Open Casket
Rain on the awning, back door propped
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Open Casket
The back door of a funeral home is propped open with a brick and the viewing room is running on one lamp. A rented suit lies in an open casket with the narrator's name on the card, and the narrator stands six rows back with his hat down, watching the county man come to close the lid. The verses stay low and even: lilies going waxy in the heat, a guest book full of borrowed hands, brass handles counted twice, a stone cut blank and waiting on a chisel. The hook holds one thought and keeps it — "Nobody checks who's in the box."
Cold, gravel-edged male rap at 121 BPM, the slowest this catalogue has run, with the 808 dragging half-time underneath. Distorted sub-bass, tape hiss, hats ticking like rain off a metal awning, a detuned organ drone coming through the wall from the chapel, folding chairs scraping as the room empties out. The bridge pulls back to dripping water and a hearse idling in the alley before the low end comes back at full weight. Best on headphones after midnight — the drive home from a funeral, or anywhere you are standing in a room you are not supposed to be in.
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