Avocado

Avocado

 Gainesville, Florida, USA
BandPopJazz

Pop songs with Jazz, Latin, Swing, and lots of other influences.

Biography

Avocado started back in 2008. The current sound comes from a melding of Dave's eclectic tastes and his ongoing fascination with what makes a song "catchy," coupled with the expansive musical vocabulary and seemingly endless influences of the contributing band members. All three members of Avocado bring a variety of styles to the table. Dave is heavily influenced by classical, jazz, and indie rock. Chris comes from r&b and jazz roots, but has played in all kinds of settings, from metal to hip-hop. Aaron contributes a background in Latin and World music, contributing a funky/jazzy pocket to the music that other "indie" bands often lack.

Dave writes all of the lyrics with an awareness of contemporary poetry. Approachable and emotional, yet at the same time cerebral, images and metaphors spin narratives within intricate melodies. Musically, Avocado strives to cross as many genre lines as possible to create an interesting foundation for the lyrics to build upon.

All of these seemingly disparate parts come together and are woven into something that toes the line between pop, jazz, rock, and whatever else creeps in. Always engaging, and always enjoyable.

Lyrics

On the Destruction of a Family Heirloom

Written By: D.Biun

Antiquities, or whatever she said, came to me through serendipity or stupidity, or boorish, what she said, was that the word she used— she used to call me son.

Or was it love, I could have swore, she used that word, she swore, she— blue painted vines weaving from base to top, leaves sprouting, leaving, trying to tell me something.

Cochlea-drum, we’re drumming, with blue vines leaving, she tried to tell me something, but me, my ears—blue vines glazed from top to whatever words she used that day.

Our timid shards, a piece with sharp words, sharp corners forge shapes like two women in red embrace, lined blue she swore me son, a mother’s din, asleep yet leaving.

Pictures at your Exhibition

Written By: D.Biun

This photograph that you took, hanging in the midst of this exhibition. Speak our names softly, beat back brushfires, like we did last summer, but not as real.

We smelled the smoke first. We woke in panic. We rushed away beneath the night’s distant embers. You held your tongue, girl. But let your hands rise like caterpillars probing dead ends on dead trees.

A crowd of strangers with my naked figure on display here, betraying weakness. My back is turned, they won’t recognize me. I face the flames of what could have been; our burning bower.

Actions take precipice, then they fall with grace. You tried to hold me and say it was ok. But I beheld providence; its burning missive. My clothing went up in smoke, my ardor with it.

I let my hands speak, when weakened words fail. I said goodbye, and tore the picture down. I went to leave and you tried to stop me. I’m not your art whose mortal taste brought death into the world and lost our Eden.

Fields of Virginia

Written By: D.Biun

Sometimes you can see the rider hiding on shelves, gathering dust. Sometimes you can see the rider hiding beneath tranquil smiles.

Eyes like those of the mustang she once dreamed of breaking , she called it gentling then, like in the children's books of the ponies of Chincoteague, who were swum yearly, eyes half white and nostrils flared, across the channel from their wild island home for auction at Pony Penning Day.

Eyes which long for dreams of four hooves pounding swiftly, wide expanses. Flesh bound to earth, pushing, running, with enough force, she could break free.

She read her daughter the book of Misty and she fell in love with the notion of gently grabbing hold of her wild mane. The child jumped the fence of the pasture and in her innocence picked the stallion and climbed atop him and oh how they galloped!

In a crowd of black umbrellas she moves slowly, flesh bound to earth, and she's touching the wet headstone with enough force she will break free.

Eyes like those of the mustang she once dreamed of breaking , she called it gentling then, like in the children's books of the ponies of Chincoteague, who were swum yearly, eyes half white and nostrils flared, across the channel from their wild island home for auction at Pony Penning Day.

Discography

5 Songs You'll Like and One You Probably Won't EP

Set List

All originals. Can comfortably fill a 25 minute to an hour set.