We used to live by a steel mill
half buried under vines
where we'd look at the support beams stretching up to the sky
and we wondered if back then they knew that all their infrastructure
would one day just be shade or a place to smoke under when it
rains
at the dying of the day I go back to that apartment,
if i know that she's away
and i sit on the counter in the kitchen
and look how its changed
well her bed remembers the shape of our slumber
and I can find our impressions on the walls and the floorboards
but this old house don't remember my name anymore
On the border of the city and the wilderness
Where hustler magazines hide like treasure
in every house
I stake my claim
and head back home again
Well tonight I went downtown and met the wrong kind of friend
She said sometimes a town can make a couple bad bets
you can see it on the faces of its residents
if you can recognize them
well these strip malls sprawl out like a body in the summer
and these dashboards in the parking lot still sweat under the weather
but this old town don't remember my name anymore
On the bar car
You can find abandoned memoirs
scribbled out on napkins
the first and second drafts
scattered and spent in the passenger cabins
while the patrons wax ugly on romance,
their dreams of the harbor
the shipwrecks under the surface
was it worth it
this old train don't remember my name anymore
Babehoven returns with another record of indie folk songs about love, connection, and the fragility of human relationships. Bandcamp New & Notable Feb 24, 2024
The Australian folk-pop singer tackles deconstruction, her Christian childhood, and sexuality on her infectious sophomore album. Bandcamp New & Notable Oct 14, 2023