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  • Record/Vinyl + Digital Album

    140 gram vinyl LPs with full color labels in poly-lined innersleeves & extra heavyweight, full color photo jackets, plus double-sided, 2-color, Risograph-printed lyric sheets. 11 tracks, 32 minutes.

    500 copies pressed on classic black vinyl by Smashed Plastic

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1.
For years and years I guess I was lonely,
 But refused to call it so,
 Now out on the front stoop in September with Kim,
 Drinking a beer in the sun,
 When she asks “Nick are you lonely?” 
I don’t even flinch and say “yeah”, 
I could say a thousand other things but why, 
To answer a plain question with a plain reply,
 Feels new to me and good. 

To go to the beach and it’s nearly deserted, 
What for all the smoke, 
It’s happened again and it keeps happening, 
I laugh the air thick with moths, 
The summer was a weird one,
 I swing open the door “welcome fall”.

 And with another toss of a pebble,
 Combing the beach for shells,
 And looking at the water at sunset, 
Next to things that don’t matter and things to forget,
 I let them whirl, a little cyclone,
 Living in a world of love.
2.
Coyote 03:12
On the lowlands, by the river, 
 And the train tracks, the casino and the dump,
 A healthy-looking coyote scampers by the car, 
In the middle of the afternoon, the day moon.

 And the endless pale blue sky is flecked with wisps of white,
 A boulevard lined with big box stores, 
 Zooming by it all, 
 Happy out here, killing time.

 With a new tune to tease out,
 I don’t mind where I am anymore,
 In renovated ruins of marble,
 Show me the door.

 What I’m used to, what I’m not, 
In the house creaks, the furnace, the clock,
 The fan droning in the bathroom, 
I’m singing with it,
 A bit drunk in the afternoon, the “zen view”.

 With another tune to tease out, 
I don’t mind where I am anymore,
 Noticing how my heart alights,
 When I’m through the door.
3.
Spring Rain 02:55
When looking for the perks, 
I’m glad Christmas is done, 
It may be cold but there’s sun,
 And birds busy in the garden,
 Eating a satsuma orange from Japan,
 Now I’m just another man,
 Waiting to cross the street. 

Out running errands on my lunch break,
 Am I doing anything?
 But mailing a letter,  
Getting groceries for dinner,
 And waiting for spring rain to come.

 Having to look at all the things I ignore, 
All the ways I could do more, 
When all is there for the taking, 
Through with playing possum,
 Through with routine,
 Familiar and well-worn,
 Shirking the unseen.

 Feeling every second, 
Spacing out,
 Putting fifty in the tank,
 Looking around,
 The close and distant sounds,
 And waiting for spring rain to come.
4.
Ducks 02:44
Is it no different, this New Years Eve day,
 Tru-a-lee, Tru-la-la-la,
 The clouds blew away overnight,
 Now look what you got,
 A fine day in the sun,
 A fine day,
 For everyone.

 Dogs play, ducks swim,
 With all the life in them, 
I watch, admire their zeal,
 What they know seems real.

 Thoughts I hold on to,
 Thoughts disappear,
 It’s a turn of the page,
 A sip of the beer,
 Adding to the pile, 
Of things I’ll never understand,
 And my weird smile,
 As the turnstile gets jammed.

 “This spring is the one”
 Over and over,
 And over and over, 
And over and over. 

They called for snow it fell as rain,
 All through the night into morning,
 I watch it come down over coffee, 
Out the back garden window,
 A simple pleasure here,
 That I throw over my shoulder,
 With all the things I did alone for so long and thought nothing of.
5.
Cup Full 02:07
The little light left in the sky goes soft and slow,
 As I fill up the house with depressing music “hi ho”.

 What do I know? 
What do I know? 
What do I know? 

The running list of things I try to get to today,
 Now leaning the kitchen wall,
 The garden dark, the windows dark,
 Have I had enough? 

What do I know?
 What do I know?
 What do I know? 
What do I know? 

Have I been making do,
 Trying to keep this cup full,
 Been trying to keep this cup full but for who?
6.
Return 03:42
In a dream of warm days,
 The eucalyptus wafting, 
Seeing someone, seeing someone famois.

 Waking up in the front room, 
Your Victorian sofa creaks under me,
 The sun’s already hot.

 Drink coffee, run in the park, 
Covered in sweat, climb the front steps,
 And what to do with the rest of the day? 
And what you want and what you’ve got,
 And what you have to give,
 Return, return, return, return. 

Taking stock, driving around,
 Standing by the car,
 What does it mean to be this free,
 And squandering it big time. 

Squint and it’s a charmed life,
 But it’s high time to empty it out, 
Refilling a basket from the lemon tree,
 And what you want and what you’ve got,
 And what you have to give, 
Return, return, return, return,
 Return, return, return, return.

