Syrtis Major

by Cavillers

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about

Syrtis Major was recorded sporadically between 13th August and 6th December 2015. Primary tracking took place at 47 Nile Street, Sunderland. It will be the last record completed at this location after nearly a decade in residence. It was produced, recorded, mixed and mastered by the band.

Each download comes with a bonus pdf lyric booklet.

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released January 8, 2016

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Cavillers Sunderland, UK

Cavillers hail from Sunderland, UK. The band blends contemplative lyrics with precise, melodic punk rock.

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Track Name: Exiles
Have you heard enough? Bear these words as battle scars. Let the thoughts that comfort you find a vessel to speak through and consecrate the path you choose. Time sharpens its blade on rocks alone and ambition don’t mean much tethered to stone. You reinforce an artificial choice between contested cradles and cast out toys. This game is rigged; only the pleas of cowards, slaves and fatalists remain. I see an untarnished veneer. A model pioneer accomplishing nothing at all. Exiles stay their course.

You know I never could distinguish between justice and revenge. The shadows of success and failure intersect. The moments between sleep and wake evade us every single day like transients on liminal highways. The poisoned chalices that you’d rather forget forever rusted solid to your hands, bound to your assets. The end you want will come, a feat of strength observed by everyone. You can keep your comic interludes and the crowds you pander to.
Track Name: Backscatter
Erase the message. Delay the fall of an edifice built on ever shifting sand. You find strength in our limits; a permanent image that simple thought cannot annul. Your deeds stand firmer than a rock, well I must confess, my hope was built on something less. You raised us to erase all exposition of these crimes; to forfeit doubt for peace of mind. Now can we seek to make amends and cast new light on buried heads? Domination as birth right, faith and allegiance reified.

Are we all that we are, or all that we’re not? Words ruptured from their histories. Context infected with rigid mythologies. Just how long can it take us to appreciate that the values we are sold are not innate. The finest fiction falling, crushed by its own weight. A dying star; a fantasy displaced.

An aerial procession poised. Synthetic culture waits to fill the void. The stubborn narratives of boys’ adventure stories are wearing thin. We wait our chance to walk on stage and deliver lines in scripted power plays.
Track Name: Memnonia
The power of our words made flesh. The patterns of our lives we can’t accept as coincidence or fate. Old words bear the most weight. Fossil phrases take their toll. Unconscious minerals retain fragmented pictures of our wayward past; a story arc to fill the gap.

A frozen desert, drenched in red. Advancement captured through a distorted lens. Brace for the worst insatiable thirst. Left to defend nature from the mortal curse of man.

A distant voice that pierces centuries echoes the myth of progress and ruthless genes. The hall of mirrors in which we reside enslaved by glory seekers and fatal pride. Cast out your net son, and pray for rain to fully saturate this scorched terrain. We’re blind to the realities of our sin. A fractured faith our thoughts condemn. When form and function conspire towards a common end. There’s some redemption in every death. Advancement captured through a distorted lens.
Track Name: Submission Hold
Atrocities reconstructed through surrealist imagery. Re-enactments of recurring fevered dreams through vapid choreography. A history distilled; captured through saturated stills. Rose tinted eyes blind to the past they left behind. Repeat the mantra over in your mind and contemplate the killings you inspired. You bear the burden of their ghosts as you pretend that conscience can’t suppress the actions of free men.

Fifty years and no escape, destined to revel in bespoke action replays. Regrets interred. The last to show remorse, so purge away the memories of barely covered graves. A condemned man, a tormented soul that a three act structure can’t absolve. An unthinking pride that’s buried deep, cosmetic deeds belie what’s underneath. You’re rendered numb. How few among your number can withstand the torture dealt by your own hands? What cost is it to kill the collective amnesia you instilled?

Every laboured breath, and every whispered curse you witnessed serves as a reminder that these wounds can’t be reversed.