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MP3 Consortium - Sloganeers and Moment Junkies

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MP3 Consortium - Slogane
42.1 MB PHP File - Platform: MP3

Eleven original songs of literary Americana rock from the Chicago based quartet.

11 MP3 Songs
ROCK: Americana, ROCK: Emo

Show all album songs: Sloganeers and Moment Junkies Songs


Details:
Consortium is a rock and roll band based in Chicago, IL. Their third album, "Sloganeers & Moment Junkies," was released on 11/24/07. Their second record entitled "Potomac and Shenandoah," a concept album detailing the convergence and conflict of secularism and religion personified in the lives of two sisters, was released in November, 2006. Their first full-length record, "Circle the Day," was released in 2004. They contributed two original songs to a compilation cd in the August '06 issue of the art 'zine "Bailliwik" (https://www.tradebit.com). The songs are "Gravity of Orbits (Secret Clone)" and "Fifty Ways to Sunday." They concern illicit robot love...and what happens when the robot leaves you.

Some documented opinions of Consortium's music:

"Sloganeers & Moment Junkies thickly lays on the raggle taggle Americana, coupled with frontman and songwriter Tom Wintersâ literary-caliber lyrics. If every line in Bob Dylanâs âA Hard Rainâs A-Gonna Fallâ is the start of a whole new song, then the 11 tracks on this record each begin a novelâ¦Joined by Simon Hunt (keyboards, melodica), Pat Winters (bass), Kiri Klawitter (vocals), and Seth Weidmann (drums), Winters puts forth a stalwart effort, especially on the rambunctiously crescendoing title track." - Janine Schaults (Illinois Entertainer review of âSloganeers and Moment Junkiesâ - 11/21/07)

"Descriptive lyrics by singer Tom Winters draw listeners into Consortiumâs ambitious concept album, Potomac And Shenandoah, while the band plays tuneful Americana music. Wintersâ stories range from the Civil War atrocities of âHarperâs Ferryâ to the simple life of a modern couple in âBy The Light â Part II.â Kip Rainey excels throughout on guitar, lap steel, and mandolin." â Terrence Flamm (Illinois Entertainer review of "Potomac and Shenadoah" - 4/29/07)

5 Stars - mid-atlantic folklore at its best "Maps and Legends are beautifully interwoven in this wonderfully loose collection of narratives from frontman Tom Winters and his band of merry soulmates. From Texas to Maryland, secrets revealed and lost en route, the ride is wild and worth the trip. Hop on board, you won't regret it." - oscar nongrata (cdbaby review of "Potomac and Shenandoah)

4 Stars - The most beautiful nightmare you could ever wish for! "Potomac and Shenandoah" is a wonderfully comforting conceptual piece which blends beauty and sadness by exploring the horrors of conflict with glorious moments of humanity. There is something here for everyone including masterful mandolin, sonic bursts of energy and big league harmonies." - Bill Geimer (cdbaby review of "Potomac and Shenadoah")

4 Stars - A beautifully rendered collection of literary folk pop "A beautifully rendered collection of literary folk pop, connecting heart, soul and brain. The singer displays the urgency of Vedder and the playfulness of Pollard, leading the music to places dark and deep, high and mighty. You'll want to play this one over and over." - oscar nongrata (cdbaby review of "Circle The Day")

Lyrics For Sloganeers & Moment Junkies

Sloganeers & Moment Junkies

Damn the sloganeers and moment junkies. With tin ears, waiting for something soft and insincere, warm and comforting, thatâs exactly as it appears. Damn the mutineers. Vous avez lâesprit. You never let your fears keep you from deposing kings; their slight of hand and bombardiers, and treasonous reasoning, their fake smiles and staged tears. Iâd have told you that: âI understand, but I think Iâll stick around for now - The Everlasting Now.â

All The Originals

Like the parrots of Telegraph Hill, he bides his time to say whatâs on his mind. Like a beggar with a tin cup to fill, Iâll pretend Iâm blind and thank you for your kindness. All the originals are tired and beaten down. Weâre just standing here waiting to throw our weight around. Like a veteran, he knows the drill, counts the ridges on every dime. Surrendered and resigned to being grist for the mill. He marks down time and sees danger behind every eye. All the originals are tired and beaten down. Iâm just standing here waiting to throw my weight around. It doesnât seem like a mountain from the peak when youâre looking down. Iâll make the climb with you and weâll throw our weight around.

Wrecking Ball Hymn

Not tonight. Not tonight. The trees explode into fire and light. This is me. This is me. Itâs the only one I know how to be. Here are my final thoughts: Iâm prepared to write off the time weâve lost. There are no good-byes in you. Just time read by a broken watch and said with a delicate mouth ready to speak, but afraid to sing. Even a wrecking ball hymn through the mouths of babes, or a honey-voice choir to drown out everything - every fear in your troubled head - would draw you out to show yourself and sing. We were two orphan boys drawn near by a Scottish voice that we both heard. Smeared as aloof and coy, fear chased away the boy I thought I knew. Even a wrecking ball hymn through the mouths of babes, or a honey-voice choir to drown out everything - every fear in your troubled head - would draw you out to show yourself and sing. But you wonât sing. You never sing.

