Do Not Mistake

woodhouseboy1985

theatrical progressive rock opera, dark orchestral rock, progressive metal

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[Intro - Whispered Spoken]
Do not mistake a record for a circle.
It is a road.
And some roads were never meant to be followed.

[Verse 1]
Round and round the record wandered,
black as oil and cold as space,
and within its turning spiral
was a map I could not trace.
Then a voice emerged in fragments,
deep and thin and old and wide,
like a thousand wires singing
with the ocean trapped inside.

[Spoken Transmission]
This is not music.
This is instruction.
This is not memory.
This is arrival.

[Verse 2]
It spoke of fire beyond the hilltops,
iron legs and eyes of flame,
of a sky split open soundlessly
while no one knew their name.
It spoke of cities peeled like paper,
rivers boiling into steam,
and a planet watching Earth
the way a butcher eyes a dream.

[Pre-Chorus]
I should have fled,
I should have smashed it,
I should have let the whole thing die,
but every word it gave me
lifted terror into why.

[Chorus]
There’s a voice in the groove,
and it knows me.
There’s a wheel in the dark,
and it chose me.
Every whisper in the static cuts me through,
there’s a voice in the groove...
and it’s true.

[Verse 3]
On the label, still the little dog
was tilted toward the sound,
as if loyalty itself were just
another chain we’re bound.
And the horn burned bright like sunset,
though no fire touched the room,
while the voice described great cylinders
descending through the gloom.

[Spoken Monologue]
"From the common clay of Earth you built your houses,
your churches, your little songs.
You believed the heavens watched with mercy.
But mercy is a human word.
And the sky has never spoken it."

[Bridge]
Then the records on the shelf behind me
started ringing in reply,
every silent disc awakening
with a thin mechanical cry.
Caruso, marches, waltzes, sermons,
all were swallowed in the same
single vast inhuman chorus
calling softly for my name.

[Chorus]
There’s a voice in the groove,
and it knows me.
There’s a storm in the horn,
and it showed me.
All the world is just a needle passing through,
to the voice in the groove...
the voice in the groove.

[Outro - Spoken]
When the record ended,
the room stayed full of sound.
And somewhere beyond the orchard,
something answered.

2184/7500

[Intro - Whispered Spoken] Do not mistake a record for a circle. It is a road. And some roads were never meant to be followed. [Verse 1] Round and round the record wandered, black as oil and cold as space, and within its turning spiral was a map I could not trace. Then a voice emerged in fragments, deep and thin and old and wide, like a thousand wires singing with the ocean trapped inside. [Spoken Transmission] This is not music. This is instruction. This is not memory. This is arrival. [Verse 2] It spoke of fire beyond the hilltops, iron legs and eyes of flame, of a sky split open soundlessly while no one knew their name. It spoke of cities peeled like paper, rivers boiling into steam, and a planet watching Earth the way a butcher eyes a dream. [Pre-Chorus] I should have fled, I should have smashed it, I should have let the whole thing die, but every word it gave me lifted terror into why. [Chorus] There’s a voice in the groove, and it knows me. There’s a wheel in the dark, and it chose me. Every whisper in the static cuts me through, there’s a voice in the groove... and it’s true. [Verse 3] On the label, still the little dog was tilted toward the sound, as if loyalty itself were just another chain we’re bound. And the horn burned bright like sunset, though no fire touched the room, while the voice described great cylinders descending through the gloom. [Spoken Monologue] "From the common clay of Earth you built your houses, your churches, your little songs. You believed the heavens watched with mercy. But mercy is a human word. And the sky has never spoken it." [Bridge] Then the records on the shelf behind me started ringing in reply, every silent disc awakening with a thin mechanical cry. Caruso, marches, waltzes, sermons, all were swallowed in the same single vast inhuman chorus calling softly for my name. [Chorus] There’s a voice in the groove, and it knows me. There’s a storm in the horn, and it showed me. All the world is just a needle passing through, to the voice in the groove... the voice in the groove. [Outro - Spoken] When the record ended, the room stayed full of sound. And somewhere beyond the orchard, something answered.

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