If You Really Want To Hear About It

by The Roland High Life

  • Streaming + Download

    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.

      $1 USD  or more




If You Really Want to Hear About It was recorded in the summer of 2007 at WERS in Boston, with the exception of the song "Roxie," which was recorded at Emerson College in December of 2007. When we first began discussing the album, Walker (piano/vocals) was reading The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger for the very first time. Chris, our drummer, revealed that this was his favorite book of all time, and that he was in fact able to open the book to the exact page of his favorite line, in multiple printed editions. Coupled with Holden Caulfield allusion in the song "Homecoming King," we decided to name the album after the first line in the book, and later added an spoken audio sample of the book's final sentence to the beginning soundscape of "Your Last Fall."


released February 10, 2015

Lyrics by Thom Dunn
Music by the Roland High Life:
Thom Dunn-Guitars. Vocals. Bass. Noise.
Walker Dieckmann-Piano. Vocals. Noise.
Chris Correia-Drums. Gang Vocals on “Homecoming King”
Kosta Zavras-Bass on “Roxie”. Gang Vocals on “Homecoming King.”

Paul Cantillon, Jon Ryan, Jim Sligh-Gang Vocals on “Homecoming King”
Ashley Fetyko-Violin on “Dad’s Diaries” Audio samples on “Your Last Fall,” provided by some chick that Alden brought into the studio, some cell phone audio, and a text on Wagnerian Opera. Seriously.

“Kiss the Bottle” originally written by Blake Schwarzenbach. Performed by Jawbreaker. “Kiss the Bottle” originally appears on “17 Reasons: The Mission District,” compilation LP/CD. Released by Mission Merchants, October 1992.

Recorded July-August 2007, except “Roxie” recorded December 2007
Engineered by Alden Fertig and Walker Dieckmann, except “Roxie” engineered by Maria Fischel and some other guy with help from Walker Dieckmann.
Produced by Alden Fertig, Walker Dieckmann, Thom Dunn and the Roland High Life.

Mixed by Walker Dieckmann



Some rights reserved. Please refer to individual track pages for license info.


Thom Dunn Boston, Massachusetts

Thom Dunn is a Boston-based writer, musician, & new media artist. He enjoys Oxford commas, metaphysics, and romantic clichés (especially when they involve whiskey), and he firmly believes that Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" is the single greatest atrocity committed against mankind. He is a graduate of Clarion Writer's Workshop at UCSD & Emerson College. thomdunn.net ... more

contact / help

Contact Thom Dunn

Streaming and
Download help

Track Name: Squatter Song
I’ve got a dead mattress
thrown on the floor
where I pass out every night.
And the polyurethane
that coats the floor
reflects the light from the street.
There’s never been a fire
in the fireplace
ever since they came and sealed it up,
and every time I open the door
I’ve got to give it a kick
’cause it gets stuck.

I hear the thudding pitter-patter
of the kid upstairs;
I’ve never seen him, but he wakes me up.
And that’s the funny thing
about the cross I bear:
I only need it to get me going.

And it’s quiet, sometimes
quiet when I’m singing
in the shower all alone;
it’s not my home,
but it’s a place to rest my head.
I’m never home,
I’m told I’ll rest when I am dead

(Sing to me, Jeff Tweedy,
am I listening to you?
Is this how I fight loneliness,
by running somewhere new?
I’m sorry that I’m leaving
but it’s something I must do)
Track Name: Your Last Fall
The harsh winds of late October
howl as they tear across his face
like sandpaper. The open front of
the glass bus stop walls frame his view
like a diorama, but face straight
into the gusts of unrelenting autumn air.
The screech and squall of downtown rush
hour traffic is quickly overcome by the
abrasive crunching sound of deadened leaves,
crumbling to brownish dust beneath his feet
and tires. He sits in silence, waiting, breathing
slowly, as the repugnant subway steam from down below
billows up through the sewer grates to fill his nose
and consumes the crisp aromas of the fall.

