COMING SOON: New Full Length Album
"Builds.with.Age" by W.A. Fite
Available Winter 2012 on Hand Drawn Records
Cover Art by Dustin Blocker
Copyright 2012 © Hand Drawn Records LLC
W.A. Fite
Courtesy James Villa Photography 2012
Showing posts with label wa fite. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wa fite. Show all posts
Friday, August 17, 2012
Friday, December 23, 2011
HAPPY HOLIDAYS: Bing Crosby Works Here?
Well, its 2 days till Christmas and the taste of Bing Crosby and pumpkin pie is nearly palatable. Sitting in a white-washed office building the air conditioning unit whirls resonate like the reverb off a cheap sound machine.
Am I at work? Why is no one else here?
Is the building even open today, or am I in trouble for being here? Perhaps the lights will go off and I’ll slip out to the recesses of the parking garage. But damn, the parking garage is cold, and if I forget my car keys I’ll be stuck on the 2nd Floor until after New Year’s Eve.
Did I buy enough presents? I must have forgotten someone.
Will anyone give me a gift? Wait, it’s not about the giver; it’s the whole receiver thing.
Wait, there’s someone else here! I hear them.
They’re talking about their grandparents and their travel plans. How is this possible? Are they speaking to me? There must be more people in the building, hidden from my cube. I can never see over this wall.
A low voice wafts through the air duct, "That is quite enough for the day." I wrestle on a jacket, pick up my bag and head to the 2nd Floor.
As I round the parking garage stairwell the voice hits once more, "Happy Holidays" it says. I agree.
Am I at work? Why is no one else here?
Is the building even open today, or am I in trouble for being here? Perhaps the lights will go off and I’ll slip out to the recesses of the parking garage. But damn, the parking garage is cold, and if I forget my car keys I’ll be stuck on the 2nd Floor until after New Year’s Eve.
Did I buy enough presents? I must have forgotten someone.
Will anyone give me a gift? Wait, it’s not about the giver; it’s the whole receiver thing.
Wait, there’s someone else here! I hear them.
They’re talking about their grandparents and their travel plans. How is this possible? Are they speaking to me? There must be more people in the building, hidden from my cube. I can never see over this wall.
A low voice wafts through the air duct, "That is quite enough for the day." I wrestle on a jacket, pick up my bag and head to the 2nd Floor.
As I round the parking garage stairwell the voice hits once more, "Happy Holidays" it says. I agree.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
In the Haze of Sleep
In the Haze of Sleep
by W.A. Fite
The sleep deprived nature of my days spin quickly to thoughts of restless nights, awakened by the slightest of happenings and sometimes through the lack of such. Flicks of false rain trickling in a loop of a sound-machine. The brown haze of burned up sod speaking in a voiceless sigh as if to beckon me back out into the yard…again.
Sure, duty and recklessness rarely extend themselves during the same times, yet as opposites, they also rarely collide.
Why do my bushes die when I water them so fervently? Why do some men live when they treat their bodies to rough violences and self-degradation?
These are the questions that wind into that flicker rained loop. And as the windy drops grow more false with wakened thought, so do my boundless days.
by W.A. Fite
The sleep deprived nature of my days spin quickly to thoughts of restless nights, awakened by the slightest of happenings and sometimes through the lack of such. Flicks of false rain trickling in a loop of a sound-machine. The brown haze of burned up sod speaking in a voiceless sigh as if to beckon me back out into the yard…again.
Sure, duty and recklessness rarely extend themselves during the same times, yet as opposites, they also rarely collide.
Why do my bushes die when I water them so fervently? Why do some men live when they treat their bodies to rough violences and self-degradation?
These are the questions that wind into that flicker rained loop. And as the windy drops grow more false with wakened thought, so do my boundless days.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
FREE DOWNLOAD: Carney's Lake
UPDATE - Monday April, 25: Free Download is done, but Carneys Lake still available to stream free.
There will be a new video for the track, with the shoot scheduled for this weekend. So...Enjoy.
Carney's Lake by handdrawnrecords
Friday, April 8, 2011
Amber the Spite
Pictures of buckets, the lackluster girl, is full of snap buttons, and laces with pearl.
