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No genre, no problem: Cursive's decades-long musical defiance
For nearly 30 years, Tim Kasher and co. have challenged genre conventions, keeping Cursive's sound fiercely unpredictable.
Nov 11, 2024 • 10:07 AM
Lyrics
Passed out in your yard My clothes were soaking in the morning rain My head's just a bruise, like walking in a coma Like a battered drone All my limbs are numb I've been driving past your house Been pounding at your door I know I'm just a peon to you But I deserve more Than arrogance Condolences My hearts are on the sleeves of my shirts scattered over your lawn And the morning dew... kissed them Drunk on Bastille Day Throwing pennies at the broken birds Scribbling plans on napkins A sketch of broken angel wings under your bed My bandages Stumbled over to your house I'll sneak in the back door I know I've been an asshole to you, but that was before The argument, the accident Well, I've heard it's just a matter of time before the hour is spent And my hour is spent I can't afford it this time I can't afford this time I can't afford this time I can't afford it... The hour has come for retribution I'm storming the walls down I'm storming the walls down The hour has come for retribution I'm storming the walls down I'm storming the walls down Before this night's done, the wounds will be gone I'm storming the walls down I'm storming the walls down The Dirt of the Vineyard Less talk, more dancing If we could push off the sick conversation one more night I surely would My shoes have gathered the dust of the vineyard Have I soiled your gown? There's soil on your gown, like sangria Cleanses the heart Our clogged hearts are choking on the grime As the big band waltzes on Your stranded eyes whisper... "The dirt is out. I can smell her on your velvet hands." The dirt is out -- Are we stuck in the motions again? Oh, but was it sweet In the vineyard Sangria, won't you bless The starving lips Such virgin lips Would choke on all this grime I've found some dirt under my nails I'll scratch and bite until... The dirt is out But sangria burns under my skin The dirt is out -- I thought I'd never wash these hands again Under my skin...
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