Deluge EP

by glassbooks

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“What will grab most listeners is just how good this band sounds. The vocals are nice and earnest. The music ranges from totally rocking out to more subdued moments. The energy here feels raw and live.” - 8.5/10, Patrick Griffin, Sound and Motion

“Over twenty minutes of excitement…” – Supajam

“What’s really wonderful about Glassbooks is the range of possibilities. There are moments where you can throw yourself around your room listening to their music but there are also times when you can sit back, close your eyes and smile to yourself.” – 3.8/5, The Equal Ground

“The combination of gravelly vocals set against the background of lively, uplifting, edgy melodies makes Glassbooks stand out considerably.” – Rock Britain

“Danceable floor fillers and radio friendly unit shifters: none. Passion and risk taking: in abundance.” – Here Comes The Flood

Recorded and produced by Graeme Young at Chamber Studios between November 2013 and March 2014.
Written and performed by Glassbooks.
Lyrics by David Escudero King.

Cover art by Jamie Miller.


released March 24, 2014



all rights reserved


glassbooks Glasgow, UK

Glassbooks, a four piece rock band from Glasgow, Scotland, is: David Escudero King; Adam Carrington; Bo Hamilton; and Rosie Murray.

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Track Name: Acrobatics
Mother please
I’m so sick of infanticide
Why can’t we go to the seaside?
Like the other kids do, the ones in the cartoons.

Well son,
They’re coloured differently to us,
Their blood is the colour of rust,
Keep your nerves of steel we’re not here to feel.

My heart’s been pumping out pinballs
Like life’s a tilted flatland game
High scores grab hold of the flow of vilifying iron in my veins.
Yes son, flatten out those capillaries
And let the needles do the talking

Clockwork whores
Standardized our bleeding timetables

My tightened wristwatch cries it doesn’t,
Like the sound of running blood,
Time takes its toll on no one,
And we’re more than a big bag of red stuff.

Son, stop for a sec, there’s only 24 hours in the day
Which day?
That’s every day, you fucking idiot

Well isn’t that boring, don’t chew your cheek
Kid it’s the rich who can dream, the poor have to do it in their sleep

I'm just an acrobat looking for a beam
Or perhaps I'm a pole dancer daring to dream
Of the circus

Clockwork whores
Standardized our bleeding timetables
Track Name: Clockwork Ink
You returned from where the water begins,
And your face was viscously dripping from your chin,
Or were you just waiving your painting?

The artist is sick of expression,
Quick swim in the innocuous rhythm of weather,
And find your very own nook,
In the tessellated air,
Created for the statist’s,
Time constraints,
To lightly tear apart your painting.

Ambitions of colouring black holes,
Caved under the weight,
Of wet clothing dripping its dye,
Monochromatic Face.

You said,
Don't you know,
The watchmaker washes his clothes more than his clocks,

His minute universes pass their time corroding.

He says the money makers will sink,
Pedestrians into the ice rink,
When the beating drums of bottled water come crashing down on us.

Sarcasm was never my strong point,
But you're looking pretty good,
With a weight strapped to each joint,
Aren't you? Are you a testament to the modern truth?

Don’t you know,
I wash my clothes more than my clocks,
And I am not marred by that Pegasus.

Where are the kids?
Where are the watercolours?
Track Name: Motherboard Fancies
Once I fried my battery,
Once I fried my battery good,
Just because I knew I could,
Made me feel like I had power.

I don’t think searchlights are there to sell,
I think they’re just trying to be clouds as well,
Until the power is cut,
And then the sparks that once were chemistry are badly bonded parts.

We were searching the sky at night,
For signs that feathered beings once did take flight,
But all we found was your violence.
A setting sign of your violence.

I’m not the electrician,
But lead pencil tips draw the lines in the sky,
Like sad songbirds with no clue,
What dying species they belong to.

We aren’t bullets,
With feathered limbs,
Stripped of their wings and swindled into a spin.
Because the sun isn’t close enough,
We need to feel the heat under our feet.

Once I fried my battery,
Thinking I knew there was more,
But I’m not a bird,
No I’m not a bird,
The current shocked me like the good fucking word.

The wind is bullets,
Wind farmers pilot pigeons into a traipse,
And my tilted Cygnus,
Temerariously runs into the straight.
Track Name: Deluge
Proud mother kissed her firstborn out the door,
Not nearly knowing she wouldn’t see him anymore,
In that state with that strong strapping stance,
So the statist succumbs to that surreal dance.

What she didn’t see masked by his muscles and his mustered mien,
Was that battered beaten brain just sat there waiting for the rain,
But it was always going to rain,
If not they just cause the son some strain.

Cos every day’s a different dance,
By masked magicians in their manses,
They boast bulletproof umbrellas,
How they know they will not tell us,
But they bank by the riverbed.

Oh saviours,
Commanders shoot into the sky so,
Follow suit strutting to their steps with each salute.
Go cajole Draco and waltz with the winners of the war,
Then be perplexed by the consequent pour.

Ammunition whistles to the whims of the western wind,
They will ride the wind back down,
But maybe not where you found them,
Just maybe right back into your mothers face,
Your mother’s face.