7.
Rest 03:22
I love when you call me on the phone, 
I hear it ring over the lawnmower, 
I love how you forget that I’m at work, 
I’m spacing out behind the back greenhouse.

 It’s overgrown, I often see a rat,
 The crows have had their babies, 
They dive-bomb the stray cat,
 That’s made it through the winter, 
Made it through the spring, 
Made a home where I talk to you when I know I should be working.

 Just as summer flowers start to fry,
 The foul stench of Bounce dryer sheets,
 In the lane behind the house ,
A box of every Harry Potter book.

 Have I been beat, and is this all to see,
 Past the old men playing bocce, the roses crispy,
 A thing I never thought would change changed,
 I sing Alicia Keys,
 Driving home on a dark highway,
 Second guess doing what I please. 

Who knows what to do? I don’t know what to do,
 So I’ll just rest here, zoobie-zoo,
 Who know what to? I don’t know what to do,
 So I’ll learn to rest here. Who knows what to do? I don’t know what to do,
 So I’ll just rest here, zoobie-zoo, 
Who know what to? I don’t know what to do,
 But I’ll learn to rest here, zoobie-zoo.
8.
Who 02:54
Past the temple see the monks,
 Tending the gardens in their orange robes, 
 Flowing, 
In waning evening light as I am walking home, 
With the weight of grocery bags,
 Up goes the moon,
 With a small bowl of ripple chips and a scotch and soda, 
I try to calm myself. 
The gentle flicker of an overpriced candle,
 I look in the mirror,
 Ooh.
 I think of what I could make for supper,
 Another thing if not me, then who?
 Who,
 Who. 

Checking the weather report,
 And laying out my clothes for work,
 The house lit like a pumpkin,
 The news is on but I am not, 
Hearing a dang thing, Lost in thought,
 Halloween or beavers dam building,
 Ooh,
 Will this go on for long?
 Swapping out what’s in this song,
 Not minding right or wrong or who, 
Who,
 Who.
9.
How 01:57
The winter wasn’t even that long, 
It got gnar near the end but big whoop,
 Little black flies are out,
 I sniff them up on my run,
 The snowdrops are out,
 How do they do it? How? they do it? How? 

Relearning how to enjoy themselves, 
Couples walking dogs holding their coats,
 Letting them play around,
 Let me talk shit, 
I can see downtown,
 How do they do it? How? 
Do they do it? How?

 The dog’s ball go run, run, run,
 Getting lost in a bush - fun,
 This is all I know,
 Do I need cheering up? No. 

The hungover guy in a backhoe,
 Digging a hole on a Saturday, 
An eagle in a tree rips a seagull apart,
 There’s so much to see,
 How do I do it? How?
 Do I do it? How?

 Feathers of white float down like snow,
 And little to do when you get home, 
If I move the TV into the bedroom, 
No crumbs in the sheets bro.
10.
Scorpio rising in the morning,
 Constellations waiting for the sun,
 The earth tilts over on its axis again, Reminding us we cannot run.

 Scorpio rising on my birthday,
 This year I turn twenty-one, 
Leaves crunching under the sweet gums,
 Farther north from where I was born.

 Scorpio waiting for the sun,
 Magic is nothing but a fracture,
 Catch the irony on my tongue as it fades,
 With the last of the sweet summer plums,
 The last of the sweet summer plums. 

Doubled vision in the mirror, 
Edges fuzzy in the sun,
 Old homes in my dream last night,
 Reminding me I cannot run.

 Blue fog in my bathroom,
 Hairline fracture in the wall, Listen to the voices of the people I know,
 Telling me to wait another fall.
 Scorpio waiting for the sun, 
Magic is nothing but a fracture,
 Catch the irony on my tongue as it fades,
 With the last of the sweet summer plums,
 The last of the sweet summer plums. 

Astrology can tell us nothing, 
But that what we already know, Go outside, look up, move slow.
11.
There was love in this house for a time,
 You brought it in, you brought it in,
 There was love in this house for a time,
 You brought it in, you brought it in, 
There was love in this house for a time,
 You brought it in, you brought it in,
 There was love in this house for a time,
Y ou brought it in,
 Oooh hoo.

 I’m eating last year’s apples in July,
 The worm squirming, 
The worm squirming, “Come the storms of winter and the birds of spring again” (Sandy Denny) 
There’s the mind raining thoughts like confetti,
 And there’s the heart, 
 And there’s the heart,
 I’m eating last year’s apples in July.

