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Stories (prod. Bruce Wain)

from Portraits by Chris Orrick

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Jamie Brown
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lyrics

I like going shopping on a Sunday morning
Just me in the store at the crack of dawn
While everybody else is yawning up at church
And these poor motherfuckers gotta work
Some of them smile and some of them nod
Some of there barely awake on the job
And I can't blame 'em, would never shame 'em
Given the wages that these motherfuckers pay 'em
They're busy stocking from the night before
Some try to not vomit from the night before
Stayed up a little bit late, maybe a little mistake
But at the time, shit it was great
Why you ever go to sleep, when you're hanging with your people
And fuck that job anyways
All day on your feet, seven days of the week
And you're barely getting paid

Not every story has a point
Not every question is a choice
Sometimes you let the music play
And let it tell you what to say
Not every story has a meaning
Not every moment has a reason
Sometimes you let the music play
And let it tell you what to say

Sometimes you let the music play

I love the smell of diesel on a cold morning
Trucks around the back busy unloading
The vegetables are fresh, no need to inspect
But the deli isn't open yet
Tomatoes looking red, bananas looking ripe
Like what should I cook tonight?
It's fall in Michigan, just grab some veggies and some meat
Big old pot, put all that shit in it
And let it cook all day
Employee in my aisle and she looks my way
And says, "How you doing? Are you finding everything?"
I notice on her finger is a brand new wedding ring
I said, "Yep, how you doing today?"
She said, "I'm pretty great, last night I got engaged"
I gave her my congratulations
And went on my way


Not every story has a point
Not every question is a choice
Sometimes you let the music play
And let it tell you what to say
Not every story has a meaning
Not every moment has a reason
Sometimes you let the music play
And let it tell you what to say

Sometimes you let the music play

credits

from Portraits, released May 4, 2018

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Chris Orrick Detroit, Michigan

Chris Orrick is the patron saint of a poisoned world. The blue-collar MC writes spiteful chants for the permanently scarred, death letters for the forgotten, surly hymns for charcoal lungs. Think Bukowski on an eloquent bender, swapping wine for whiskey, a notepad for a glowing LED screen, the race track for the recording booth. These are anthems for the irate, over-educated and under-valued. ... more

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