Her mind resting easy in lines wrapped striped green.
A whisper of July that sticks to her seam.
A coin dropped in Amber, a kiss coated ripe; that's nothing to something, which never felt right.
How can we all love her? She asks out of spite.
Why can't we just be her? She asks with her thigh.
The doctors go home when their rounds rounded out, but nurses stay on, and they wish through the night.
Her heart is a baby, that waxes and wanes.
She won't be your lady, if you don't like to strain.
Her mind resting easy in lines wrapped striped green.
A whisper of July that sticks to her seam.
A coin dropped in Amber, a kiss coated ripe; that's nothing to something, which never felt right.
How can we all love her? She asks out of spite.
Why can't we just be her? She asks with her thigh.
The doctors go home when their rounds rounded out, but nurses stay on, and they wish through the night.
Her heart is a baby, that waxes and wanes.
She won't be your lady, if you don't like to strain.
Monday, March 28, 2011
ALBUM RELEASE: Poisoning The Medicine Tree
6:30am, March 28th -- My debut album "Poisoning the Medicine Tree" is out and spreading it's wings.
Personally, I prefer to wrap my hands and eyes around an actual disc or record to best soak in it's effort, but of course the album is out on digital too.
If you are a bit afraid of buying new things, then check the posts on here, as you can stream the tracks for free to help get your courage up...but yes, you will have to look for them.
(Clue: "Lyrics" are attached to each post w/ a viable 'stream')
Physical::
Good Records (Dallas, TX)
Doc's Records and Vintage (Fort Worth, TX)
Digital::
Bandcamp: http://wafite.bandcamp.com *Exclusive Bonus Track
iTunes: http://itunes.com/w.a.fite
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B004QTWJJQ/
CD Baby: http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/wafite
Personally, I prefer to wrap my hands and eyes around an actual disc or record to best soak in it's effort, but of course the album is out on digital too.
If you are a bit afraid of buying new things, then check the posts on here, as you can stream the tracks for free to help get your courage up...but yes, you will have to look for them.
(Clue: "Lyrics" are attached to each post w/ a viable 'stream')
Physical::
Good Records (Dallas, TX)
Doc's Records and Vintage (Fort Worth, TX)
Digital::
Bandcamp: http://wafite.bandcamp.com *Exclusive Bonus Track
iTunes: http://itunes.com/w.a.fite
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B004QTWJJQ/
CD Baby: http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/wafite
Friday, March 25, 2011
RE-POST: Rescue of the Tin Man (bonus)
Original post by Hand Drawn Records, Tuesday, March 22nd.
We asked W.A. Fite to deliver us one more bonus track to cap off our media tyrade before his album release next Monday, and he definitely did just that; hitting us with one of the coolest synth and breakbeat takes we’ve heard from the artist...(read more)
HEAR MP3 HERE:
Rescue of the Tin Man (bonus) by handdrawnrecords
http://handdrawnrecords.tumblr.com/
We asked W.A. Fite to deliver us one more bonus track to cap off our media tyrade before his album release next Monday, and he definitely did just that; hitting us with one of the coolest synth and breakbeat takes we’ve heard from the artist...(read more)
HEAR MP3 HERE:
Rescue of the Tin Man (bonus) by handdrawnrecords
http://handdrawnrecords.tumblr.com/
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Bonus Track for Digital Release - March 28th
Hand Drawn Records has set the release date for "Poisoning the Medicine Tree", MONDAY, MARCH 28th. In preparation, they asked me to make a track for the digital release as a bonus to a full length album purchase (only available on my bandcamp site). The bonus track is called "Chinese Christmas", and it is so good that it has made me want to write an entire Christmas album¡¡¡
BANDCAMP LINK: http://wafite.bandcamp.com
BANDCAMP LINK: http://wafite.bandcamp.com
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Production Stills III: Video "Western In A"
Last set of stills....maybe...
Courtesy James Villa Photography © 2011
Courtesy James Villa Photography © 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Video: Western In A
Dallas-Fort Worth provides the eclectic backdrop of art, architecture and culture for the first video installation for W.A. Fite; featuring the track "Western In A". The song is a trek into the composer's past, recalling the loss of an early love for an equally beleaguered run at making music for a living.
