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Put your hands on the remote! browse music »Thing a Week One by Jonathan Coulton
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fave it Quirky | Folky Pop
12 tracks | 33 minutes
Released Aug 2006
on Jonathan Coulton
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for a 30-second preview. All tracks are 192kbps high fidelity sound quality. Protected WMA $0.77 or unprotected MP3 $0.88.
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- sample lyrics "DOWNLOAD" 00:57 See You All in Hell lyrics BUY MP3 00:57 See You All in Hell lyrics "GIFT MP3" 00:57 See You All in Hell
- sample lyrics "DOWNLOAD" 02:46 My Monkey lyrics BUY MP3 02:46 My Monkey lyrics "GIFT MP3" 02:46 My Monkey
- sample lyrics "DOWNLOAD" 01:48 W's Duty lyrics BUY MP3 01:48 W's Duty lyrics "GIFT MP3" 01:48 W's Duty
- sample lyrics "DOWNLOAD" 03:31 Shop Vac lyrics FREE 03:31 Shop Vac lyrics "GIFT MP3" 03:31 Shop Vac
- sample lyrics "DOWNLOAD" 05:32 Baby Got Back lyrics BUY MP3 05:32 Baby Got Back lyrics "GIFT MP3" 05:32 Baby Got Back
- sample lyrics "DOWNLOAD" 02:04 Someone Is Crazy lyrics BUY MP3 02:04 Someone Is Crazy lyrics "GIFT MP3" 02:04 Someone Is Crazy
- sample lyrics "DOWNLOAD" 02:06 Brand New Sucker lyrics BUY MP3 02:06 Brand New Sucker lyrics "GIFT MP3" 02:06 Brand New Sucker
- sample lyrics "DOWNLOAD" 03:03 Sibling Rivalry lyrics BUY MP3 03:03 Sibling Rivalry lyrics "GIFT MP3" 03:03 Sibling Rivalry
- sample lyrics "DOWNLOAD" 04:44 The Town Crotch lyrics BUY MP3 04:44 The Town Crotch lyrics "GIFT MP3" 04:44 The Town Crotch
- sample lyrics "DOWNLOAD" 02:44 Podsafe Christmas Song lyrics BUY MP3 02:44 Podsafe Christmas Song lyrics "GIFT MP3" 02:44 Podsafe Christmas Song
- sample lyrics "DOWNLOAD" 02:02 Furry Old Lobster lyrics BUY MP3 02:02 Furry Old Lobster lyrics "GIFT MP3" 02:02 Furry Old Lobster
- sample lyrics "DOWNLOAD" 02:34 Drive lyrics BUY MP3 02:34 Drive lyrics "GIFT MP3" 02:34 Drive
Well-crafted geek pop from the incredible Thing a Week series. Unspoiled, piping hot goodness, fresh from the muse.
Bio / Background
Fall time is Coulton time… Corduroy jackets and mulled cider. Turtlenecks and apple picking and the slow, aching death of everything green and good in the world. Big, bounding, fluffy golden retrieves leaping through your patio windows and tearing apart your house for no reason. And piles of burning leaves in the yard, with Jonathan Coulton staring into the inferno, wondering, how did it all end up this way?
Only I know the truth.
I first met Coulton in the Fall. It was at Yale University, where we were both educated. Throughout the world Fall is known as the season of death; but for the student, the chill winds mean hope and new beginnings and surprising new friendships.
One evening, some colleagues and I were sitting in a great, oak-paneled room of the many that infested the Yale campus.
↓ more ↓It was lit only by a blazing fire, and we were throwing huge glasses of brandy into it, wrapping ourselves in woolen blankets and taking refuge in discussions of four-way chessboards, frictionless bicycles, insect ESP, and other matters of the mind.
Then Coulton cast open the door. Light poured in. Women were with him. He was smiling (he did not wear a beard then, and so, for a brief moment in history, his teeth were bright and visible). We cringed in our wingchairs and blankets. Coulton wasn’t like us.
Coulton had not come from the cities, as we had, but from the nearby Connecticut woods - a country boy with a song in his heart and a hunger for the simple things: frito-pie, cheeseburger macaroni, Donald Fagen, and marihuana. He did some kind of dance, some loathsome expression of physical joy, flipped on the lights, and a girl found the cassette player in the corner and put on his tape.
Even has a teenager, Coulton had long been known in the local cafes and nutmeg houses for his songs, the simple folk tunes I heard now by the fire.
It would be years still before I’d coax Coulton to write songs such as “Furry Old Lobster” and other songs of madness. And years still before Coulton’s latent fondness for cyborgs and Mandlebrot Sets would assert itself on his brain like a hypnotic obsession. For now it was just these plain, honest tunes of heart-want and yearning, with titles like “Please Pardon My Vicissitudes” and “Baby Got Back” (later covered by Sir Mix-a-Lot, and later still, Donald Fagen, and so the circle was complete).
But he didn’t call them songs. In his own, simple way, he called them “things.” He got a dreamy look in his eye. “Some day, I would like to write a thing every week,” he said. “And put them on some sort of computer network.” The women smiled, even the fire grew warmer and bent to him. We all knew he would do it. (Except for the madness of the computer network. That was madness.) While I sat throwing brandy across the room, this boy was riding a frictionless bicycle to his future, and oh, did I loathe him!
Later, I would not loathe him. But that’s another story, for another season. For now, all you need to know is that he did do it: a year of things and weeks, collected like beautiful fall leaves, pressed into an album, covered with plastic, and encoded with digital data that may be read with a laser.
I hope you have the appropriate equipment to hear this album. For now I must go. There is a golden retriever loose in my home, and he has gotten into the lobster pantry. Until winter, I say: enjoy.
That is all.
John Hodgman – Fall 2005
↑ less ↑Average Customer Review: 5
CoultonCloudReece wrote on October 09, 2008
This dude is awsome










