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Wilting in Mauve

by Gláss

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Heavy Fields 04:19
(They want in your mind) Looking back in a heavy field He lay on the grass and felt The mouth of the world wrap around that The star's circle… He told her how the rain moved She said “That’s nice to know. I see the spirits that live in the crevasses of your joints, that you don’t know, do you?” Grain split and ripped, up the floor Crystals collect, dipping his fingers in the ashes She leafs herself o’er Waiting for the darkness of the morning, but silhouettes Hoping for a name he says “I hate how you agree” And looked back in a tangled east That you don’t know do you? Watching I see a boy float downstream Watching I hear his voice bellow back Watching I see a tightrope walker fall and stop, before watching Watching Watching But you don’t know, do you? Watching I hold the door open for you. (Watchin')
Twelve minus sheet Amor Fati A Mauve Fatigue
Garters 02:05
Shame on him who thinks evil of it. ...and I laughed when he said "Everything’s been signed for" Tell me, when you find your new virility Do you think that you are talking well When the marrow is taken Skewered ruin: you'll try to say “Sometimes I look at my hands” And you will send them and then you will try to say to me “let me know”. Woefulness has a sound Within the nighttime now I saw you ripped apart for ... Shame on him who thinks evil of it Thick blue ribbons. Knots in my chest. (Shame on him who thinks evil of it) Notice my shaking knee and caress the tip of a light pink tulip What they haves cheap peach, we havethereal thing I saw you drinking wine and I asked you for the size of your shoe size Your steps type delicate prints and leave you to your own final impression But you walked here with no shoes You moved and left no hints No pitters left on the pebbles I'm turning into the Barefoot Contessa I’d like to dig up my tracks And send them… Shame on him who thinks that he will love it.
Boughs 05:52
(The red beaded bush knows and is knocking) A string of clotted red. The rain moved in the criss-cross wind I watch the boughs bend I watch the boughs bend, yeah No conscience kisses my envy Oh how the ground’s changed Violet bells snapped inside your hair And i see your tortuous gaze. “I put the rust into the cage” An angel spidering away The bells song knows no end The bells song knows no end And i see your tortuous gaze So bright, so gay So restless in your way Time can’t help itself. Now... I feel a shaded center A garden grows there The night time bled inside your hair It is a curtain of green Sometimes I think to myself That “I breathe this air with you” ‘neath this red beaded bush And we feel the spores tingle through I can feel the spores tingle through So bright, so gay So restless in your way Time can’t help itself. Now
Old Man In a Strange Land Becomes A Young Man In a Strange Man
You walked into the heart of it and tarried for a while. "I don't want to dance, you could’ve been death You walked into the heart of it You walked into the heart I love you, baby" Can you contemplate now? Standing in the heart of it Clairvoyant yet asking of benevolence And fearing the tipple. (Feeding the Sibyl) Pulls me closer to the sun Sooner to wilt and float back You showed me the natural world. I feel the pillars wrench and I feel my spine is a’moanin’ and You know I glide right through Yeah yeah I glide right through But stop and look on the fringe Sitting on the sills like a tear of your eyelid. I hear the bells humming back “There are things that still ring true” Yeah me there screaming back “I love you, baby” I leave the still trim and look back with scorn They were ornate and warm, now tarnish the middle! Look up to the sky Dripping purple brings me back to The peak looking back says “I’d like to sing my song” Yeah yeah, tarnishing the middle utters “I see a part of me in that dust!” We’re so full of turns Keeping it taciturn, so full of turns Keeping my eyes open wide the light connoisseur He seems to mention to me: “Weave the wheat of a well listened to child” A tender thing and so full of turns A maternal reward doth hum Arresting my jests assessing my mess with tremoring echo “You must keep stoic, and learn your way Settle your skin and fill your boots” But not you! It is true! I love you, baby!
Mauve 02:51
By God! Aptness to stay inside! The will to drift, stonefly, unto stale Hunger to further cover in dust No more to twist around idle. Wrap yourself up in misfitting hats Elusive choking scarves for to talk Aloof, in your misgiving gloves Uncouth, in your ceremonial garbs. Shift your frosted lids: a slim parting Shake your bastard head upon starting Hurdy-gurdy double-dutch Half light brings the peddling vagrant. Show us your unholy molars Expose to us your untouchable scars Reveal your unquenchable thirst Show to us your ceremonial garbs. Halt! You coil into turf To spur accounts of the town-land For my fables, long drawn Me, my red suit, my ceremonial garbs.
