We’ve updated our Terms of Use to reflect our new entity name and address. You can review the changes here.
We’ve updated our Terms of Use. You can review the changes here.

Awful, Pompous, & Artificial

by Bomethius

/
1.
Wasted Words 01:46
*Instrumental*
2.
Barren Field 04:41
Barren field Your weeds are tall and plenty And I think they’re flowering Casting shadows onto the stricken land The weeping sand The roots they said Were borne out in your infancy And there was nothing you could do I’m a famine unto myself We feel it too But we do not know What we do not know ’Til it’s too late The construction crew Will be here in the morning They’ll scrape it out of you And lay a new foundation To hide you away But I know you see (yeah, stay hidden, yeah) That all these pretty colors (stay hidden, yeah) Don’t really mean a thing (stay hidden) You just have no use Beyond being used (You’re so useless! Useless! Useless!) But we do not know What we do not know ’Til it’s too late Help me God Put it all behind me Thought I saw a tree Sometimes I think it’s dying Water me
3.
What if I’m as bad as they say? What if I’m as bad as they say? Stay up all through the evening To scheme my way through the day What if we’re as bad as they say But what if they’re as bad as we say? Would I know for sure that I’m not? Would you know for sure that they’re not? Rehearsing all of our lines For a show at the end of time Fitting our pieces into Puzzles of our own making Arranging our mirrors In rooms full of smoke But there isn’t an angle Where they’ll find absolution And whether they knew it or not They’ve been digging these Trenches for a real long time That’s the trouble when people talk about us Grains of truth mixed with a litter of lies You see the truth wasn’t bad enough The truth it wasn’t nearly bad enough And the truth is whether anyone cares at all We’re nowhere near as bad as they say We’re nowhere near as bad as they say We’re nowhere near as bad as they say We’re nowhere near as bad as they say
4.
It seems there’s no limit To the things I can’t do Or the things I’ve tried to prove To me for you But at the end of my glass Is the start of my day And I’ve tasted your words And they echo in my brain: Fill in all the potholes with liquor and blood For the thousands who’ve died And the thousands that are done Fill in all the potholes with liquor and blood For the thousands who’ve died And the thousands that are done Paint a splash of a runway Only hydroplaning cars They won’t be cleared for landing Not tonight anyhow Like the brave little turtle Who tried the street to cross He crawled to his end But to the wrong side he was tossed As he flew through the air Did he know who loved him best? Was he glad it was all over As he sighed out his last? There’s always another And we’re bound at last to meet So fill in the potholes But stay out of the street
5.
*Instrumental*
6.
It’s raining in the South again And all the trees are weeping Fallen leaves and faded lanes Hilly roads that still feel the same Cops were hiding in the medians Looking for any reason You were sleeping Dreaming of your bed And I was driving And I was holding your hand A few more hours slipped by Before we were at y’all’s stop sign The children were playing in the street And oh how they shouted their greetings It’s time for dinner There’s tea and funny stories And then it’s all street lights and cigarettes And maybe another game of chess This week of memories will account For a year of changes But just like before This trip comes to its end And yet we’re happy to go Though we hate to be leaving We’ve really gotta move On down the road But are we happy to go? No we hate to be leaving Why do we have these lives of our own? Why do we have these lives of our own? It’s raining in the South again I’ll join the leaves in weeping
7.
A Fertile Crescent of anxiety Abusive tendencies You call this theology? Well it used to be part of me In the upside down There’s no right That they can’t wrong In the upside down There’s no right That they can’t wrong And there’s no end in sight So long as the rules are applied We’re all so oblivious To the little things that are killing us Keeping us small and indebted Caged and abandoned Cut off and rejected I’ve been cloven in two But wasn’t that news to you? Well that’s vulnerability She’ll say, “What do you want from me?” To not be so oblivious To the bigger things that are killing us Keeping us small and indebted Caged and abandoned In the upside down There’s no right They can’t wrong In the upside down There’s no right They can’t wrong And there’s no end in sight As long as the rules are applied
8.
The Pigeon 02:32
Walking along the dirty street here in the Snow and the frozen dog pee Taking it in avoiding the ice when a new little Friend fluttered down to my feet Why’s that bird looking at me? So very expectantly What’s this bird want from me? Exchanging a glance with each of his eyes One at a time but then to my surprise Now I’m late running for the bus And the bus driver knows But he doesn’t seem to mind No he can’t slow down Cuz he’s got rules and a hard deadline No he can’t slow down Freezing at the stop There’s nothing much that I can do or say Freezing at the stop Oh my I hope there hasn’t been a delay Why God? Why did you make me this way? Shivering alone – wait no I’m not alone cuz here comes my little winged feathered friend “At least I have you,” I say with my hands In my pockets and peer out into the stinging wind Are you real? No, pigeons are spies for the FBI Am I real? Oh god is anything? It’s all just a dream, I’m still in bed Well this is really kinda cold for bed We can’t know until I wake up And I don’t think that can come soon enough
9.
MMD 03:42
Mother mother dearest My aren’t you keeping busy Stirring up all the pots And striking down all the pans Lining up your firing squad Picking your targets one by one But you and your great big lapdog You can’t hurt me no more And now it’s a he said she said they said Wait who said? What-to-when? I think we both know, but only we both know Mother mother dearest Do you miss your golden parrot? Well he got out of his cage And he won’t repeat you anymore Repeat you anymore Isn’t that strange? My how time changes things Or some of us anyway I used to be afraid of God I thought He was like you Ruling and controlling me through fear But I found out that’s not true But for our sake Oh for our sake Oh mother mother dearest Let’s hope God is nothing like you
10.
*Instrumental*
11.
The Game 03:55
This can’t be my call, but they say it’s my move Born under the gun, what more could we do We knew it was rigged, we were gutted and canned Thrown out to the birds, then chaff in the wind And so it goes, another year round Another year round And so it goes, another year round Another year round But I’d give up this fight to know you’re alright Without me It is your roll, throw down your cards Where will they land? What’s in your hand? You push up your pawns, and call all my bets Unsheathe your swords, and cut off my head And so it goes, another year round Another year round And so it goes, another year round Another year found You’ve gotta carry on, you’ve gotta carry on Without me You’ve gotta carry on, you’ve gotta carry on Without me
12.
Torn 04:22
Torn in pieces again Gotta find me some glue And I knew this would happen one day But I didn’t think I’d have you Oh when he plays the violin He wonders if it’s worth it When I play my violin I wonder am I worth it? Why won’t you show me your pain? Don’t you know I’m lonely? Well I didn’t think you could bear it – oh dear But if you want to see I’ll show you Well I’m afraid that I can’t do this And I wonder if I’ll see tomorrow And I’m afraid that one day you’ll leave me And I wonder if I’d blame you But she took my hand and she held me Oh she took my hand and she held me She looked me right in my tearful eyes And she told me that she loved me She told me that she loved me And she was staying right here So when I’ve been torn in pieces again I know just where to go She’s direct, but she’s gentle And I know it may sound simple But she’s how I hope one day to be So when I play my violin I don’t wonder if I’m worth it Oh no I play my violin Cuz I know now that I’m worth it
13.
Fare thee well I’ve gotta go Don’t mistake my absence for hate Power and lies, there’s a surprise But all we can do now is wait Just don’t forget Who I am, Cuz I know just how hard it will be She’ll say I’m the devil Because I had the gall To suggest a little therapy Keep it buried deep inside Till you can’t hide They want you to keep it buried deep inside They want you to hide And I’ll be here With open arms Should you ever care to inquire But we both know it might take years To escape that little dungeon of fear To escape that little dungeon of fear

