Your Favorite Book

Your Favorite Book


Melodic songs about bad, bad things going down, mostly played on an acoustic guitar named Bjørn.


There's little to say that hasn't been said already. There was a beginning, during which acquaintances were made, lessons were learned, songs were written, many things went wrong, a few things went right, rivalries were formed and grudges were borne. This time is hazy and more than likely not at all worth recollecting, though the guilty parties know what they did oh yes they do.

Then there was the middle, during which band membership increased, shows were played, skills were honed, better songs were written, rivalries were further inflamed and a coup was plotted. It was a time of laughter and copious gin. The good kind, only ever the good kind.

The end came, as it so often does, unexpectedly, like a hand grenade flung into a henhouse, only without the chicken bits everywhere. The coup was executed and Sven was booted, bringing on a period of solitude and reflection. As usual, this period did not last long. Sven was soon replaced by the younger, deeper-voiced Bjørn.

Things began as they so often do, with acquaintances being made, lessons being learned, etc.



Written By: Your Favorite Book

Tiptoe across the river together into the trees, dropping to our knees to avoid the branches' quivering release of a fistful of snow. And I know, I know, I know you know that it's cold for a reason. And you go, you go, you go, I go and it's cold for a reason. The fog that trails you smells sweetly of your breath. And we'll catch our death out on these godforsaken trails; at least I hope we do. And when we catch it we will take its bony arm and get reacquainted, like the old friends we are. And we will huddle around a circled fire, and we'll call our death a liar, and then pass it the bottle, and we'll laugh cautiously. And we'll echo Bergman and play cards till the sun rises, and of course the surprise is the sunrise never comes. But at least we're playing through this night together, you and I, until the fire burns out.

Mountains of Foam

Written By: Your Favorite Book

We sailed for Gibraltar in the year of our lord 57, the slowly drowning afternoon sun gilding the sea like a pathway to heaven. Our soot-covered galleons outrunning the belligerent wind, the salt splashing up from the waves, washing the hardening blood from our skins. There was nothing as hard as leaving our lands, our families, our children, our wives, but our lands had been scorched and our children were lost, so we fled the warm ash of our lives. And we wept as we sailed under sun, under stars, a disconsolate moon watching at night. And we sensed as we railed against gods, against fate, that somehow something could someday be right, that we would rise from the ash, wounded, unwhole, but alive and screaming and with the shreds of our souls clenched in our fists. So we sailed on and sailed on, through storms, over mountains of foam, and as we sailed on, we clung to the flicker of hope that this world might one day feel like home. So sail on, yes, sail on, through storms, over mountains of foam, and sail on, clinging to the flicker of hope that this world might one day feel like home again.

Things Slow Down

Written By: Your Favorite Book

The air over Koreatown twitched as Ricki drove down 5th. Checked her watch absently, drummed her fingers on the dash. Pulled up at Kim's Renowned Bar, smiled to see how far she had driven. Now targeting the portholed door, slipping into the lounge's hard light — she feels ready. Steel flashes like lightening, slashes through the tightening air, and things slow down, things slow way, way down. And then there's only the aftermath, and Ricki's path to the door is blocked by glass littering the floor, and she stops to pour a shot of something pricey but intact. But it's raining outside and nighttime suddenly, which is odd, because it never rains in L.A., especially not at night. But it just adds to the overall noir feel, so Ricki shrugs, flips the rearview up and peels out. Across town, I hear the tires squeal and an engine revving louder. I put down Shakespeare with a sense of foreboding, and I can't tell if it's the play or the roaring motor headed my way.


Written By: Your Favorite Book

Driving past the burning motel, our shoes drenched in kerosene. Your right waves at the man in the bathrobe, your left hand clutches the Glock. Buying gas and beer you tell me how you wish the bottles' icy green would cover the Earth with a sea of shards 14 inches thick. Oh, I love you unforgivably. And then for some reason I think of our old doorbell, the one like a gibbon's scream, and I picture you pacing around in the back yard; good thing the charges didn't stick. Oh, I love you unforgivably. So touch the floorboards with the accelerator pedal and head toward the fugitive light. If we catch up with it, darling, there's gonna be a party tonight. Yeah, if we catch up with it, darling, I promise you a party tonight.


**Scotch Hog (2007) [airplay on KEXP, KDVS, KALX, KZSU; named one of the top albums of 2007 by]
**Lace Up Your Fancy Chuck Taylor All Stars (2004) [airplay on KEXP]
**Five Songs for Five Rooms (EP) (2004)
**Run, kitty, run! (2003) [airplay on KEXP]
**You Are a Big Failure at Telling Jokes (2002)

Set List

Usual set is a little more than an hour, which is between 15-20 songs. Have played sets of two hours, with brief break. Typically, we'll throw in a cover or two for every 13 or 14 originals. We've covered songs by Jawbreaker, Squeeze, They Might Be Giants, Husker Du, The Mountain Goats, etc.