Ara sure these thing run in families these things. Clocking the signs Going in alone Kissin' the signs Going in alone Catchin' the signs Going in alone Ara sure these thing run in families these things. (father do you fly freely, with tails of a dove, when it all winds out?) Open Concept: unholy skywater looks black in night A second, it may look black as night It then becomes traced pitch, Ruby read: Can you transfer me please? some fellows in there The first sigh of a new gripe: Presumption loving the guilt to benight. I’m loving this open construct. Night sweats; The roads are busy these mornings Nightly putrid rain coming becomes rust water. Good morning. She said kill the putrid rain; that first stuck sigh in this new stint I don’t want you to think that I’m a foreign actor I don't you to think that I'm a foreign ach tor Excuse men, and my hobbies They are in Open Concept: Auth. figure, kissing the signs, drinks in rust water Second thing in the morning, before, had just cleaned hands of daughter On scene, putrid rain dripping from school yard rails Thought: “Look! open concept dear! No cover from this putrid rain!” And hints at Ruby under pitch "Heathen!" He then says Heathen says “now I too, with the dark sweats” Heathen says “now i too, *thumbs up* to open concept god bless” Night sweats; The roads were busy this morning Nightly putrid rain coming becomes rust water by morning Night sweats the roads were busy this. She said kill the putrid rain; it falls down into the skin, of seventeen young, open concept, therein I can’t believe you think that I’m a foreign ack, teer khor-damn Please do not mistake me for a foreign ack, terror Oh my hobbies Are important to me You can't take that Open Concept; Open concept very stylish, very sleek, that new 20th century look Second thing in these proud new words: open these skies for putrid rain What is it again? What we will tell them? Kind of sweltering authority says: “sky is reason for putrid rain, no pain, not cloud!” Putrid rain exists in the eye of the with-holder! "That man should be put in, open concept therein, but he too loves, closed concept, he should be put in, the man, rather child, therein". Night sweats the roads were busy this morn Night sweats the rose was busy this mourning is nightly Night putrid rain come in becomes rust water, in mourning Night sweats the roads are busy this more “I don’t want to be I’m a foreign ach torr, or a faux reign, ach tir I don’t want to be seen as a foreign ach tur, or a foe re-enactor” Ara sure these things run in families these things Pardon me? And the families look on at this Faux reign act of pain .223 act of pain My right is rain My soul Or a faux re-enactor Night sweats the roads are busy this more Nights sweats the roads are in business more Pardon me Pardon me, please
I’d like to stage a coup. She’s reading all the new facts, so sweetly now Ringleaders tunic touches, discreetly now Points, with hands of antiquity, so sweetly declares: “My sky will remain! Putrid rain in last of the suburb Mass Putrid rain in Icarus' eye Putrid rain, and em... tired last sigh” 10.54 times i die "I know who your kin are I’ve seen them at the closing ceremony I’ve seen your kin smiling through the dust of the wounds, seventeen I know well your kin" The true helps a farce, believe The true helps a farce, believe We’ll go to a place of royalty Yes no rust water falls through the hands of our poor daughter there No sacred harp singers sing This is veiny armed make-up This is plant leave: handshake? No: wrong bracelets, iron cross-lapel No thumbs up, no smiles No blanket statements, no smiles We’ll ring out these sheets from the putrid rain of last week In tonic wails, shower down deserts in lead-like, sleek new arrivals They miss the tired last sigh and they hope for the cover of night She says "Still, the speeding signals as they ring out through the halls" My child: up to the neck in the rain My child: drowning to death in this putrid rain My child: .223 Rem My child: just .3 years, learning from putrid rain leaf-like tired last sigh lead-like tired last sigh burgeoning tired last sigh strife tired last sigh abscond
My Vocation 04:48
My Vocation I cut my teeth with these silly rat boys Searched in curb cracks for folded fag ends My Vocation Bullied a boy once and had to kill the shame Searched under bushes for some hidden wine dregs All before finding my vocation. Christ knows I’ll drink these lees in I’ll half-choose to secede Christ knows Fasten old face and Put trust into fellow man Christ no. I can’t believe the things you say Two actions for to start the new truants day: Stretch the old legs and take a drop. The pleasure's too dense in these dregs To floss the lees out of my speech Christ knows. I used to take the cloister walk when it was vague but teaming with ferns The underlife respun and I took a snapshot of it My Vocation Puts me through inverse speech and hour before you awake See I don’t need drink or drugs or coffee or any of these for I have my vocation. Christ knows Paint the flag blue for the cardinals A colorblind boy learns how to shoot Christ knows Sneak the dim beacon on the whisper whip Still these lights hit like a cold cold night Christ no. My city she’s my baby and... She said to me “stroke me once again” On some other part of my body Your loving hands remain too long treading lightly in one place Christ knows. I take me there I’ve put in the time This is my own dissipation I find the book of poison And I'm handing up my indulgences for an invocation.
You leaf yourself over me: “I was thinking about your little garden death Your lace nape trace, so full of turns. We’re so full of turns” She was a first time executioner in that air She came like an apparition to me Her self-referencing outfits “There is no shade to you” This’s while i was in my husking I held my wet finger to the wind And there it was! The spikes and spores And the stars, and the curves of a woman There was wisteria These flags sound a little bit like people These bridges are a little bit foggier The leaves leave the trees There was wisteria We began wilting asunder As one wonder begin wilting But continue to heart around I wanted to take you out There was wisteria (I rid myself of the refreshing air I thought i heard a sparrow sing But this wind it does whistle The struggle and what’s left There was wisteria I hang suspended in the lake Clutched at straws beneath deaths grasp Locked innate before you know Misunderstood, y'know I do this for my woman I Do This For My Woman."


