-TRACK 9-TATTERS OF THE KINGThe old rock star smoked his last cigarette down to the filter and slumped back in his seat. To Miles, he looked like an old worn-out doll, his days of bringing joy to children far behind him. Over the last few hours he’d watched life return to Aidan Cross’s eyes, only to fizzle and fade yet again as the old man recounted his band’s triumphs, failures, and untimely demise. Although he would never admit it to his crew, the story spooked Miles Hargrove to his core. He’d read the official police report from all those years ago, and he’d grown up hearing the rumors of ritual activity on the night of the final show, but to hear a first-hand account by someone who was there was soul-crushing.“So what happened after that?” Miles asked.Aidan Cross placed the smoldering cigarette filter into the ashtray with the others. He cleared his throat. “About what you’d expect, I guess. They found me on the curb outside the club, unconscious and nearly dead from smoke
-TRACK 9-TATTERS OF THE KINGThe old rock star smoked his last cigarette down to the filter and slumped back in his seat. To Miles, he looked like an old worn-out doll, his days of bringing joy to children far behind him. Over the last few hours he’d watched life return to Aidan Cross’s eyes, only to fizzle and fade yet again as the old man recounted his band’s triumphs, failures, and untimely demise. Although he would never admit it to his crew, the story spooked Miles Hargrove to his core. He’d read the official police report from all those years ago, and he’d grown up hearing the rumors of ritual activity on the night of the final show, but to hear a first-hand account by someone who was there was soul-crushing.“So what happened after that?” Miles asked.Aidan Cross placed the smoldering cigarette filter into the ashtray with the others. He cleared his throat. “About what you’d expect, I guess. They found me on the curb outside the club, unconscious and nearly dead from smoke
LINER NOTESThe Yellow Kings present “The Final Reconciliation”1—Reconciliatory Matters2—The Gypsy on Darkened Shores3—Lost in Dim Carcosa4—The Usurper’s Ascent5—Season of the Leech6—Beneath Black Stars7—Behind Pallid Masques8—The Final Reconciliation9—Tatters of the KingThe Yellow Kings are:Johnny Leifthauser (Vocals & Rhythm Guitar)Aidan Cross (Lead Guitar)Hank Jones (Bass)Bobby Stone (Drums, Synth)Management:Reggie AllenSpecial Thanks:Camilla Bierce
“Songs that the Hyades shall sing,Where flap the tatters of the King,Must die unheard inDim Carcosa.”—“Cassilda’s Song,” The King in Yellow, Act 1: Scene 2
-TRACK 1-RECONCILIATORY MATTERSMiles Hargrove peered at the old man through a curtain of cigarette smoke. The lights in the community room were turned down at the aging rock star’s request, but he still wore sunglasses, and Miles realized he could see the cameraman’s reflection in them.“Jody,” the producer said, snapping his fingers. “Can we get a different angle?”Aidan Cross sat back in his seat while the producer sought a better shot. He sucked down the first cigarette in two long drags and chuckled when the thought occurred to him: Maybe this is what Keith Richards felt like.Keith was dead, though. Had been for years. He’d shuffled off to that long-lost Valhalla to spend eternity drinking wine off the tits of beautiful women.Aidan had never met Keith Richards, but he liked to think they would’ve gotten along. Not that it mattered now.The producer, Miles, turned back to his interview subject. “Apologies, Mr. Cross. The low lighting is causing some difficulties. We shoul
-TRACK 1-RECONCILIATORY MATTERSMiles Hargrove peered at the old man through a curtain of cigarette smoke. The lights in the community room were turned down at the aging rock star’s request, but he still wore sunglasses, and Miles realized he could see the cameraman’s reflection in them.“Jody,” the producer said, snapping his fingers. “Can we get a different angle?”Aidan Cross sat back in his seat while the producer sought a better shot. He sucked down the first cigarette in two long drags and chuckled when the thought occurred to him: Maybe this is what Keith Richards felt like.Keith was dead, though. Had been for years. He’d shuffled off to that long-lost Valhalla to spend eternity drinking wine off the tits of beautiful women.Aidan had never met Keith Richards, but he liked to think they would’ve gotten along. Not that it mattered now.The producer, Miles, turned back to his interview subject. “Apologies, Mr. Cross. The low lighting is causing some difficulties. We shoul
-TRACK 2-THE GYPSY ON DARKENED SHORESThe first time I saw Camilla Bierce was in a dive bar called Murphy’s, the local watering hole in some no-name town out West. We were on tour then, supporting the Jesters in Our Court EP. It was our first official release, save for a self-titled demo we’d circulated to all the labels a year before. Most of the songs from that demo—‘The Infernal Machination’ and ‘Holes in the Fabric’ parts one and two, in particular—ended up on the EP, except this time they didn’t sound like they were recorded in Bobby’s basement.The suits at the label were cautiously optimistic at best. Our style of rock was a niche genre for sure—no one wanted 15-minute epic rock journeys anymore, and they hadn’t for at least 30 years—but other bands like Tool, Mastodon, and Opeth had found their audience, and our manager Reggie was able to convince the suits to send us on a small tour.“Let them get their feet wet,” he told them, or at least that’s what he told us he told t
-TRACK 2-THE GYPSY ON DARKENED SHORESThe first time I saw Camilla Bierce was in a dive bar called Murphy’s, the local watering hole in some no-name town out West. We were on tour then, supporting the Jesters in Our Court EP. It was our first official release, save for a self-titled demo we’d circulated to all the labels a year before. Most of the songs from that demo—‘The Infernal Machination’ and ‘Holes in the Fabric’ parts one and two, in particular—ended up on the EP, except this time they didn’t sound like they were recorded in Bobby’s basement.The suits at the label were cautiously optimistic at best. Our style of rock was a niche genre for sure—no one wanted 15-minute epic rock journeys anymore, and they hadn’t for at least 30 years—but other bands like Tool, Mastodon, and Opeth had found their audience, and our manager Reggie was able to convince the suits to send us on a small tour.“Let them get their feet wet,” he told them, or at least that’s what he told us he told t