W.A. Fite
"Western In A"
Poisoning the Medicine Tree
Hand Drawn Records / El Villa Films
Copyright Fite Lite Productions 2011
http://www.youtube.com/wfite
W.A. Fite
"Western In A"
Poisoning the Medicine Tree
Hand Drawn Records / El Villa Films
Copyright Fite Lite Productions 2011
http://www.youtube.com/wfite
Friday, February 18, 2011
Lyrics: Feet in the Water
Feet in the river, now calm the waters.
Dirty black toes and eyes that wander.
Clap on the lap and whistle nonsense, but please don't you shake the water...
It's calm, the shade won't glide, won't move an inch.
The heat it wears, it wears me down.
Feet in the river, who's making breakfast?
We rose earlier than Mom should've let us.
Head full of hat, weary pant legs, snapping thumbs and whistle nonsense.
It's calm, the shade won't glide, won't move an inch.
The heat it wears, it wears me down.
My hands go brown, the mind clears up and out the head...I hear no sound.
Feet in the river, who's gonna join me?
I'd ask Sister, but she called me ugly.
Called big Brother said, "Come sit beside me." But he's too busy with Neighbor Holly.
It's calm, the shade won't glide, won't move an inch.
The heat it wears, it wears me down.
My hands go brown, the mind clears up and out the head...I hear no sound.
Dirty black toes and eyes that wander.
Clap on the lap and whistle nonsense, but please don't you shake the water...
It's calm, the shade won't glide, won't move an inch.
The heat it wears, it wears me down.
Feet in the river, who's making breakfast?
We rose earlier than Mom should've let us.
Head full of hat, weary pant legs, snapping thumbs and whistle nonsense.
It's calm, the shade won't glide, won't move an inch.
The heat it wears, it wears me down.
My hands go brown, the mind clears up and out the head...I hear no sound.
Feet in the river, who's gonna join me?
I'd ask Sister, but she called me ugly.
Called big Brother said, "Come sit beside me." But he's too busy with Neighbor Holly.
It's calm, the shade won't glide, won't move an inch.
The heat it wears, it wears me down.
My hands go brown, the mind clears up and out the head...I hear no sound.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Lyrics: That Ain't The Way (To The Heart)
That ain't the way to the heart.
A doubled down face of liar.
It's best to get then go. Clean the pants and on with the show.
That ain't the way to the heart.
A bow. A gun. A dart.
A doubled down face of a liar, enough to catch a fire.
That ain't the way to get at me.
That act is not complete.
Them ankles look good, like them feet, so get them on the street.
That ain't the way to the heart.
A doubled down face of a liar...a liar.
A doubled down face of liar.
It's best to get then go. Clean the pants and on with the show.
That ain't the way to the heart.
A bow. A gun. A dart.
A doubled down face of a liar, enough to catch a fire.
That ain't the way to get at me.
That act is not complete.
Them ankles look good, like them feet, so get them on the street.
That ain't the way to the heart.
A doubled down face of a liar...a liar.
Monday, February 14, 2011
The Picture Show: "Western in A" Video Stills / Take 2
"Western in A"
Production stills from upcoming music video.
Courtesy El Villa Films and James Villa Photography
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Paunch Gut. Speedy Nose.
A paunch gut and a speedy nose, the middle child of three, both now a man and my foe. Not in a fiendish sense, but in the place of a deterrent; one that would not allow me to fulfill my own time as I incessantly metered his watch during his slow decline.
The man was wildly incoherent for most of his mid-life, which was for him, only the age of 32. I had not the intention of predicting his short lifespan, but it was rather impossible to dismiss, being part of an ongoing conversation amongst the ones who knew him the worst.
I would not like to trifle his life; conversely he was one of my closest friends. I would only like to say that I knew him, and in knowing him I instinctively did not trace his steps, seeing that they were ones only a fool or lonely heart would dare to take.
Perhaps that drops him into one of the two tattered categories, which would probably not offend a man with so distended a stomach. As a man like that lends himself to consumption, but little else.