about

Bomethius’ sixth record in as many years takes its title from a slew of apocryphal centuries-old quotes about the architecture of St. Paul’s cathedral. Despite its suspect authenticity, the phrase is often used as a shorthand for illustrating the evolution of language — a modern rendering would read more like “sublime, stately, and magnificently devised” — but as scholars continue to debate its textual pedigree, it just as easily represents the matchwood frailty of information and testimony. With Awful, Pompous, & Artificial (APA), Bomethius embraces both implications — words in flux along with the indeterminate anxieties of narrative — to craft a dynamic exploration of estrangement and the intangible devastation wrought by language in free fall.

Like Intimatitudes (2017) and Sweet Nothings (2019), APA begins with a brief, though far more elaborate, vocalized instrumental, “Wasted Words,” that casts the scene for the rest of the record. Like a funeral march for some flyblown Soviet secretary, the somber dirge plods along step after step, accompanied by feathered toms, delicate stringed harmonies, and a keening falsetto that recalls the sopranos of Mozart’s finest Kyries. While the wordless openers of Bomethius’ earlier records parodied the hollowness of simplistic childhood assurances (“Empty Promises”) or celebrated an ambivalence toward soul-crushing turmoil (“Sweet Nothings”), “Wasted Words” rings with genuine grief that — at least for now — transcends the limits of verse. It’s a requiem for the priceless loss of shared sense and mutual understanding — an estrangement from the purpose of words and the people beyond their reach — that can only resolve with a weary sigh.

