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There's No Place Like Nowhere

by Matt DeMello

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Ian Cat
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Ian Cat DeMello's first record is a deeply personal journey, and one that will continue to surprise upon revisiting. Though it appears to be a singer-songwriter record at first glance, the record subverts the cliches of the genre. You'll hear elements of prog, classical, and indie rock through the lens of Brian Wilson along the way. There's nothing quite like it. Favorite track: Save Me (The Back Road to Euphoria).
Sophisticated Schizophrenic Records & Publishing
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Sophisticated Schizophrenic Records & Publishing This is the sort of music that makes me want to move to New York. Just get this. You won't be disappointed. Favorite track: Scum of the Earth.
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TAXXESS Like lounge music from some psychedelic future, emotive and sometimes beautiful. I really don't know why Matt DeMello isn't on everyone's favorites list. An overlooked gem of a record filled with bombast and drama. There are a lot of emotions and directions being explored in a soundscape rife with the sparkly bits. Favorite track: There's no place like nowhere.
Prelude / (Instrumental) A Midnight Waltz for Non-Believers Who am I but how slowly I can die, when the words I’ve been promised become lies to make me sign black dotted lines for print so fine? The blood on my hands won’t make me a man but one day may help me to understand who are you but the prayers to start anew. Out of the billions there are so few whom you can trust, whose faith won’t rust or turn to dust. A chance to begin, without discipline as well as good reason to never give in to you who are nothing but the flesh off my bones. Do with me what you will, leave me alone. When all of my limbs crack and crumble like stone, there’s no place like nowhere when nowhere is home. Who are we but the means to disagree, always falling apart by the seams from words of mouths so filled with doubt? There’s no time to wait for reasoned debate when the only headline that matters won’t wait. Who are they but a sad and cursed stain on this spinning world that god has made with every thought for pleasures sought that can be bought? What is there to gain that won’t wash away in the flood of finding one’s self flushed down the drain by you who are nothing but the flesh off your bones? Do with me what you will—leave me alone. When all of my limbs crack and crumble like stone, there’s no place like nowhere when nowhere is home. And god has bigger problems than to hear us bitch and moan, and in the time of Christ I’m sure he would have had us stoned. For how could we be so selfish when we think of the children that sleep unfed? And how can this world be reconciled with so many things left unsaid between sinners and their diety who knows we’re already as good as dead? When so much of life for a price can be sold, this tired barren seed can still blossom a soul. When all of my limbs crack and crumble like stone, there’s no place like nowhere when nowhere is home.
An Inkling on a Rooftop / (Instrumental) Between Myself and All My Friends Fingers wrapped in thread, what’s some wine and bread between myself and all my friends? Between myself and all my friends… Hit the gas and hit the brake, such an easy made mistake. Start to tremble start to shake, start to tremble start to shake… My head’s so clear right now, that I just can’t think out loud, my language is just verbs and nouns. If I don’t stand I think I’ll drown, and I’ll never be found… For what I have done.
Heaven Can Be Replaced Heaven can be replaced, as a statue be defaced, by a whole and handsome face who is worth saving—worth saving from the storm, from being tattered or being torn, sent back to being born instead of aging. Who could say where my footsteps lead astray? It sure as hell beats anyplace else I’ve stayed. When the dream of life was young all was a victory to be won, not a nerve meant to be stung by cynicism. For people by design, are faulty and unkind, drinking up your blood like wine with criticism. I’m not sure how these thoughts could bring me doubt, but I think a friend like you could help me figure it out. A shouting voice drives a wooden stake through my spirit’s drum like shards of glass from a windshield stained in driver’s blood. Are these visions or pressures yet to be released? Or are these shades of raw detail becoming dreams? How will I know between the truth and accident? Is it between my deeds and my intent? / Every Reason To I must remember that pain is its own pleasure. It’s not the will or whether, it’s all in how you measure your friends to whom your indebted, they swear they won’t regret it. Though you know that they have every reason to. It’s not the time or season, it’s what you make of reason. So strangers to whom I’m bound, please don’t fail me now though I know that you have every reason to, that you have every reason.
Save Me (The Back Road to Euphoria) Dancing in a cadence under constant surveillance, Gabriella says, “Close your eyes and count to three.” With a look of diagnosis searching for a comatosis, all the bridesmaids say she only has eyes for me. I asked if she was sober and she gave me one look over, and said, “If so, I won’t make it home alive. So let’s abandon these traditions and parental supervisions and make our way to a beach-front starry night. ‘Cause happiness is a decision that’s arrived at through the discipline of one’s inner thoughts and sensibilities. It’s never in what happens, it’s if I decide to snap and let my highest hopes get the very best out of me.” “So save me,” she says, “all your sympathies. I don’t need no god damn diamond ring to prove the back road to Euphoria’s one I know.” Fast forward two years later I am working as a waiter in a little Manhattan cafe and restaurant, when a familiar face came to visit me and making her way to Table 3 asking if the truth is what I want. And to this dodgy question I replied with the suggestion I am unprepared for responsibility, “of one handsome little toddler, with two eyes just like his father—no bastard child could make a parent out of me.” “So save me,” I said, “all your pleasantries. All I need is to live on presently to prove the back road to Euphoria’s one I know.” I think I need some good advice. Every time I drive up 95 and make it to Point B alive, I thank my lucky stars and four watchful eyes. 'Cause if anything in that night was meaningful it was witnessed by the ceiling full of unanswered hopes watching us from the skies. And I don't know what I'd say if I saw her again, but the only thing that I want less than a child is a friend who thinks the back road to Euphoria's some dead end.
Unholy Ghost I wouldn’t mind at all if every sky scraper should fall, if every bridge that we’ve crossed and every caution we’ve tossed to the wind should burn just like tinder or sin. What am I supposed to do now that I am rid of you? What would the neighborhood say about the downpayment we’ve made on a house with a white picket fence to keep them all out? Lo brother, have you not enemies but the world to please? You’ll just start hating your close circle of friends. For no matter what I say, I lose. So what’s the use in withholding my righteous defense when you’ve conned the world into thinking I owe you something more than a spit in the face? Unholy ghost, parasite to my host, know that bad blood and poison only writhe in my veins. But if I just concentrate it may all fall away, and I’ll see the appeal of losing grip of the wheel. And diving head-first into the place of my birth, oh heavenly arms where I can do no wrong… As I stare into your void, pretending you can still hear my voice whisper, “Please do not turn me away lest this humble sinner lose faith in the light at the end of this tunnel of white.” / Kitty’s Dead Too (Instrumental)
Scum of the Earth Mother and father, oh why should I bother to be good any longer when no one reciprocates? Biting my anger couldn’t taste any stranger. I’m no babe in a manger with this heart filled with hate for every transgression I won’t ever discuss with those whom my love is devoid of all trust, when I’m fairly sure that the scum of the earth wouldn’t do the things that they do. But if I was to call them the scum of the earth I guess that means me too. Brothers and sisters, just admit our existence are but callousing blisters on the hands of fate. I tried to hide you once I knew we’ve been lied to every time that we tried to not get carried away with the thought there’s some reward for always doing right when all that life asks of us is to survive. And I’m fairly sure that the scum of the earth wouldn’t do the things I do, but if you were to call me the scum of the earth then I guess that means you too. And what shames me to the core is that I can do no more than you at your so called ‘worst.'