The man was wildly incoherent for most of his mid-life, which was for him, only the age of 32. I had not the intention of predicting his short lifespan, but it was rather impossible to dismiss, being part of an ongoing conversation amongst the ones who knew him the worst.
I would not like to trifle his life; conversely he was one of my closest friends. I would only like to say that I knew him, and in knowing him I instinctively did not trace his steps, seeing that they were ones only a fool or lonely heart would dare to take.
Perhaps that drops him into one of the two tattered categories, which would probably not offend a man with so distended a stomach. As a man like that lends himself to consumption, but little else.
Friday, January 28, 2011
ALBUM ART: Poisoning the Medicine Tree
"Poisoning the Medicine Tree" by W.A. Fite
Artwork by Dustin Blocker
Monday, January 10, 2011
Lyrics: Jack
Waters mix with the paint and brush. An orange fleck stroke makes your Granpa's hand rush.
People who wait, are the ones who mind. They mind their Mothers. They mind their hairlines.
Will you be just like me?
Resigned to draw your walls in colored streaks?
Should we keep the house unlocked when we leave?
Your Mother preens and primps the house. She wipes the tables, wipes your mouth.
The clothes have grown big, with closets small. The pets go wild waiting in the cramped hall.
Will you be just like me?
Restless at the age where most find peace?
A cold day in December, one marked in ink.
Son you'll see...I'll give you words to see.
That only brave men dine in the Captain's seat.
Will you be just like me?
Slow to write your numbers, slow to speak?
Should your Mother and I wait up till you sleep?
Son you'll see...I'll give you words to see.
That we're all tied bound to the Family Tree.
People who wait, are the ones who mind. They mind their Mothers. They mind their hairlines.
Will you be just like me?
Resigned to draw your walls in colored streaks?
Should we keep the house unlocked when we leave?
Your Mother preens and primps the house. She wipes the tables, wipes your mouth.
The clothes have grown big, with closets small. The pets go wild waiting in the cramped hall.
Will you be just like me?
Restless at the age where most find peace?
A cold day in December, one marked in ink.
Son you'll see...I'll give you words to see.
That only brave men dine in the Captain's seat.
Will you be just like me?
Slow to write your numbers, slow to speak?
Should your Mother and I wait up till you sleep?
Son you'll see...I'll give you words to see.
That we're all tied bound to the Family Tree.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Production Stills: W.A. Fite Video "Western In A"
Video Stills "Western In A" by W.A. Fite
Courtesy James Villa Photography
El Villa Films / Fite Lite Productions 2010
Courtesy James Villa Photography
El Villa Films / Fite Lite Productions 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Lyrics: Western In A
The ground came rushing up, with the night in swing.
A wine red cup, a moon for a king.
What for? What for?
I grabbed what I could as I went for that door.
But there she stood, her hands in the sink.
What for? What for?
I winced as she spoke, saying, "Love, where will you go?"
"Thought the concrete is warm, those boots aren't soled."
What for? What for?
"Sure, my pockets are holed. Yes, my money it won't fold."
"But I got my youth. I don't need your home."
What for? What for?
The ground came rushing up with the morning in swing.
An open guitar case. A curb for a king.
What for? What for?
So, I slipped as I crept up to the door, but there you were alive with bloom.
And you said, "Babe you're going just a little too soon...that this house is a home, not a tomb."
Now that perfume that's swirling off your bed, brings my thoughts to the phrase that once you said...
Said, "A life...a life that has no love, is the one that you won't want etched in stone..."
A wine red cup, a moon for a king.
What for? What for?
I grabbed what I could as I went for that door.
But there she stood, her hands in the sink.
What for? What for?
I winced as she spoke, saying, "Love, where will you go?"
"Thought the concrete is warm, those boots aren't soled."
What for? What for?
"Sure, my pockets are holed. Yes, my money it won't fold."
"But I got my youth. I don't need your home."
What for? What for?
The ground came rushing up with the morning in swing.
An open guitar case. A curb for a king.
What for? What for?
So, I slipped as I crept up to the door, but there you were alive with bloom.
And you said, "Babe you're going just a little too soon...that this house is a home, not a tomb."
Now that perfume that's swirling off your bed, brings my thoughts to the phrase that once you said...
