by Charles Bordeaux



The album has one true theme: appreciation.

Dedicated to the Pit of my Peach, Caroline K. Phillips

"Fables is a colorful album made with grade “A” production, all the tracks are filled with organic sounds that flow all around the room, some tracks are feel-good music, some are nostalgic, it’s a great mixed bag." - www.pole2pole.com

"Think M. Ward meets Millionyoung." - www.glofimustdie.com

"Mallets, wind instrument sounds, rippling keys, deep thudding kick drums, etc, are layered over one another to produce colorfully saturated tracks cocooned in an overall sense of joy and gratification... A highly ear pleasing outcome." - www.buffablog.com


released December 16, 2012

Album Art: Chris Giordano.
For artwork, contact Chris at: Christophergiordano@ymail.com




Charles Bordeaux Buffalo, New York

Charles Bordeaux, n.

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Track Name: The Sandman
When man was born,
upon this land.
He was given by time,
A handful of sand.

Time told the man,
To treasure each grain.
For each piece of sand
Won't be used again.

For every grain dropped it leaves a trail. (2x)

That man must re-step,
When he's old and frail.

Man must re-step his trail when he's old and frail. (2x)
Track Name: Blood Pacts I (the Weeds)
The Farmer went to the Market,
Confronted by a man.
He told him he could double his earnings,
If he bought this land.

Eyes filled with gold,
Greed consumed his heart.
He signed his name upon the line,
And asked when he could start.

Little did he know the land was defiled,
the crops grown would crumble,
the weeds ran wild,
the weeds ran wild.
Track Name: The Forrest and the Moon
The Farmer lays in bed,
Quietly beside his wife.
Dreams dance in her head,
The Farmer's mind races with thoughts.

The kids, the love, the grange.
Grown, aged, and gone.
A head now full of grey,
once was thick and rich, the color bronze.
He sees the moon is full,
He rises out of bed.
He hops on, his 59' Bonneville,
Away away he sped.

He rides, he rides, he rides.
He rides into the night.
Like a north start,
or a compass,
He follows the moonlight.
With Crossroads ahead,
The forest to the north,
He parks along the gravel road,
And takes neither fork.

He's drawn to the woods,
With the moon as his guide.
He stops dead in his tracks,
He can't believe his eyes.
There stood time,
With all his sand.
The farmer smiled,
looking at his hand.

Time nods.
The Farmer understands.
In his hand,
Is the final grain of sand.