The Vanishing Act

from by Inna Powell

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about

“The Vanishing Act” opens with banjos and guitars plucking and picking a four-chord pattern that gallops with urgency like horses in a Wild West train robbery. But it is no mere cowboy cliché: in comes the band; the violins shriek their lonesome mourn; the drums pump out a steady hip hop beat; the poetic and political lyrics get spit out with unexpected rhymes and undeniable power. Then the chorus hits, and it is clear this is the full realization of one young man reckoning with who he is and where he is and why he is and when he is, taking all he has seen and done and distilling it down into this, his statement, his song. This is not just the set’s best track: it is Inna Powell standing on a soapbox that he built himself, with his bare hands, over many years, speaking what he needs to say in the way he needs to say it. Like Dylan’s “Rolling Stone” or Kurt’s “Teen Spirit,” this is his anthem.

- Written by Ryan Gaio

lyrics

I’m sorry I’m so difficult to talk to, sometimes my mouth doesn’t open when I want to, and if you don’t mind I could use some help, there’s just nothing in my head for my mind to speak out
and so I’m milking the liquor, slipping the features, slurring my speech with my friends John and Laurie, the rest is easy but they trill and chirr like insects and birds. I won’t eat though it hurts cause
loss of weight and thoughts of hunger replace thoughts of dying when I’m lost for words until I’m home, although I was alone when I was a kid, I said I’d be okay, or at least I thought I did.
But on this stage looking down ‘cause just being in here, makes my fucking heart pound, holding my head down, hope I don’t drown, my eyes are closed now, and waiting for this fucking shit to calm down…fuck

The calculated clangour clings close too close to home, so console me I was never made of stone, so come close come close, and when I’m asleep and longer not running, the cowboys are coming

My vision barrels, coil of a snail shell. I clear my throat but I still can’t breathe for most of it. I did what I could but honestly I just stopped trying to feel good.
I’m copyrighting my counterculture, this is my vanishin’ act I can’t take the weight I’m underneath, my lungs collapse, heavy steps, I starve myself to lose the weight in my chest. My cribbed heart, the grips of the rib cage, I take apart them, the apartheid, the post partum. Rip me open, free the tension in my chest to hear the sound the pound of my oil drum. Budum budum the dread that makes my heart beat out. Budum budum the the feeling that I can live without, liquid efflux rush, tooth crushed, copeless, hopeless, head rush, shush

The calculated clangour clings close too close to home, so console me I was never made of stone, so come close come close, and when I’m asleep and longer not running, the cowboys are coming

credits

from The Vanishing Act, released June 10, 2016
Written, engineered, and produced by Inna Powell
Violin and backing vocals by Vale Abbott
Mastered by George Graves at Lacquer Channel Mastering

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about

Inna Powell Toronto, Ontario

Inna Powell is a Toronto-based indie rock/alt-folk artist whose intense and engrossing performances contrast their anxious and soft-spoken offstage persona. While the songwriting is grounded in traditional folk arrangements, Powell fuses diverse influences-ranging from spoken word and bluegrass to hip-hop and emo–to present a unique musical soundtrack that varies from one composition to the next. ... more

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