 There was love in this house for a time, 
Welcome it in,
 There was love in this house for a time,
 Welcome it in, 
 Oooh hoo.


about

Ursula Le Guin’s short story, “Solitude,” describes a society rooted in the absolute autonomy of the individual. In the world she constructs, people do almost everything alone, and they learn to savor this condition through close, deep observation of all the minutiae surrounding them in the woods, the dirt, the sky. A favored pastime is for a person to spend the night alone on a hill top, watching the patterns of stars wheeling overhead without letting their attention wander; another is to pursue long solo journeys into new landscapes whose unfamiliarity intensifies the pleasure of solitary contemplation.

Nicholas Krgovich’s new album, Ducks, similarly explores the rich experience of solitude, and the many quiet revelations that are available in even the most mundane moments. Each of the album’s eleven songs presents a closely-observed vignette of simply being alive and sentient in such moments: Krgovich describes himself mailing a letter, waking up on a hot day, combing the beach for shells, mowing the lawn, and noticing his own thoughts and feelings about these activities along the way. The album’s vibe of radical presence is emphasized both lyrically and in its production. Each song has a kind of meditative quality, a pulse that guides the ear down a straight path, moving while somehow also staying rooted in place. Airy guitar noodling drifts above simple percussion, often consisting of just a couple of sounds. An egg shaker comes in and out with great precision. The surprising chord progressions that characterize much of Krgovich’s previous music are here as well, and this combination—unexpected harmonic changes on top of the other elements’ regularity—feels like a wordless evocation of the lyrics’ theme: that there are revelations to be found even within the regular and daily. We can always be surprised by ourselves and/in the world.

I hear Ducks as an extremely middle-aged album, which I mean as a compliment. Track 1, “Front Stoop 2,” opens with a proclamation of loneliness—“For years and years I guess I was lonely, but refused to call it so”—tempered with the pleasing realization that acknowledging this fact might be a sign of maturity: “I could say a thousand other things but why/to answer a plain question with a plain reply/feels new to me and good.” The exhausting melodrama of youth is gone now, as is the younger person’s sometimes charming, sometimes obnoxious lack of self awareness. Krgovich has attained a certain age, and is now comfortable with himself and with the things he knows and feels. He is even comfortable with discomfort, as we hear on the final song, “Eating Last Year’s Apples in July,” where he repetitively intones “there was love in this house for a time/you brought it in.” This simple acknowledgment of the inevitable passage of time—and the losses it often wreaks—is certainly melancholy, and yet it doesn’t swamp him as it might have done in earlier, angstier times. Krgovich’s vocal delivery throughout the album emphasizes this middle-aged quality. His uninflected voice never rages or wails, never gets louder or softer, except when it falls down too deep for his vocal range to follow, and trails off in a raspy whisper, like no big deal.

It’s hard not to hear Ducks through the frame of loneliness suggested by its first and last songs, and yet elsewhere the narrator is enmeshed in a thrumming web of sociality within which he seems content. This too feels like a manifestation of middle-aged wisdom. Sometimes a thoughtful life calls for quiet reflections on loneliness, but other times it demands recognition of the pleasures of togetherness. This latter mode is probably most evident on the titular song “Ducks,” which teems with life. Opening via a quiet old-school Casio beat, the song soon blossoms, as thick-strummed acoustic guitar and sustained synth chords fill the space. Here we are shown a glimpse of “A fine day in the sun/for everyone,” replete with dogs playing and ducks swimming. Of the titular ducks, he sings “What they know seems real.” This evocation of the “realness” of everything, the inclusion of ducks and dogs in the word “everyone,” feels wholesome and radical.

The way such non-human animals run and play through so many of these songs is also part of what gives Ducks its strongly seasonal, earthy aspect. The cold freshness of “Spring Rain” gives way to the fine summer day of “Ducks” and the hot sun and sweat of “Return.” A few songs later it’s Halloween, and the house is “lit like a pumpkin.” Meanwhile in “Scorpio Rising” it’s the narrator’s birthday, and he eats “the last of the sweet summer plums,” as single keyboard notes softly echo his voice like the first freak snowflakes of autumn. As with Le Guin’s short story, one comes away from Ducks with a strong impression of the depth and beauty of even the simplest aspects of terrestrial life—its seasons, its tastes, its blades of grass—as well as the pleasures of a closely-observed solitude and the cosmic loneliness that is so often such solitude’s companion.

-Marianna Ritchey

credits

released March 10, 2023

Made by Nicholas Krgovich in 2019
Mastered by Matthew Barnhart
Back cover photo by Riley Johnson
Layout by Jan Lankisch
Thank you Owen

All songs written by Nicholas Krgovich except "Scorpio Rising" written by Grace Chen

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NICHOLAS KRGOVICH Vancouver, British Columbia

Nicholas Krgovich is a songwriter and multi-instrumentalist from Vancouver, Canada. Described by the legendary Robert Wyatt as “quite beautiful, very touching… human” he has been releasing records and playing shows since 2002.

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