Split the Country, Split the Street is Kevin Devine’s third album. It was released in 2005, being the second of two albums released on Triple Crown Records. It is the first solo record released after Kevin was no longer in Miracle of 86 (a band in which he was the lead singer).

The album features more rock oriented songs with fuller band arrangements than his previous two releases.

Kevin said of the album: “Split the Country was done after the band (Miracle of 86) broke up, like the hangover from that. It was more bi-polar: aggressive rock songs with fuller instrumentation, but also songs with violins and glockenspiel or just a guy with a guitar. Now this record feels like all of that smashed together, but all built around songs written on an acoustic guitar, and it seems to flow in a more cohesive way.”

The German record label, Defiance Records, released a double LP set with both Split the Country, Split the Street and Kevin’s previous album, Make the Clocks Move.
-From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Purchase on iTunes

Tracks:

1. Cotton Crush

2. Afterparty

3. No Time Flat

4. Keep Ringing Your Bell

5. No One Else’s Problem

6. Buried By The Buzz

7. Haircut

8. Probably

9. Alabama Acres

10. Yr Damned Ol’ Dad

11. The Shift Change Splits The Streets

12. You Are The Daybreak

13. Lord, I Know We Don’t Talk

Lyrics:

“Cotton Crush”

The bricks get laid, and they get torn up, and laid again, but the
bricks always get torn up again. Your friends won’t wait, so don’t believe
that shit, when they say they’ll wait. Trust me; your friends will not
wait for you. Then, you’ll be stoned in some park, just nodding your
head and pinching your arms, when a girl walks along. She’s humming
your song, with your t-shirt on. That’s when you’re done. There’s a
cotton crush down in the southern states. But back up here, man, we’ve
got so much thread and space to waste. There’s a microphone picking
every word up and it shuts itself off when it’s sure that it’s heard
enough. The quiet can scrape all the calm from your bones, but maybe it
should. Maybe we need to be hollowed to get up and grow, and stop fucking
around; to kick off our braces and start straightening out. Let’s sift
through the static to find a simpler sound than the shit that’s
clouding our heads now.

“Afterparty”

The afterparty’s rockin’, girl, and everybody’s dancing for you, but
you’re just drinking all my Ballantine and laughing while your lips turn
blue. Your friends are all uptight and everybody’s in an awkward mood,
so you keep drinking all my Ballantine and laughing while your lips
turn blue. I’m not really planning on coming back; I thought I told you
that. I guess I dreamt I told you that. The streets are slow and
silent and the backyard is a beat parade. So, I’m just sweeping up the
garbage while I listen to the songs you play, where everybody’s trying but
they just can’t get it straight. So, I’m just sweeping up the garbage
while I whistle all the songs you play. I keep changing my mind all
the time; I hope you think that that’s alright. Yeah, I hope you tell me
that that’s all right. I’m just slurring in the shade when the
daylight breaks, and you and me have got it made. Yeah, I think you and me
have got it made.

“No Time Flat”

Your skin’s in my mouth, but I’m thinking about thousands of things
that don’t got your name. So, I’m distant and weird; we stop and you’re
all ears. But how can I say, “I’ve just been thinking that it’s harder
every year to find excuses that’ll keep me in the clear; the arbitrary
lines I impress in the sand, the proof that piles in my trash can while
the skin on my hands is looking older every day. The lies I’ve told
have turned to leather on my face. The love I’ve lost has turned to
needles in my heart. But I’m to blame for all the bad parts. They’re the
choices I’ve made, hey hey.” That’s when I turn my face away, and I
watch the debates. Now, I can’t see straight. Take abortion away, and
both sides are just the same, so I’m not sure why I vote, ‘cuz I just
don’t know what difference it makes. It seems to me we get the same shit
from them both. Reform don’t work; I think it’s time we tried revolt,
but I don’t got the guts to jump up and go first, so I just shout until
my throat hurts, and I curse and I curse at what they fucked up in
Iraq. You say support the troops; I do. I want them all brought back, and
every building that you bombed raised from the ground. And pull your
contractors the fuck out. If you really go and reinstate the draft,
you’ll straight away just split the country straight in half, so try
arresting everyone who sends their draft cards back. I’ll be returning mine
in no time flat. In a sense we’re the same, struggling to save face.
It’s a question of scope: how far you’re willing to go to make rights
of your wrongs, despite the risk involved. It’s a question of faith,
‘cuz if we wait until we’ve all been burned to ash to tell the truth
about the shit buried in our pasts, we’ll split a taxi to that firepit way
down south. So, let’s rise up and open our mouths.