The setting sun casts a brownish-yellow shadow
over everything, covering the world in sepia tone;
even fallen leaves, once glowing with
immediate transcendence, have turned
a grayish-brown and lost all warmth (have lost all life).

and this was your last fall with him (if it ever were at all).
you said you’re scared of the colors and the wind,
afraid their whispers may remind you still of him.
Track Name: Roxie
press my fingers delicately
against your auburn skin;
Oh, to taste the steel,
mahogany, and sweat:
Ivory and ebony inhabiting her ears,
where the stabbing sharps and numbing flats
are natural as far I can hear

and she is ever ringing
with a certain stunning dissonance
that fingers finer harmonies
than I could wish to breathe.

Hers hips that curve in brilliant reds
press hard against my thighs each night,
and her dog-eared lips always
scream at every wall like Seraphim.

My fingers feel the action
As they curl, and as I sweat;
I clench my eyelids tighter
and allow my hands to guide me home

But I only kiss your neck to hear you sing
and I only pull your strings to make you scream
Track Name: Homecoming King
Oh please pass the whiskey
as we're passing rye
It reeks of piss and bleach
on this four hour drive

I hear they've got some real nice beaches in Kingston
so I'll stand on the shore with the sand between my toes
as the ocean waves roll
because I've really been dying to drown

But every time I think I've settled down
I find it's time to go; what is a home
when all you own is in a backpack
and you sleep with your guitar
after countless nights of passing out
I'm passing out alone
You wake up all alone

Where do you go when you're always told
that there's no place like home?

Please state your name and destination:
my name is Jonas and I have none
call me Ishmael, and I'll be for the sea
Or you can call me Holden Caulfield
but I'm still not holding on
to any person, place, or thing where I belong

This martyr needs a party
This lover needs a quest
A thousand times I've heard it said
that home is where the heart is kept

but all these yellow lines I count like bricks, staring at the sun
just remind me that I'm always on my way and I'm all alone
They point and laugh and tell me where to go
But I'm always told that there's no place like home
Track Name: Face It, Tiger (You Just Hit the Jackpot)
Calm and collected,
this city never looks quite as relaxed as it does
from fourteen stories above
and tonight, the night has just begun.
Now it’s 12:35 and the night’s so alive:
Are those ants down below
or just people I’ve known?
And that war thoughts have left me,
I step off the ledge
as delicate thoughts take their place in my head.
But those sticky white strands would soon fly from my
and I will swing across rooftops
to find someplace to land.
Perhaps your apartment
with the lights turned down low.
I’ll quietly creep in through your bedroom window;
You sleep like a beauty,
and I kiss your head
as I take off my mask, and I take my place in your bed.
And you said, “Isn’t it time someone saved your life?”
Baby, be my Mary Jane

You know that I’d rescue you
if you’ll rescue me, too,
and if you call me your “Tiger”
I will always be true.
There will be nights
that I come home real late,
but you know that it’s hard
when there’s a world to save.
I’m super lame, a super hero
who fell in love with a super model.
I’m dangerous to know
and you’ll be threatened by my foes,
but I promise that I’ll never let you feel harm
if you promise that I’ll have a place in your arms.

I will crawl to you
Up the wall to you
I will swing to you
As I sing
Be my Mary Jane.
Track Name: Dad's Diaries
Dad’s diaries are waiting in the top drawer of
a bed stand in the places that we go when we
get lonely for an hour. The paper-thin parchment
crunches when I turn the page, like autumn leaves
that fell from burning trees too soon;
translucent and impermanent, the noises
keep me company in every bawdy tomb.
I read my favorite stories to a girl that I
won’t Mary from the time when you were
thirty-two, and think of all the shit you carried
with you on your back (you never let it weigh
you down) and I am hoping to remember all
the things you taught me back when you were still around.

Dad, I see your diary was written down by
someone else’s hand, but I still remember
everything you taught me about how to be
a man. You’ll be glad to know your grand
daughter is working overseas where she is
farming in a fertile land and does it all for
free, and how I almost tied your grandson to
a fence the other day, but I just pelted him
with rocks until he bled out all the gay.

See, I’m trying hard to live my life
just the way you told me, or at least
the way I read it in this dusty little
story book where your friends had all
your best intentions written down.
But Father, I have got to ask how you
drank from that bloody glass and split
the fish while we were killing kingdoms
in your name, and how you loved the lonely
lepers and you knew your mother’s whore,
when you told me that the wicked
would not be let in your doors. But you’re
not around to give me all the answers
I might need, so I am forced to watch
as Mary takes my sixty bucks and leaves.