"The Comedy Album" is the 13th and most epic Kleenex Girl Wonder record.
26 songs, covering a variety of genres, styles, and production methods, written and recorded over the course of two years, and now available on two slabs of strikingly coloured vinyl (some 'Comedy Blue,' some 'Bazooka Joke Pink').
Featuring guest production from Max Tundra, Saskrotch, and The Hood Internet, plus the usual suspects of Graham Smith, Matt LeMay and Thayer McClanahan.
Includes unlimited streaming of The Comedy Album
via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
now to receive all the new
Kleenex Girl Wonder creates,
25 back-catalog releases,
delivered instantly to you via the Bandcamp app for iOS and Android.
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At home. Alone. A heel.
And somehow, you're supposed to feel
my pain. At least you don't have to be in my brain.
and see the thoughts I can’t explain:
A joke, a laugh, a smile.
They're all just tics, just give it a while –
Refrain. At least you don't have to hear me complain.
At least you don't have to
do anything. Say anything.
Mean anything. I mean everything's
too heavy, it's way heavy. It's
been heavenly – no Heavenly – before.
And I need it more than ever, see?
the door was opening –
'til wine did what it will
when you were high on Walter Hill
and wouldn't come down.
But somehow you got through to me
and me to you, or probably –
it's tough to tell now
how long each of us held out... oh well,
the kitten's grown into a man,
because I didn't hold your hand
and whisper “No need to be exact
when you're invoking a natural fact.”
And what I lacked in actual tact
I paid tenfold in tactical laughs. I'd trade
every last Chick tract on sex and greed
in my cyan front bum bag to read
Slant 6 interviews with you all night.
It's just never right whenever we just write.
It's kinda like riding a bike: 10 years on,
you'll forget everything and wish you could die.
So you took your first spill
down the face of Walter Hill
and he just chuckled.
But I, for one, foresaw trouble.
And when you wept like an open sore,
who knew what you were hoping for,
but it wasn't nothing.
And now you're suffering,
clucking your tongue and clutching
your tremendous knees, like tree trunks –
Jesus! Take a breather, PLEASE,
and cool out. I bet you think it's really cool how
in the blink of a blind eye you can switch
from bohemian to smooth, serene savage.
Convenient! You can tell the truth and not mean it.
But if I gave a hundred dollar bill
to Bruce McDonald or Walter Hill,
what would I get?
A masterpiece or merely upset?