released November 19, 2014

Words & Music by Matthew DeMello
Produced by Alex Busi & Matthew DeMello

All sounds recorded by Alex Busi at The Space Studios in Huntington, N.Y., between December 01, 2012 and April 30, 2014; except drums from 04:37 - 04:50 on “Prelude / A Midnight Waltz for Non-Believers”, and 01:06 - 01:48 on “Unholy Ghost / Kitty's Dead Too” (including Rhodes Piano) recorded by William McCosker at “The Ranch” in Canyon, Calif. from July 18 to July 22, 2012.

All sounds featured on this recording also emanated from the
lips and fingertips of Matthew DeMello, except:

Jennifer Nordmark - Vocal harmonies (who can also be credited with romantic fulfillment).

Alex Busi - shaker on “Heaven Can Be Replaced / Every Reason To”, and floor toms from 10:36 - 11:26 on “An Inkling on a Rooftop / Between Myself and All My Friends”

William McCosker - drums from 04:37 - 04:50 on “Prelude / A Midnight Waltz for Non-Believers”, and 01:06 - 01:48 on “Unholy Ghost / Kitty's Dead Too”.

Cover art by Kristen Hale. Attached promotional photos by Lauraberth Lima and Michael Lin. Executive produced by Timothy Dillon and Stephen Bailey.



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