“Keep Ringing Your Bell”

I’m counting out dollars while I limp to your brownstone. I can just
barely cover what I need to get back home. I know we’re allowed
indiscretions in our lives, but I’ve been making mine count every night for a
while. I keep deleting your number and name from my cell phone, but I
call every day; that’s as far as my act goes. What you have helps me
turn down the noise that I make, but when it stops it just pokes me and
keeps me awake. My friends always warned about living clichés, but my
friends aren’t there when I meet you these days. I count people and
street signs from the back of your car and then skip back excited to
wherever they are. I take risks in the stall while they talk by the bar.
I won’t go back outside ‘til my memory starts erasing itself into
something less brutal, some beautiful bullshit I pretend to belong to. So,
as long as the truth tucks itself into bed, and the beat of my heart
and the heat of my breath keep me hopeful and distant and proud of
myself, I’ll keep ringing your bell every night around twelve.

“No One Else’s Problem”

I was consumed with proving you were a liar. But what good would that
do? We both know the truth; we were there and we lived it. But then
we kept rewriting and revising it. Rehashing and repeating it was bad
for us both. I was passive aggressive – I’m sorry; I was anxious to let
it all go. You’re no one else’s problem, but you sure are mine. So
many words and they all burn like blood on my tongue; so many songs and I
hate singing every one. I worry that I may never be satisfied. I try
and try and try, but it’s there in the front of my mind: bodies rotting
in water into mixtures of color that blur all the time.

“Buried By The Buzz”

I got a sweet tooth sunk in a soft spot that busts my jaw loose and
makes my mouth rot. I caught a bad break, the same one you caught, that
turned your hair white and choked your breath off. I’m buried by the
buzz of a year gone numb. I found gossip in the ivy that’s been
swallowing my house, and I found bones in the foundation that I’m just picking
out now. So, I’m buried by the buzz of a year gone numb. I got a
fistful of shattered seashells that scream like soldiers stuck down an oil
well. I saw a bad sign lit up like Broadway, and I watched my head
spin, and I heard my voice shake, “I’m buried by the buzz of a year gone
numb.” I found trouble in the ghost town that I’ve been building with
my hands, but I found comfort in the snowstorm that I’ve been piling on
my past. So, I’m buried by the buzz of a year gone numb. I see
symptoms of a sickness in every stranger on the street, and I see danger in
the distance speeding straight for you and me. So, I’m buried by the
buzz of a year gone numb.

“Haircut”

I saw your haircut in a storefront: the choppy sides and perfect bangs.
I loved the way it framed the model’s cheekbones and the blank
expression on her face. So I went inside and tried to buy it, but I got told,
“It’s not for sale.” I got embarrassed and I decked the sales clerk.
I stole the wig and ran like hell. I figured I would come and show
you, sco I kept running towards your house. Then, I remembered I don’t
know your address, at least not the place you sleep at now. So I hurried
home to get collected, to let the red flush from my face. I took out
my notebook and I sketched you smiling; I like to look at you that way.
Then, I put your haircut in my closet, next to the t-shirts and those
cards you sent. I turned my lights out and I sunk in slowly, counting
sheep and breathing hard again. When it comes, it’s way too quickly,
and it busts apart the faith I’ve grown. See, I can’t stop myself from
hurting you, so I guess I won’t.

“Probably”

You probably can’t stand your glasses, but you probably need them to
read. You probably waste all your down time, and you probably don’t get
much sleep. You probably don’t like the movies, but you probably go
anyway. You probably fight with your mother a lot when it feels like
there’s nothing to say. You probably don’t care for punk rock, but you
probably love “Crooked Rain.” And you probably don’t talk to strangers
like me, but you wish we’d talk to you just the same. So I should
probably say something to you, but I’d probably ruin it then. It’s best for
us both if I keep my mouth shut and just stay on my side of the train.