With its lush soundscape of violins, guitars, soaring vocals, and background harmonies, “Barren Field” recalls the ruinous religious experiments targeted throughout inadiquit. A soliloquy compares the songwriter to a hardscrabble tract of clearcut waste — forever lifeless and useless, condemned before creation, where even signs of life are proof of decay — before concluding with a hopeful prayer for moving beyond a youth choked by self-loathing and fatalistic zealotry.

Farther down this spiritual journey, “The Upside Down” pulses with eldritch synths and beats reminiscent of a John Carpenter film score. Evoking obvious comparisons with the infernal fears and monsters in Stranger Things, these eerie electronic elements guide the listener through an autopsy on bygone selfhood — the identities we’ve long since quit and disowned but whose wraiths and wounds can still haunt our best moments. Distorted violins and guitars translate the “stricken land” and “weeping sand” of “Barren Field” into a “Fertile Crescent of anxiety” and “abusive tendencies,” where savage creeds run amok to poison every good thing, keeping us “small and indebted / caged and abandoned.” Following a faraway whistle solo, the moans and sighs of a clarinet close out the number with a graveside lullaby for a past life — severed, slain, and laid to rest.

“As Bad as They Say” channels the noir vibe of an after-hours cabaret, where silken vocals set to the swaggering plucks of an upright limn the illogical limit of abortive dialogue. Plaintive violin, squeaky-clean jazz guitar improvisations, and the mischievous whine of a muted trumpet complement whimsical piano and clarinet riffs to sketch a dismal scene where information amounts to nothing more than a virus that people exploit to infect and crush others. When we’re “rehearsing all of our lines for a show at the end of time” and “fitting our pieces into puzzles of our own making,” the tragedy isn’t any given falsehood so much as it is the instability and irrelevance of truth. Following a punctuated lament, the nightclub elegy fizzles like a slow-burning fuse that’s out of line and leads to nothing.

Closer to a traditional ballad, “Liquor & Blood” narrows the scope to traveling by road — a part of everyday existence that we constantly will into our lives despite its fondness for bouts of chaos that indiscriminately and without warning alter timelines and claim souls. In some of the record’s most tranquil, stripped-down moments, a series of ironic verses speak to this savage powerlessness we absentmindedly accept just to get through the day before the track erupts into a kind of barrelhouse anthem to amphibian roadkill — the “brave little turtle” smitten for his pluck and naivete, which earned him a curbside grave.

In “Pseudo-Anonymity,” Bomethius’ most vivid and dynamic instrumental yet, dueling acoustic guitars trace the emotions and internal dialogue of estrangement — social relations that can only proceed from the maintenance of clashing notions: two-way invisibility despite mutual recognition. From a seethe of riffs, galloping basslines, and mounting cymbal crashes unfolds the anguish of processing a trauma that’s both voluntary and involuntary, repulsive and attractive — something to resist and welcome at once. Cycling through anger, guilt, regret, longing, and loneliness, this rhapsody of rags navigates many twists and snarls before boiling over in an access of agony. The outburst quickly collapses from exhaustion, after which the piece drifts into a more disciplined state of reflection voiced by wistful woodwinds. The tranquil tones might sound like self-assurance, but they belie an undercurrent of turmoil in abeyance — a reprieve that’s still scrabbling and straining for a definitive remedy yet to be found.

Like the warmth and aroma of a grandmother’s embrace, “It’s Raining in the South Again” makes up the other side of the record’s complaint against schism and alienation. Keys and vocals waft like warm butter and sorghum alongside a soothing sax and brushed snare in a celebration of undefiled fellowship. While they mourn the fleeting quality of our most cherished moments, the verses also acknowledge that their sweetness stems in part from their scarcity. It’s a paradox, one of the enduring mysteries of time and friendship, and like the track’s final measures, it always eludes our grasp and wanders afield — a will-o’-the-wisp comedy carried beyond the horizon by sparse electric tones that gleam like stars over a lonely midnight highway.

