was working on the Time Machine Chronicles, I finished up another oldish (but not AS old) project titled "Wren Hollow Wrens" that was in a similar incomplete holding cycle in my mind. At that point, I turned my attention back to the very old melodies I have been carrying in my noggin for 20 years, with the idea that I might knock them out too and have a nearly fresh start in songwriting. But I quickly got distracted by new music I was writing, because I'm 50% squirrel, and I never did find a good place for them.

After that project was done, I started in earnest writing lyrics, completing arrangements, and recording instruments for Parkwood. I did get distracted a few more times, with Perpendicularism, Typewriter samples, and Heracleion. Funny enough, 20 years is enough time to change a person's vocal range. I learned this when I recorded the tracks in their original keys and COULD NOT record the vocals. It was brutal. Many of these songs have been re-recorded 2-3 times just trying to figure out where I could best sing them haha.

Lyrically, Parkwood pulls from the same concept as Wren Hollow, which I think is best described as world-building centered around obtained historic artifacts. For Wren Hollow, it was a vintage t-shirt. For Parkwood, it's a school lunch tray, whose art is featured in the cover design. Parkwood was a real high school in Joplin in the 60s, 70s and maybe 80s. Where Wren Hollow's fictional town was loosely based around an imagined version of my grandparent's Carthage (Aunt Ruth, the desk pen set, the brother sent to war), Parkwood's is based around an imagined version of my parent's Joplin. That's the foundation. On top of that, I have overlaid an absolute mishmash of memories from my own childhood, generally centered around the many hours spent with cousin Jason in Joplin. The boy with the nunchucks, the bay window, the maple tree, and the hours spent killing time on our great grandmother's front porch. At times, it's also a scathing self-reflection on my worst attributes - and about memory in general - its pliability and its tendency to highlight those attributes. It's built like a tree and also about trees.

I'd like to extend my sincerest thanks to Cousin Jason and Cameron for giving an early listen to these recordings and providing helpful feedback, and to Kahlief Steele for lending his time reviewing the second-to-final mix and telling me the vocals were still too quiet. They were. I think they're better now, but we'll see.

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released January 4, 2023

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Mayor of Donutville Detroit, Michigan

Mayor of Donutville, fairest land of sprinkles and pink frosting.

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