Spanish Fan

by Din Strange Dresses

  • Streaming + Download

    Includes high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more. Paying supporters also get unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app.

      name your price




MSR 011

5 tracks of unreleased or unfinished material from First Winter New York.


released February 11, 2014

All tracks written, recorded, and produced by Timothy Erbach.




Mulberry Sound Recordings New Jersey

Mulberry Sound was founded by Marcel Rudin of Morus Alba and Timothy Erbach of Perennial Reel as a communal outlet and showcase for the music of Hudson County. The scene - eclectic, precocious, incestuous, prolific - exists as a multitude of bands, solo artists, and fleeting projects with fluid borders where collaboration and cross-pollination are king. ... more

contact / help

Contact Mulberry Sound Recordings

Streaming and
Download help

Redeem code

Track Name: Evening of March 28th and Every Day Before and After
You've got my hasty letters
caked in weariness and sentiment
but I've got your cardboard, napkin
stream-of-conscious spills
and figures drawn in wet cement
commit to fire every loving thing I grew and lived and sent
between the tides of stress, the hatred rests, cooled and warped and bent

A fracture lies against my foot
and on the other side the people drift
the people just glide
close my eyes to a camera flash
you seemed so fast against my flesh red

When you gonna stop comin back?
And end these calls, exhaust all I've exalted?
With my tired heart
I'm never, never gonna return to the winter
scintillating suns, it splintered
it hung so low

I'm never, never gonna return to the winter
scintillating suns, it splintered
everything it
hung so low
When you gonna stop comin back?
And end these calls, exhaust all I've exalted?
With my tired heart
Track Name: Spanish Fan
Somewhere sits a Spanish fan
upon the desk a broken lamp
it's dim-lit rapture, hardened hands
wound into some southern sea
mobiles swinging, sweetly, freely

the faces flashing, hurried flood
and iron rail, so fast and wailing
driving arms across my breast

The air shaft breathes in beads of snow
the ashing sky comes swinging low
the dull St. Matthew's bell unfolds
inhalation of that central pain
the lonely letters of your name arranged

Only at the spanish beats
it's then I miss the spanish signs
and humid thoughts of simple minds
a hazy sense of deep blue ink
surrounding thoughts I couldn't think

The light turns on upon my wall
television from the space beneath the door
orange glow, persistent calm
absent kin sympathy
where is it?
that I crave so much
Track Name: Sea Glass
Was it a boy?
Or was it a daughter?
Honey, don’t think
honey, don’t bother
the stray cats
the sea glass
the burdened days of old Verdun shelled

How can I hate things
when everything moves
and all things swallow
and all things consume?
Track Name: Tangle #2
I want the feeling of some mouth
on the place where my cheek
meets the corner of my lip
and the calm
and I just want to feel the shape of my head
the length of my hair
the weight of my skull
in soft, firm palms
Track Name: Thai Silk (Voice)
between calm troughs
of glinting pain
and crippling misery
having freshly faced the richness
of my ugliness
and of the things I have not let grow

The subtle unconscious emotions
sewn to the dark sides
of sick impure happinesses

Amid the crashing and the chaos
of all this
dreams of early August
before Autumn wrought itself upon us
and released the pressures
my strength longed to contain
with the fool’s hope
that they would fade

I long for reason
to invade my heart
And yet more than anything

I longed to see her
in the dress
I gave her
from Thailand
from the garage sale
of the old traveled couple
made of silk
and frayed so slightly
like her hair, when strands have fallen
out of place
across her forehead

With the shimmering dark green
against her skin
she would cool her neck and her face
with the spanish fan
a birthday gift
as if she were gently, half-heartedly
imploring sin
to leave her alone
for only five minutes

When we were hundreds of miles away
when she was in New York
and I was in Georgia
and I could only picture her
I begged
to hear the fan
as it waved
in her slender hand

It’s dry sandy shifting
sounding every piece of it’s movement

Of the thin wooden spokes softly clacking
of the paper rustling
like the low static anthem of a television between channels
of the air brushed over her hair
black as the core of an eye

An imagination like memory
a thin vista
wrapped in Thai silk