Brother Sister

by Hunting Bears

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05:27
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about

Recorded in four days over six months in a church crypt in Heckmondwike, West Yorkshire.

credits

released 23 April 2014

Produced and Engineered by Ed Waring & Rich Huxley

Mastered by Tom Woodhead (Hippocratic Mastering)

All words and music by Hunting Bears

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Track Name: Julia
Julia, draw the knife from your back,
Julia, bruised from human contact,
You feel the cost as they fail,
Until you're lost like a ship without a sail.

The kindness of your heart turns you from the shifting of the tide,
And starting at the sun slowly burns a warmth in your eyes,
You only give, and they will only offer you weak lies,
But some of us were born to live, some of us were born in a disguise.

Julia, Julia, Julia, Julia.

You come in from the storm, drying off their bitterness you sigh,
"It took me until now, to realise the darkness of the sky",
And I insist, that over time you will leave this all behind,
Some of us were born to live, some of us were born in a disguise.

Julia, Julia, Julia, Julia,
As beautiful as you are,
You don't make your own scars.

Julia, draw the knife from your back,
Julia, bruised from human contact,
You feel the cost as they fail,
Until you're lost like a ship without a sail.
Track Name: Boardwalks of the Zhan Qiao
A mist breaks over the wave and rolls into Qingdao,
Covering the skyscrapers, temples and crowds,
It is February, you are 5000 miles eastbound,
But you were made here, this is your hometown.

From the outskirts of the city, where the houses turn scattered and frail,
To the bedroom apartment, where you now lay,
From Jiaozhou Bay where the sand draws a line between the sea and the earth,
To the school steps, where your mother and father had worked.

Eighteen years ago, your parents left Qingdao,
Eighteen years old, you return to your hometown,
You return to your hometown.

The morning rain hammers like a heartbeat against your window,
The floorboards echo from the room below,
The love that was shared here remains in the boardwalks of the Zhan Qiao,
In the cinemas and gardens, in the friends they found.

Eighteen years ago, your parents left Qingdao,
Eighteen years old, you return to your hometown,
You return to your hometown.

Your mother holds her hands to her stomach,
And takes one last look back (you remain here)
And though you return here alone,
Is there any wonder why it feels like home?

Eighteen years ago, your parents left Qingdao,
Eighteen years old, you return to your hometown,
You return to your hometown.
Track Name: Her Velvet Dress
Tonight you'll feel alone,
Peeling paper from your wall,
Hoping this won't feel like home,
In the morning fix your tie,
Under blinding bathroom lights,
Tell yourself you're doing fine,
Stand up straight,
As you think of her velvet dress,
The way you held her to your chest,
Her wrist watch pressed against your neck,
As you think of that summer night,
Under blinding bathroom lights,
You fight the tears from your eyes.

Tonight you'll fall asleep,
Frozen hands and frozen feet,
You will miss her body heat,
There beside yourself with hurt,
You lie helpless and inert,
Dream that every bridge she burned,
Turned to ash,
As you think of her velvet dress,
The way you held her to your chest,
Her wrist watch pressed against your neck,
As you think of all those times,
You climbed the ladders in her tights,
Pushed your lips against her thighs.

She left you, in this house,
Without a word, in this house,
She left you, in this house,
For the arms of another, in this house.

Tonight you'll escape home,
Take the roads you used to roam,
To narrowed streets of cobbled stone,
Where every alleyway is laced,
With all the secrets she had made,
Your feet lead you to that place,
From that summer night,
As you think of her velvet dress,
The way you held her to your chest,
Her wrist watch pressed against your neck,
As the memory bursts to life,
Under blinding white streetlights,
You fight the tears from your eyes.
Track Name: Primrose Hill
At the house on Primrose Hill,
My sister is crying,
How it breaks my heart,
How he broke hers too (long to overcome),
There's no victory march,
In dead man's shoes.

At the house on Primrose Hill,
My sister is crying,
How she blames herself,
How he blames her too (eases his regret),
There's no victory march,
For a poor excuse.

I long to see the whites of your bloodshot eyes,
I see myself in your shaking frame tonight,
We are cut from the same wound you and I,
Carried this bruise into the rest of our lives.

At our house some years ago,
Our mother is crying,
Our father broke her heart,
And he broke ours too (burdens how we love),
There's no victory march,
When you're standing still,
There's no victory march,
On Primrose Hill.