by Advrb

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Recorded almost entirely in an attic with a very low ceiling, 'Sleep Soundly' is the first "real" Advrb album. It is whispery, with atmospheric production, and is at times too serious. This is a concise collection of mostly fictional songs about the fall of 2004; incorporating candle snuffers, an old spinning wheel, and teacups amongst its many layers of sound.


released December 18, 2005

Andrew played a very large portion of the music, and was joined by:

Carey Mann for piano on tracks 6 and 8
Taylor Kaplan on drums and trumpet
Russell Melia guest vocals
Meg Graff on violin, hammer dulcimer, toy piano, and celtic harp



all rights reserved


Advrb Portland, Oregon

Andrew Barton plays, sings, records, organizes, and designs music things as Advrb.

Kellen Hopfner sings with him.

Josh Bay plays cello.

Elisabeth Ryan plays drums.

The band sounds both quiet and loud.
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Track Name: Antique Suitcases
“read my life’s work in me”
in an alcove by thesea
i transcribed the poetry
of my friend hidden where i want to go.
o, humming songs of trenches,
cuddling close on benches,
what we really want
comes out in whispers of vermont.
as we see auburn day to auburn day,
let’s scribble with our pens,
let’s create “remember when”s,
let’s forget we have other friends,
tickings and tocks.
the painted posts are playing catch
with bouncy balls glowing
through the fog.
these are dreams dreamed with one blinky eye
by a boy who often sighs
as if he is hamlet, prince of denmark.
but he knows not to make same/similar mistakes...
pockets pile in crinkling leaves
blown from thrones on skinny trees
lining oil-on-canvas textured streets.
could we be the lord and lady
of a grand victorian house?
we’d take dessert in the study
and the port would have us soused.
from a chair of antique suitcases, at me you winked.
why not promenade with arms linked?
“i am a writer for those who don’t write.”
Track Name: An Owl Perched
an owl perched
she soon swoops overhead
along this hill lined path
every night on my way to bed
there are no stars on which to plea
just clouds, visceral and milky
a ghost blows open the den door,
and i usher it back outside.
dead bolt locked, my neck is still sore.
the howling hushed, i return to my story.
but three words in, a knock and up i look.
it is familiar bobbed curly hair peeking in
blackwatch pleated plaid skirt and tie
coming over to lie on cushion stiff as crinoline
wishing we had a place alone, a house of sin.
a teacup, saucer, and spoon shaped pendant,
looped around a ribbon red as wine.
kicked off, her classy cowboys boots, they tap tap tap.
that shoulder is ready to pillow my nap,
and i rest to a remembrance of a sentence crystaline.
“the windows were rippling mirrors of cold,
seasonal color.”
Track Name: Pinstripes, Pretty Lights
a little boy squirmed in front of a camera lense
in the room which doesn’t let me be tense.
but when the fireplace starts it’s burning
i’ll try leaving this house and learning
how the world, described as real, really is...
the brick hearth is frowning at me
but why be plagued by worry? i’ve
pinstripes, pretty lights,
e.p.s, l.p.s,
books and nooks!
youth is a state
when time “wasted”
can be made worthwhile.
i think i’ll make
a four-sided mixtape.
a little step towards
proof that pens can swallow swords!
Track Name: Raining On Statues
be by me
in my cashmere tea
by my pumpkin seeds.
on browny stone let’s step cauciously
into a pile of maple.
as we stand in our own little clouds,
autumn will come to us.
autumn of this year.
autumn of the next.
and of what will eventually be our text.
let’s do all the things we never did
when we were only friends.
as statues unfazed by rain,
we’ll stand hand-in-hand,
in our boat watching
the storm pass while laughing.
others would be cold.
but you and me, gentle sweetie-
we can be toasty.
you are my quill, quilt, and quiver-
so don’t ever consider loosening your fingers.
Track Name: Armchairs In Cardigans
from the back seat glass in lashing rain,
