Body Child Light Crime
Cover art by Chris Frisina
Over the course of just 12 minutes and 10 seconds, Owen strides between ideations on body dysmorphia, the Sisyphus-like plight of present-day public servants, death’s first name, and an all-business Cool Hand Luke here to stuff Donald Trump full of eggs and save us from ourselves.
Even in the EP’s more gently-produced tracks (maybe especially so), there’s a fervor that many of us today feel in one way or another. Sometimes we channel it into nuanced dialogue and support for folks who bear the heaviest burden of our absurd socio-political situation. Other times, the levee breaks and we’re tumbling in a flood of rage and confusion. We might still appear calm, but we’re beyond patience with idiots.
In case the absurdity of a time traveling Cool Hand Luke forcing the American political class through the 50-egg-morality- challenge wasn't a clear enough signal that this song is satire, we’d like to state it more plainly:
"The Child" is a work of political satire.
It is not a threat to any of the racist flag-lapel-pin-wearing assholes that masquerade as public servants in Washington D.C., including Donald Trump.
Press
"The record brilliantly highlights an aural dichotomy between punk and folk, giving way to an Appalachian dystopia.” - Indy Week
In Their Own Words
Each of the songs sprung up like pieces of toast. They each happened suddenly, and were finished in one sitting.
I wrote The Body first, at the end of a shift at Twin House music store. It’s written from the perspective of a chaplain at Wake Forest University who has just watched highlights from the BME Pain Olympics. The chaplain felt a very real call to explore their own body in similarly drastic ways, but their position makes that impossible. They’re stuck in a body that does not line up with who they feel themselves to be. It’s impossible to live well in a dark place like that. Body dysmorphia and self hatred is sad and bad. Trans, non-binary, and other queer peoples are often locked in conundrums similar to the chaplain’s. The song is an empathetic short story to my non-binary and trans friends; thank you for being yourselves. The song is also a claim to my own body. I wish I never felt shame about my shape. I wish I was less scared. I’m a sober person in recovery (I attack my own body with my own body when I’m sick.) The song reminds me that I can be brave(r). Your body was meant for you. Anyone who tells you differently can get fucked because that’s the devil.
The draft title for The Child was FTNT, which stood for Fuck The Next Trump. I thought/think that criticism of Donald Trump is too sophisticated and nuanced. I’d be embarrassed if any of my moral heros (Cool Hand Luke being one) showed up and saw that I had not curbstomped Donald Trump personally. Fuck him because that’s the devil.
I imagine it might be difficult or disheartening to spend a career in public service only to have a narcissist despot end up being your boss. The Crime is a grateful prayer to our government employees. I’m asking them to give no quarter to tyrants.
I usually write about smaller, concrete details. The Light, however, is a broad song. I wrote it looking at Odette, my and Nelle’s child, when they could first sit up by themselves. Big, ancient feelings crash into me all the time when I’m with Odette. It’s such a privilege. I doubt I could have written a song as sweeping and zoomed out as The Light without having been in early-dad-dom.
All of the songs feel like friends who showed up unannounced. They knocked, and shoulder checked me on the way in, saying, “it's about time, Christ, is there any coffee?”
- Owen
Lyrics
Performance Credits
Vocals - Owen FitzGerald
Acoustic guitar - Owen FitzGerald
Electric guitar - Owen FitzGerald
Bass - Owen FitzGerald
Rhythm Guitar/ Solo guitar(1) - Patrick O’Neil
Drums - Daniel Hall
Production Credits
Written and produced by Owen FitzGerald
Recorded at Nightsound Studios in Carrboro, NC
Engineered by Chris Wimberly and Glenn Schwartz
Mixed by Chris Wimberly and Owen FitzGerald
Mastered by Saman Khoujinian
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