Said, "A life...a life that has no love, is the one that you won't want etched in stone..."
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Lyrics: Crazy Horse
My life is emptying, as she lies on the corner of my bed.
My time is emptying, as it clicks the tick-tock it makes sense.
My love is silent she makes no waves, smiles as I rest.
We laid upon the rocks to see how hard that sleeping should have been.
I've gone to Crazy Horse to ask him for advice. He makes no sense.
Where has my woman gone?
She took the flashlight, when she took the tent.
Now I am huddled down, with no light, nothing but the wind.
Back out to Crazy Horse, asking please and thank you. Let me in.
Another turn away and I'd turn back, but this shit it don't make sense.
Wrapped in a safety bag, lying on the rocks the clock it ticks.
My life is emptying as I smell the wind turn cold as death.
My love is silent as she lies on the corner of my bed.
If I could sleep to dream; would she appear as she once did?
Curled down on my lap whispering sweet words that she'd never say...
My time is emptying, as it clicks the tick-tock it makes sense.
My love is silent she makes no waves, smiles as I rest.
We laid upon the rocks to see how hard that sleeping should have been.
I've gone to Crazy Horse to ask him for advice. He makes no sense.
Where has my woman gone?
She took the flashlight, when she took the tent.
Now I am huddled down, with no light, nothing but the wind.
Back out to Crazy Horse, asking please and thank you. Let me in.
Another turn away and I'd turn back, but this shit it don't make sense.
Wrapped in a safety bag, lying on the rocks the clock it ticks.
My life is emptying as I smell the wind turn cold as death.
My love is silent as she lies on the corner of my bed.
If I could sleep to dream; would she appear as she once did?
Curled down on my lap whispering sweet words that she'd never say...
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Lyrics: Tennessee Tango Whiskey
The Tennesse boy's shoes don't tie right.
His shirt don't tuck with them jeans so tight.
Pockets of dust, and an empty mouth, but that shit don't matter it's a Saturday night, Alright.
Out on Alsup Road...sip on Lightning Joe.
Here waits Sam with her rolled red hair.
On Highway 61, thumb in the air.
Her lips are drawl. Her legs are lean. In fifteen hours she'll be in New Orleans, Nawlins.
Up on Royal Street. Sam at Mr. B's.
The boy is skinny, but his voice is deep.
His beard won't grow out on his cheeks.
Half a cigarette hangs by his teeth.
Vulgar tones a mane of grease.
Here comes the love of the redhead child.
His eyes are locked on her frame of wire.
Shimmying down Canal and Camp, to the rhythm of the steps of the one he desires.
He's light and wild.
She's fair stone mild. Sam at Mr. B's.
The love can't find Sam at Mr. B's.
He turns west 14 blocks, Bourbon Street.
Spots her frame and stops to breathe.
Takes her hand, she sighs relief.
There goes Sam and her rolled redhair.
Struttin' hot coals. Nose in the air.
Her style is cloudy, but skirt is clean. And for this city that's enough to be crowned queen.
His shirt don't tuck with them jeans so tight.
Pockets of dust, and an empty mouth, but that shit don't matter it's a Saturday night, Alright.
Out on Alsup Road...sip on Lightning Joe.
Here waits Sam with her rolled red hair.
On Highway 61, thumb in the air.
Her lips are drawl. Her legs are lean. In fifteen hours she'll be in New Orleans, Nawlins.
Up on Royal Street. Sam at Mr. B's.
The boy is skinny, but his voice is deep.
His beard won't grow out on his cheeks.
Half a cigarette hangs by his teeth.
Vulgar tones a mane of grease.
Here comes the love of the redhead child.
His eyes are locked on her frame of wire.
Shimmying down Canal and Camp, to the rhythm of the steps of the one he desires.
He's light and wild.
She's fair stone mild. Sam at Mr. B's.
The love can't find Sam at Mr. B's.
He turns west 14 blocks, Bourbon Street.
Spots her frame and stops to breathe.
Takes her hand, she sighs relief.
There goes Sam and her rolled redhair.
Struttin' hot coals. Nose in the air.
Her style is cloudy, but skirt is clean. And for this city that's enough to be crowned queen.
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