Golden Boy

I was gold; buried in the fold seeking lost treasures of indefatigable truth. I never saw the proof of The Everlasting Now, but it still feels near somehow - right beside me, when I turn my head to see the orphan-to-be bows on bended, golden knee and she says: âa smile from the Truest Truth, well it ainât free.â
âEvenâ¦â
âEspecially.â
âFor me?â
Show me your face and declare that the race is over so I can go home and sleep on a gilded bed of understanding âneath a night sky jewelling my name. The Truest Truth, the final proof, gently lullabies me as I lay and she sings: âa smile from the Truest Truth, well, it ainât free.â
âEvenâ¦â
âEspeciallyâ¦â
âFor me?â
âYeah, a song from the Truest Truth, itâs never free. Not for the Golden Boy and me.â

The Sun/Son In Me

Salt mines, rare finds, no sons in my blood. Never mind straight lines, break Suns, love the flood and find the brittle cone safe, high in the pines. And find the brittle cone safe, high in the pines. Are you the one whoâll see the Sun, see the Son, see the Sun, see the Son in me? Are you the one whoâll see the Sun, see the Son, see the Sun, see the Son in me? Intertwined lifelines - your son, my blood. Itâs past time, the deadline, for whatâs begun to be undone, and then find the brittle cone safe, high in the pines. And find the brittle cone safe, high in the pines. Are you the one whoâll see the Sun, see the Son, see the Sun, see the Son in me? Are you the one whoâll see the Sun, see the Son, see the Sun, see the Son in me?

Running In Place (Waiting For The Scenery To Change)

Iâve taken my time to find the right road. Iâve my broken my back (picked the heaviest loads). Iâve shouted at the rain. Iâve spit into the wind. Iâve kept close track of every loss and every win. Dayshiftâs an unforgiving place for dreamers and misfits running in place, waiting the scenery to change. There was a hill. Its peak rose to the sea. When thereâs no going back, wonât you lay me there, please? Because when the tideâs high, the bay swallows the way there and the way back; a place to put my head where the devil wouldnât lay. Daytimeâs an unforgiving place for dreamers and misfits running in place, waiting for the scenery to change.

The Mural, The Bunker, My Story

All the masons working overtime, always bricking paper mache pictures of me. Theyâre always grinning back at a stranger abstractly. Letâs start the bidding. I take careful notes of the structure that surrounds me. It looks sound to me. But the pictures are cropped all wrong, they look like I donât belong in here. All the painters with their brushes, fine, always sticking in the mortars cracks unevenly. And theyâre risking the mural, the bunker, my story. It starts listing to one side and finally buries me, but that seems sound to me. Which side will the bricks fall upon? The one that doesnât belong in here? I gave you the first room in our divorce.

My Son, The Museum Curator

Dear Someone, or is it Something? I canât carry you downstairs to rearrange your things before you go. Itâs not the arrangements that last anyway. Youâre going nowhere, but thereâs nowhere for you to go without a face or a name, or a father to a son to a mother to a daughter of a thought. Youâre just a thought. A father, a son, a mother to a daughter of a thought. Just a thought. But Iâll give you one thing, one thing: a name. Iâll call you Four. Because I canât give you more than a number Iâll call you Four. My son, the museum curator: Four. Are you the one whoâll see the Sun, whoâll see the Son in me?

Walking Cast

Me as a stereotype. You as a neophyte, arch-type. Me in my worn-out shoes. You and your baby blues.

You with your easy charm. Me with my flower necklace on. Me in my worn-out shoes. You with your black-dog blues.

Iâll see you tonight, if my medicine goes down right.

Now itâs me saying nothing right. You with all your might, contrite. Me in my walking shoes. Tears in your baby blues.

Now me in my Mountain Time. You have your easy rhymes to hide. Me in my walking cast, limping away from my past.

Iâll see you tonight, if my medicine goes down right.

Alpha Moonbase! On The Air! Live!

Alpha Moonbase! On the air! Live! Alpha Moonbase! Who will survive? Whoâll be the first to be kicked outside here at Alpha Moonbase? Joâs a housewife from Moline. Sheâs never been heard, sheâs never been seen. But now sheâs plotting to be the Queen of Alpha Moonbase. Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Iâm here to stay! Billâs an actor from L.A.. but heâs still waiting tables most days. He got someone to cover for him while heâs away trying to rule at Alpha Moonbase. Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Iâm here to stay!

Ghost Writer

Ghost writer, measured tones. Tired fingers. Brittle bones. Worn caretaker decoding fireflies. Fearful tinker vetting alibis on the sly. Ghost writer, shallow tomes. Shadowed figure, he rides alone. Brittle fingers and tired bones, the ghost writer rides alone. The ghost writer rides alone.

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