a lone blood colored barn, middle of the plain.
a streetlight without a street to meet
takes me from the treat
of you yawning asleep.
the night is becoming a mt. eerie song
and in it i feel more like i belong
with wind blowing leaves deceased
past dark park benches in portland’s east
to old armchairs in cardigans...i can briefly be triste.
but i’ve cultivated the ability
to take things gracefully
to be eased easily...
perfect to be safe & clean,
drinking hot apple cider on halloween.
Track Name: Fall Finicking Over Dusk
drive out along the pretty country road
see the scarecrows and hazlenut orchard
catch you with your window open, eyes closed
catching wind in your lids and lashes,
the sun glows up the swirling view, it’s 5:30 p.m.
get out and explore, take the wicker picnic basket.
snack on pomegranet juice, cheese and crackers.
sitting crosslegged on a paper chesnut mattress.
wrapped in scarves and 1960s tweed.
chilly air picks up the fringe, blows it in our faces
and we snicker at one another.
i could not think of a better way
to watch fall finicking over dusk
letting the light sprinkle down and play.
Track Name: Days In The Wake
the etching on the oak table
becomes clearer as i become nearer
to waking, rolling, tired but able.
early morning light shadow spotted
dappled down through cobweb covered windows
to my cranberry leather desk blotter.
the silver coffee set is shiny
and i smell popouri.
the afternoon is colored rust,
after you i lust.
(especially) in those woven wool trousers
wrapping softly your honey stick legs.
the grandfather clock chimes
and leonard is screaming for the sixth time today...
now it’s night and i’ve a candle
to protect me, help me handle
unplanned visists from these pictures,
of others, had and untouched, beckoning.
and even one of a skinny girl i never really knew.
but you, you’re the only one who can make me cry by smiling.
and you, you make better cookies than them, too.
Track Name: Drinking Soup From Striped Mugs
as the music tickles our ears,
and we glance from lense to lense,
disappear, all of my fears,
at 45 r.p.m.s.
“thanksgiving’s coming...”
last november you sang it well
& more unknowingly
in love with you i fell.
now from everything & everywhere
subtle doubt creeps out.
however, i won’t let any fuss touch us.
“this fear- i understand- is love itself.”
we’ll read from the russian collection
listening to a cardboard packaged record
composed for egon schiele,
drinking soup from striped mugs,
watching films with jean-pierre leude,
giving long hugs
to you.
i won’t be discouraged by what my mother thinks.
i will make her remember eighteen,
i will make her nasty ship splinter and sink.
i won’t be hindered by odds against me.
i will fight them, overwhelm them,
Track Name: Angora Sweater
when i lay in your angora sweater, you cried to “cold winter.”
we were warm, but your shaking made me shiver.
the midnight hour dwindles.
in moonlight let’s make snow angels...
when it melts and turns to dripping black slush,
up the rickety steps, with longing you will rush.
without closing the door,
your purple and piglet colored corduroy coat, still new
has six carved buttons, but only three to undo.
and it will slip with bliss to the floor.
and you’ll laugh, sillily
as you’ll find rabbit fiber still clinging to my sleeve.
outside, in droplets, early december falls
inside, in flannel sheets, your pale body falls
to mine
to melt icicles
to improve their shine
Track Name: Of Cocoa Heat
twinkly strings of light
branches spreading like
fingers from a hand
away from the tree
and me as i’m trying to see
my slideshow in the white.
a year ago it snowed.
and i awoke to a tiny christmas tree,
with a pullied chimney sweep...
i tried to dance with shivering feet,
to create a bit of cocoa heat...
behind me was a train of coal footsteps
in the powdered sugar floor.
and i still, still, still wanted more.
on the buried picnic table i wrote
“love will come again.”
without mittens my hands almost froze.
so back by pocelain village windows,
i returned to slumbering.
to wait for someone to be wondering
if my hands are warm.
the mittens she made
are burgundy and grey.