Piñataland

Listen

I can hear African drums, Hawaiian guitars, Balinese gongs
But I will not listen
When you tell me that this was once all water here
I don’t remember
We grew up to live on the land
I love the Midwest
The wide open spaces
But I never believed in the weather until I saw glaciers

Grabbed through a cable that lays in the sea
I reach round the world at incredible speeds
And sometimes I pretend I’m in Iceland
But it’s just Coney Island on a grey winter morning
I just stand with my back to the Cyclone and look out at the ocean

Northern lights well I’ve never seen them
But I’d swear on my life that they could transform me
There’s just sea and sky as our songlines run free in the wild

And it moves through the internet like a great white whale
Too big for the land and so small in the sea
That I’ll never find it, unless it finds me
And I’ve got a Balkan band waiting on the ocean floor
They got routed through Thailand
They can’t wait anymore

So there’s a small temperature change in the eastern Pacific
That seeds the skies
And through there’s a hurricane watch ‘cross the whole Eastern seaboard
I feel alright

‘Cause I don’t understand why there aren’t more accidents
And why there aren’t more heart attacks
And why everything’s working
When nothing is waterproof and everywhere leaks are appearing

We grew up to live on the land
Polynesias and Yukons, Persias and Tuscanys
Manchurias, Saharas, Amazons and Outbacks as well
And I’ll be in New York
At least I think it’s New York
It’s getting so hard to tell

A meditation on the links between trans-oceanic data cables, Aboriginal songlines, and the weather.

David Wechsler—vocals and chord organ
Doug Stone—backing vocals and guitar
Gerald Menke—dobro
Jane Scarpantoni—cello
Dan Nosheny—tuba
Bill Gerstel—drums

David Wechsler