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MP3 Consortium - Sloganeers and Moment Junkies
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 Winters’ literary-caliber lyrics. If every line in Bob Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” is the start of a whole new song, then the 11 tracks on this record each begin a novel…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 “Sloganeers and Moment Junkies” - 11/21/07)
"Descriptive lyrics by singer Tom Winters draw listeners into Consortium’s ambitious concept album, Potomac And Shenandoah, while the band plays tuneful Americana music. Winters’ stories range from the Civil War atrocities of “Harper’s Ferry” to the simple life of a modern couple in “By The Light – Part II.” Kip Rainey excels throughout on guitar, lap steel, and mandolin." – 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, that’s exactly as it appears. Damn the mutineers. Vous avez l’esprit. 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. I’d have told you that: “I understand, but I think I’ll stick around for now - The Everlasting Now.”
All The Originals
Like the parrots of Telegraph Hill, he bides his time to say what’s on his mind. Like a beggar with a tin cup to fill, I’ll pretend I’m blind and thank you for your kindness. All the originals are tired and beaten down. We’re 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. I’m just standing here waiting to throw my weight around. It doesn’t seem like a mountain from the peak when you’re looking down. I’ll make the climb with you and we’ll throw our weight around.
Wrecking Ball Hymn
Not tonight. Not tonight. The trees explode into fire and light. This is me. This is me. It’s the only one I know how to be. Here are my final thoughts: I’m prepared to write off the time we’ve 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 won’t 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: “a smile from the Truest Truth, well it ain’t free.”
“Even…”
“Especially.”
“For me?”
Show me your face and declare that the race is over so I can go home and sleep on a gilded bed of understanding ’neath a night sky jewelling my name. The Truest Truth, the final proof, gently lullabies me as I lay and she sings: “a smile from the Truest Truth, well, it ain’t free.”
“Even…”
“Especially…”
“For me?”
“Yeah, a song from the Truest Truth, it’s never free. Not for the Golden Boy and me.”
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 who’ll see the Sun, see the Son, see the Sun, see the Son in me? Are you the one who’ll see the Sun, see the Son, see the Sun, see the Son in me? Intertwined lifelines - your son, my blood. It’s past time, the deadline, for what’s 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 who’ll see the Sun, see the Son, see the Sun, see the Son in me? Are you the one who’ll see the Sun, see the Son, see the Sun, see the Son in me?
Running In Place (Waiting For The Scenery To Change)
I’ve taken my time to find the right road. I’ve my broken my back (picked the heaviest loads). I’ve shouted at the rain. I’ve spit into the wind. I’ve kept close track of every loss and every win. Dayshift’s 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 there’s no going back, won’t you lay me there, please? Because when the tide’s high, the bay swallows the way there and the way back; a place to put my head where the devil wouldn’t lay. Daytime’s 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. They’re always grinning back at a stranger abstractly. Let’s 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 don’t belong in here. All the painters with their brushes, fine, always sticking in the mortars cracks unevenly. And they’re 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 doesn’t belong in here? I gave you the first room in our divorce.
My Son, The Museum Curator
Dear Someone, or is it Something? I can’t carry you downstairs to rearrange your things before you go. It’s not the arrangements that last anyway. You’re going nowhere, but there’s 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. You’re just a thought. A father, a son, a mother to a daughter of a thought. Just a thought. But I’ll give you one thing, one thing: a name. I’ll call you Four. Because I can’t give you more than a number I’ll call you Four. My son, the museum curator: Four. Are you the one who’ll see the Sun, who’ll 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.
I’ll see you tonight, if my medicine goes down right.
Now it’s 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.
I’ll 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? Who’ll be the first to be kicked outside here at Alpha Moonbase? Jo’s a housewife from Moline. She’s never been heard, she’s never been seen. But now she’s plotting to be the Queen of Alpha Moonbase. Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! I’m here to stay! Bill’s an actor from L.A.. but he’s still waiting tables most days. He got someone to cover for him while he’s away trying to rule at Alpha Moonbase. Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! I’m 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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