This album was a long time coming. We wouldn't have been able to do it without Amy Quist, Jay Matheson, Reuben D. Knights, Shyyon Lari, Sean Bowers, Ary Davani, Stan Gibson, Allie & Momma, Molly & Amelia McGee.

"The band makes it clear that it can do plenty of other styles on Wilting in Mauve...There are elements of bleak shoegaze, chopping rhythmic guitar, unhinged progressive rock, bits of Nick Cave gravitas and trimmings of free jazz scattered with saxophone parts on the album. All of that comes through in just the first two songs, “Heavy Fields” and “A Tangled East.” It maintains a remarkable ability to keep the listener guessing while still holding onto a concise sound and identity to the entire project. “Garters” is a heavy shotgun burst of sleek punk which then dives into the dimly lit shoegazing corner of “Boughs.” You can’t call Wilting in Mauve, or Gláss for that matter, one thing because it is much more than one record store section. It’s a beautiful cyclone of an album, spinning in unison, though you can still make out the details it picked up along its way." - Alex Peeples, Charleston City Paper.

"Reminiscent of several 90s strains of rock – indie, post-rock, and post-hardcore – there's nonetheless some kind of menacing addition to the mix that makes it all its own. This is wonderfully personal, strange, and idiosyncratic in a way that kind of reminds me of Chat Pile, in spirit more so than musically. Just great." - Machine Music

"It’s often said that bad times make for great art, and with its third album, Gláss supports that notion. As days of isolation have stretched to months, and a parade of increasingly bleak current events has flooded the newsfeed, Gláss’ more atmospheric approach seems to mirror the lingering anxiety of being alive in 2020. The band’s more intense tracks offer a welcome catharsis from the steady, thrumming dread they cast in relief." - Post & Courier

