Voodoo Economics

Voodoo Economics


Talk Talk meets Talking Heads meets Portishead


Voodoo Economics combine adventurous song structures with biting, often disconcerting lyrics and rhythms that range from hectic junkyard breakbeats to odd-metered head-nodders. The guitar, Rhodes and synth sounds are processed through a battery of effects and filters, while the bass and drums sound more like a profane groove box than a rock rhythm section. Vocals oscillate from placid to dictatorial. The result is a sound that lands somewhere between the pulse of the Talking Heads and the discordant splendor of Blonde Redhead.

After transplanting from Portland, OR to Philadelphia, PA in 2005, Voodoo Economics has spent the last two years making alliances and playing crowded venues. During the summer of 2007, they were holed up in their studio, inciting hq, recording their new record, if : then :: iminami, which is now available for download at voodooeconomics.info.


Time to Drive

Written By: Alison Conard

You ask what I think –
my mind’s on the road.
Running freeways –
destination unknown…
When I get somewhere, you’ll be the first to know.

Day by day, night by night,
I will wait until I find
a time to drive that doesn’t hurt my eyes.

I came to be safe.
Have you any idea how?
You seemed to be sure
What I’d lost could be found.

You ask how I feel –
I’m all overgrown.
Emotions like weeds
in cracks in the road…
I’ll be going nowhere before I know.

Day by day, night by night,
I will wait until I find
a time to drive that doesn’t hurt my eyes.

The Red Phone is Ringing

Written By: Alison Conard

Should’ve been a scientist,
a paragon of usefulness.
Instead I am a masochist.
I masquerade as an artist.

You say you are an anarchist,
but baby, you’re so talented.
Philosophy’s the great escape,
but you could help us get to space;
leave this place a home to the animals plants and
stones. We’ve made our bed –
now we’re gone.
goodbye, mom.

Inexplicably, on the new planet, Janet became
the world’s most popular name.
They couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Predictably, on the new planet, people hadn’t changed –
the world’s most popular game
was tag with the invisible man.

Ostensibly, everyone there had read heavy things.
None had slipped through the cracks.
But what if those heavy things had broken them?
Cracked their
little brittle
little brittle
little brittle bones to the marrow?

What’s the closest place to go?
We gotta pack a lotta clothes,
toys, and food for the road.
We’re gonna have a heavy load of CO2, H2O,
I think we can make do
without calcium and nitrogen,
except what we carry…
except what we bury in our own skin.

It’s a rare herb that simply tells your brain when
you’re full.
It’s an idea that rushes up on you when you’re
crawling for comfort,
bail out pails of water.
Turns out, hope takes diet pills.
Don’t be so sad about it.

Where’s the young man who’s banging on decked-out machines?
Who’s on parade in the vaguest of dreams?
It’s a rare herb that simply tells your brain when you’re full.
It’s a long time from when you were here until you
are mulling about,
with a chain for a spout
and your brain is worn out
and you’re too scared to spit it out.

There’s a lot of detail that will happen around here
before we’re through,
and all of this time, the red phone keeps ringing for you.
The instant of hello,
your knees will turn nailed to themselves,
and you’ll know
you have no business picking up phones
that are ringing off hooks
and you’re munching on rare herbs and reading big books
that are fit only for certain purposes,
as in they make perfect doorstops,
and you’ll never know what they say,
and I’ve got no suggestions
how patterns are broken.
Maybe they’re perfect and maybe they shouldn’t be.

Fleet of the Cretans

Written By: Alison Conard

I formed her out of clay and fire, soot and bone.
I gave her such a lush and steep and simple island home.
“Keep to yourself. Be wary of gifts,” I said.
“Your family’s dysfunctional.”
But did she listen? Oh, no.

She sat in her first home, her castle of heat, for years.
Her box was ever beside her; her hand never strayed too far.
On the day she could no longer wait,
the sea, the Aegean, turned into a wave of epic proportions.
The fleet of the Cretans was broken.

Her step-father’s lasting creation –
born of his thigh, to his wife’s consternation –
unleashed the war of the mainland.
My little firecracker caused the death of the Cretan civilization.

Shattered and shaken and wet to the bone,
she asked for a lush and steep and simple island home.
“Keep your gift to yourself. Be wary of it,” I said.
“Your family resents you.”
But did she listen? Oh, no.

She stayed in her new home, La Isla Bonita.
She watched in discomfort as cretins took over.
On the day she could no longer wait,
the sea, the Atlantic turned into an iminami,
and the walls of the cretins were broken.


Voodoo Economics self-titled EP (2005)
if : then :: iminami LP (2007)