“Alabama Acres”

So there’s hundreds of auburn Alabama acres, with rows of red roofs
over warm farmer’s daughters who’ve got no intention of inviting me in.
Space shines all above me so I settle myself under it. When I wake up,
I’m back in my crowded city apartment, with some random men doing work
off in the kitchen. They’re stacking mattresses up now from the
ceiling down to the floor. My father’s sick in the hallway. I hear him
whistling under door. I rush to lift him, but you all know I’m weak, and
you know that he’s heavy. There’s no blood in his cheeks, but he’s
smiling straight at me. I ask the thickest of the workers, “Would you
please come and help me out?” He comes ambling over and says, “Sir, I love
how your whistling sounds.” So now we drag him through the kitchen to
the living room and down on the carpet. He says, “Son, I’m
embarrassed, but the sides of my head hurt. I just know that I’m tired and I
could surely use some rest.” I tear a mattress down for him and I say,
“Here Dad. Sleep some on this.” I wake for real, and it’s over. I’m
alone in the acres, and my dad is still dead. So if you’re underneath one
of those rooftops, look out your window and invite me on in, ‘cuz it’s
cold and I’m lonely, and I could sure use a friend.

“Yr Damned Ol’ Dad”

We’re going out tonight my son, so bring your flask and bring your
cross and bring your gun. I’ve been borrowin’ lots of cash, so you won’t
be needing none. Just wear your good shoes, ‘cuz we’re going out, my
son. I got a car loaded up with gas and parked right outside. I got a
city map and a mission in my mind. I just need someone riding with me,
a brother to my right to keep me company in that big old car outside.
‘Cuz I don’t wanna think about the world right now. I wanna drive from
bar to bar and wash the taste clean out. I wanna feel the way I felt
when we were kids messin’ around before I thought about the world like I
do now. But don’t go feelin’ all stuck and shamed for your damned ol’
dad, ‘cuz I’ve seen troubles that could kill ten stronger men. It’s
just that all this weight from la-la-livin’s been catchin’ fire in my
hands. Well, fuck this town, son. I wanna make ‘em crawl again. Tell
your lady not to leave on that light. Tell her not to sit up worryin’
all goddamn night. But if she’s awake when you crawl home, you just shut
your mouth and smile nice. Tell her, “Baby, I’m tired. Can’t we
please turn off those lights?” You say, “Baby I’m tired and I just wanna
shut off all those lights.”

“The Shift Change Splits The Streets”

I’m pushing pins through the pavement. I’m adding days to the week. I
feel the city sidewalk shake beneath me while everyone sleeps. I’m
spiking Punch & Judy sendoffs with silver dollars I stole from Michael’s
dresser somewhere back in Brooklyn while he was out digging holes. I
wrote the horse you rode in on a letter to keep the focus off me, and
make it stay there, to keep you guessing while the shift change splits the
streets, but I still can’t sleep.

“You Are The Daybreak”

It’s going straight to my head: I think I’m falling in love again.
Such simple miracles have happened since your steady hands have come and
stopped my unraveling. Your fingers, built for the piano, work out the
knots that line my back. The stress I’ve stored since last December;
now, it doesn’t matter. I’ve learned to leave it in my past. I feel
good about the future, and this clarity I’ve never had. You are the
bounce in my step, the burst of blood in my chest, the prayer I’ve kept in
my head. You are the knock of my knees, the swollen sound of each song
I scribble down and tear up, because they never match up. You are the
words I fumble for. In the morning, you are the daybreak, and I am
glad. At night, you are the dream I fall asleep to have.

“Lord, I Know We Don’t Talk”

In a motel room, with the Bible out, combing scripture for answers
about what’s happening now. I can’t believe my eyes, and I just can’t
trust my ears, but I’ve heard a man can always come find some solace here.
Lord, I know that we don’t talk often at all anymore, but desperate
folks do desperate things, so I’m stapling this note to your door.
Please: turn the ship around, and lock the course in place, and keep the
train tracks nailed to the ground, but pull the emergency brake. I’ve lost
my faith in man just like I once lost faith in you, and I’ve been
covering all kinds of ground thinkin’ hard ‘bout what else I could lose.
And I know how I look, to come crawling back, acting like you owe me
proof, but this is bigger than me, and I think it’s bigger than you too.
So if this gets to you, if you ever come home, just know I won’t be
awaiting the postman. I will not be glued to my phone. I’ll know a change
has come, I’ll know that you exist, when all our bombs stop exploding
and when all of our landmines are stripped. When we stop blowing up
strangers’ houses and making orphans of innocent kids, and people stop
thinking the world’s theirs for the taking ‘cuz your will once told them
it is. ‘Til then, I’m gonna shake my head, I’m gonna bite my tongue
when people tell me, “Have faith and be patient. We’re waiting for God to
show up.” ‘Til then, it’s one more skeptical song. But I’ll be glad
as hell if you come prove me wrong.