"On their new album, “Wilting in Mauve,” the band makes dark music that’s not quite goth, heavy music that’s not quite metal, and complex music that’s not quite prog-rock.
On the album’s 12 songs, singer/guitarist Aaron Burke, drummer Sam Goldsmith and bassist Alex Angell dip into eerie, atmospheric drones (“Heavy Fields,” “Boughs”), grinding, guitar-driven noise-rock (“Garters”), haunting, melancholy ballads (“There Was Wisteria”) and thrillingly complex, jazz-tinged epics (“A Tangled East” and the nearly eight-minute “Triage: Étude in Mauve”)...It’s an explosion of creative, adventurous music, with Burke’s metallic shards of guitar exploding over Angell’s subterranean bass lines and the propulsive drumming of Sam Goldsmith" - Greenville Journal

“Arguably Gláss’s most ambitious project to date, Wilting in Mauve is a total bombardment of sound, effortlessly blending so many musical influences that the resulting package defies classification and makes the listener ask how, where, and even when it all came from. It is the type of album that requires more than just one listen to even begin to digest and appreciate which is always a trademark of music worth listening to, in my opinion.” - IonGreenville

"Car avant, Gláss nous aura pondu un nombre incalculables de plans fantastiques, de riffs de grande classe et fortement marquants, de parties rythmiques enlevées formant un ensemble de titres qui ont tout d’hymnes incontournables comme Open Concept Cont, Boughs, Stretch Marks ou Heavy Fields. Gláss cogne et panse les plaies dans un même mouvement, hypnotise et brise les rêves avec véhémence. Le chant du guitariste Aaron Burke vous enveloppe, vous caresse puis sort les crocs, se fait incantatoire, crépitant d’une flamme possédée. Les mélodies sont entêtantes. L’intensité ne se dément jamais même quand les ambiances se font plus caressantes ou hantées. Et quand il faut appuyer sur l’accélérateur et faire défiler le paysage, Gláss sait montrer au créneau, être explosif avec un surplus de saxo sur le trépidant Gardners, le tendu Ceremonial Garbs ou le plus saccadé My Vocation avec des chœurs attachants. Cette musique devrait être sur toutes les lèvres. Un must." - Perte & Francas

"Quelques morceaux courts, certes mais la plupart dépassent les cinq minutes et c’est très loin d’être du remplissage : chez Gláss, on allonge le temps parce que c’est nécessaire, parce qu’on a des choses à dire et qu’on maîtrise suffisamment le dosage pour rendre les pensées de l’auditeur systématiquement parallèles à celles des morceaux. La moindre occurrence fait naître au creux des entrailles une nuée de bombyx mauves qui ensuite s’égaillent joyeusement dans l’encéphale. D’autant plus que chez Gláss, le mauve vire au noir, les imprécations sont mystérieuses et incantatoires, l’album frôle le sabbat.
Un sabbat étrange, urbain qui reprend les codes du swamp-rock mais les délocalise dans la mégalopole, lui adjoignant une vibration shoegaze qui floute les contours. Une entité remarquable qui, partant du connu, fraie en permanence dans l’inconnu en maniant des choses contradictoires : c’est vif mais patraque, carré mais fuyant, sans surprise mais expérimental, répétitif mais mouvant et ça donne souvent l’impression de se dérober et d’être bâti sur des fondations friables alors que c’est d’une solidité à toute épreuve.
Plus d’une heure d’hypnotisme, c’est impressionnant." - Des cendres á la cave


released September 11, 2020

All tracks written and performed by Gláss.
Basslines written by Alex Angell & Ary Davani.
Sean Bowers plays saxophone on tracks 2 & 3.
Reuben D. Knights plays piano on track 12.
"A Tangled East" contains an interpolation of the vocal parts of "A Love Supreme, Pt. I - Acknowledgement" written by John Coltrane.

Tracks 1-11 recorded by Jay Matheson at Jam Room.
Vocals recorded by Reuben D. Knights, Jay Matheson & Aaron Burke.
Track 12 recorded by Reuben D. Knights.
Album Art - Picture taken by Aaron J. Burke at Thoor Ballylee


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Aaron Burke -

Sam Goldsmith - Drums

Alex Angell - Bass/Vocals


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