The record’s lone moment of laughter and levity, “The Pigeon” turns a failed attempt to catch a bus into a surreal descent into insecurity and delirium. After kicking off with a sample from Tom Lehrer’s “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park,” an otherwise mundane tale of bad luck and poor timing rapidly picks up speed like the fleet feet of a latecomer, just a half-block away from his stop, whose bus blows past in a spray of diesel exhaust and groans down the street anyway. Frolicsome whistling gives way to theatrical guitarwork as the sidewalk sprint builds into a legit rocker that salutes the absurdity and instability of so much commonplace experience.

A proper piano ballad in the tradition of Randy Newman and Tom Waits, “MMD” rings with traces of ragtime mischief in a twisted epistle to broken family ties. While a sure left hand layers an evocative medley of checkered chord inversions, the right romps about the staff amid barbed stanzas that warble, “Mother, mother dearest / Do you miss your golden parrot?” — everything rising and falling, slowing and quickening, with the dynamics of dispute, protest, and entreaty.

APA’s third and final instrumental, “Oh! To Sing Again!” follows with a straightforward celebration of release. In a welcome break from the record’s chronicle of strife and spite, six- and 12-string guitars sheen with delicate fingerpicking and crisp harmonics that glory in the simple freedoms of speech and melody. Though the brisk duet likely alludes to the singer’s struggles with a vocal polyp that resulted in surgery and a prolonged period of forced silence and speech therapy, it’s also the sound of confidence — the resolve to keep moving, without fear, through life’s smother of words and conflicts.

Resolve is always easier from a distance, of course, and as the record draws to an end, antagonistic voices continue to wrestle. Mixing metaphors from chess, poker, and combat — rolls, calls, bets, cards, pawns, swords, and beheadings — “The Game” returns to the battlegrounds of earlier tracks. Toxic worldviews and internecine discord become one and the same immutable adversary in a rigged tournament, where contenders are “gutted and canned / Thrown out to the birds, then chaff in the wind” as they make the only moves available to them in a fixed sham of a contest. Despite the impasses of separation and enmity, the track ascends into a rousing 8-bit Nintendo victory sequence that cheers on those who endure undaunted, even in solitude.

In response, “Torn,” sinks into the scars of doubt and misgiving for Bomethius’ most mature and refined love song to date, a sincere hymn to a beloved that praises the radical healing power of mutually vulnerable affection. The simple grace of “Torn” then yields to the naked coda, “Fare Thee Well,” a love letter to the departed — plain and unaccompanied, like a solitary voice on a six-string resounding from a fire escape — who still tarry in “that little dungeon of fear.”

In its spectacle of estrangement from discourse and blood, APA stews and surges with a ferment of earnest, fiery voices that reflect the troubling spiritual mechanics of fruitless utterances — messages that cannot be received, even if they are delivered. It’s a deadlock at the gates of purgatory, a dilemma bred for bedlam and spleen, if not for the truth and communion that we always somehow still retain. Cumbersome and slippery, evermore emerging but never complete, truth and communion rarely look or behave exactly as we’d like. But unlike so many of the specters that persist in haunting us, they’re real, and they’re forever ready for the harvest should we choose to glean from their furrows.

credits

released December 31, 2022

Recording, and Mixing – Jonathan Hodges
Mastering – Matthew Barnhart
Vocal Cord Polyp Surgery – Lindsey Arviso
Cover Artwork – Rusty Hein
Album Title Font and Design – Vanessa Minkoff
Liner Notes and Back Cover Design – Alan Reid
Copy and Editing – Benjamin Hodges
Engineer (on all drum parts performed by Michael Minkoff ) – Jimmy Smith and Clubman Studios
Engineer (on the drum parts for Pseudo-Anonymity) – Adam Gibbs
and Space Studios

The intonation issues on this album exist for the sole purpose of pissing off Dr. Mead.

license

all rights reserved

tags

about

Bomethius Chicago, Illinois

Bomethius is the solo project of Chicago-based multi-instrumentalist and singer-songwriter Jonathan Hodges. A capable pianist, guitarist, and vocalist, Hodges has also studied the violin since he was 3 years old. With Bomethius, he draws from his classical training for a mischievous brand of baroque pop that echoes the sounds of Andrew Bird, Elliott Smith, and Randy Newman. ... more

shows

contact / help

Contact Bomethius

Streaming and
Download help

Redeem code

Report this album or account

Bomethius recommends:

If you like Bomethius, you may also like: