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CHARIOTS OF FIRE was recorded and mixed at Battle Tapes in Nashville, with additional recording at Alex the Great, May through December 2005. It was engineered by Jeremy Ferguson, with assistance from Tony Read and originally mastered by John Golden. It was remastered for vinyl by John Baldwin in 2016.
Apollo Up! Thanks:
Aaron Hartly and the Theory 8 Records Family, Jeremy Ferguson and everyone at Battle Tapes, Michael Eades and YK Records, John Baldwin, Emily and Randy Frey, everyone at Alex The Great, Golden Mastering, Sarah Shepherd, Tony Read, our families and friends, and everyone that came out and danced.
released December 16, 2016
Apollo Up! is:
Jereme Frey • Drums, Vocals
Jay Leo Phillips • Vocals, Guitar, Keyboards, Horns
Mike Shepherd • Bass Guitar, Vocals
Todd Kemp • Percussion on "Invisible Syllable", Additional Vocals on "Custom Critical"
Tony Read • Additional Vocals on "Invisible Syllable"
We shuffle our shoes now. We’re stirring up dust. So to settle it down now, we do what we must. We’ve studied the maps, but got nowhere to go. So I’m walking the plank to get back what I know. In the settlement, are the tigers sleeping? When it’s whittled down, there’s no promise to stay out. We all were enamoured with the Hollywood myth. But when we found out, it didn’t change us a bit. There were some stirrings of doubt, but I smothered it all. If I don’t answer my phone, it’s not a good time to call.
Track Name: Invisible Syllable
Electricity dissects what we say until it’s dead. Each invisible syllable sends static through my head. We communicate; distraction, lost messages. Contact dissapates; frustration, redundancy. Cut into flashes. Just dots and dashes.
Track Name: No Song
I’m watching and waiting for something to happen. See the signs and cosines, but no signs of action. That translation was lost, or did we ever have it? All the versions were logged; it was the boss’s habit. “I’ve already signed several of your confessions. Your remedial math and your grammar lessons.” Chase your thrills, climb the hills to find the whitest rabbit. “When we audit your performance we find something lacking.” No song was ever that long. You’ve got the lyrics all wrong. I can’t remember that song, however cleverly you sing along. The miles keep rolling over. Polygraphs pay the bills and the pills that you take tend to stick in your craw and you wake up expecting, directing the traffic out of your back bedroom, that red room where I sat and straightened the doormat. I bet you never even saw that. You’re only listening to “Like That!” And I just can’t understand that.
Track Name: Cut Up
You’ve got your right hand right on the blade, man. It’s at your throat again. And we’re still looking for your frequency. Toujours les memes. The same. And every night we count the same streetlights. You’re cut up. You’re cut up. You’ve got your left hand. Eyes on the second hand. How long can you stand (to) forget yourself and fall into step again? Toujours les memes. The same. And every day you’ll read the same headlines. Your’e cut up. You’re cut up. You cut yourself up just to cut yourself down. You’re cut up. You’re cut up.
Track Name: Situation: Hot!
HOT. Now the sun is setting on us, and we won’t be letting on that the disappointment always comes. The outcome never hits the mark. Tires on the roadway send this out to all the boys and girls with the lost phone numbers and the adolescent bank accounts. Now the days are laid out: Saturdays and Sundays in a row. Calendar contrition. Count the ashtrays dumped out on the kitchen floor. Strike while it’s hot! Two feet on the floor. Situation: hot! One hand on the door. Strategies to stretch the night out. Chemicals combine; the right amount. Leverage is gained, but what a cheap reward we’re left with after that! Hot!
Track Name: Even If You Don't Die
In drawer #3, and filed under “C,” was an archive of compromises. Cross-referenced with debts, footnotes and regrets: a history of none-the-wiser. There’s evidence here of accelerants near a half-empty book of matches. No suspects, I fear, but the motive is clear. Automatic request. We are here to serve. Even if you don’t die, we’ve got plans for you: a summons bearing the name that you can’t hide. The signal is jammed, the dialogue canned, but our inquest cannot be hindered. We have to record; we cannot afford to miss out on what’s remembered. Analysis shows that the witness knows the name of the perpetrator. The damage is done. There’s nowhere to run. We’re tapping the phone lines. We’re tapping the phone lines when you’re gone. We’re drawing our own lines. We’re tapping the phone lines when you’re gone (and there’s no way around it).
Track Name: Custom Critical
“Custom critical,” read the label on the box. You, looking miserable, heard the clicking of the locks. What’s “critical” when they cuff your hands behind your back? “It’s pitiful, but it’s just a fact of life,” is what he said. Stuck in a tight one. All the boxes packed inside. Sweat on your forehead wets the tape across your mouth. They drag you past the shipping clerk with a bill of goods in his hand. It’s clinical. Mr. Blacksleeves pulls you out and he says “Just shut your mouth and keep your face to the wall.” Looked up your address. Waited outside your house to see the look on your face. I’d trade it for nothing.
Track Name: The Job's a Game
In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun. This job is the same. We’re changing the name: “Assigning the Blame to Someone Better Qualified.”
Track Name: Tennessee for Victory
“Which one is gonna set us free?” “Which one will come to Tennessee?” “Which one is gonna let us be?” Make one decision. What’s it worth? You want it only. Now, now, now. You wound up lonely. Which one will come to Tennessee? Tell us about another victory? Do we really wanna be set free, or do we want them all to let us be for the night?
Track Name: Plans
In the outlying towns: power lines on the ground. Counted change that I found around. Climbed to the top of the mound. Lasted just long enough to get to the edge of the bluff. City bus down below. Just enough gas to go. We drove down through the streets, the rain coming in sheets. We made it into the city to find a black cloud in the sky. A newspaper blew by. “I couldn’t make out the headline, but still, the mail trucks are in wrecks, the banks cancelled their checks. Guess we can write off our debts!” Smoke pouring from cars, we ducked into a bar and locked the doors and the windows. And now: “I’ve got some time on my hands. You’ve got some time on your hands. If you don’t have any plans...”