Hipster Blues & British Birds EP (2010)

by The Young Republic

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Performer Magazine Review
By: Sarah Joblin

If the Beatles and Bob Dylan had a musical love child, the result would be the Young Republic's new EP, Hipster Blues British Birds. The album has a vintage feel, favoring self-penned love songs, a delightful doo-wop number, and good old-fashioned rock and roll tunes that were made for dancing. Lead singer Julian Saporiti's voice has a '60s rocker quality that lends itself nicely to lyrics, decrying the hipster scene in the title track "Hipster Blues," while remaining convincing as he croons out a love song to a girl he hardly knows in "The Composer. The Artist. The Atlantic."

Kristin Weber's harmony vocals soar on the track "Bronagh," while the lush strings on "The Girl's Got Legs For Miles" showcase her virtuosic violin playing and string arrangements. While the most Dylan-esque track by far is the cynical "An Artist. Am I? No." (which catalogues all the nonsense that we as a society are told to accept as art), several of the songs deal with the distinction between art and pretension. Whatever your hipster stance may be, this group has elevated catchy melodies to an art form.

credits

released March 7, 2010

cover photo: my grandparents taken by my dad c. 1980
written and produced by Julian Saporiti
String arrangements by Kristin Weber
published by West Meade Music (ASCAP)
Julian Saporiti: Vocals, Guitars
Kristin Weber: Violin, Harmony Vocals, Organ, Percussion
Cody Uhler: Harmony Vocals
Haley Shaw: Harmony Vocals
Dan Lipsitz: Tenor Saxophone
Sarah Wilfong: Violin
Ben Easton: Piano
Joey Bennet: Guitar
Bob Merkl: Guitar
Chris Miller: Bass
Joe Giotta: Drums

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Julian Saporiti Providence, Rhode Island

Songwriter.

Scholar.

nonoboymusic.com

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Track Name: Hipster Blues
In the last few months I have noticed a girl
But she don’t dance at shows. no, she never twirls
Hands in her pockets, c’mon baby, it don’t hurt to move

You look like one in a million, you are a shooting star
So why are you hanging on a slacker’s arm
Who drinks PBR and talks music like he knows a thing or two

Is he really so special or even that cool?
He was reading Dostoevsky and made sure that you knew
He also works in the mall, a fact he might have with held from you

Ain’t nothing wrong with C.C. or a low level job
But when you get home at night don’t waste the hours you got
You gotta practice a lot or you’ll be 30 selling CDs used

Oooo... Baby be cool. Don’t give me hipster blues

My fashion sense has never been too keen
But I know you look good in them skinny jeans
But do you really want a boyfriend who wears the same clothes as you?

Ain’t gonna hate someone for the style of their hair
But that’s not style it’s mass production just look over there
Six cute girls in the front row with the same bad hairdo

It ain’t cool to be ironic or not give a damn
Hold lots of high opinions never work with your hands
I built up this band, tell me what can he do?

Once upon a time I wore my blazer with tees
Yes’ it’s true but I aslo used to be sixteen
I ditched the chucks, I repented, these are shined shoes

Oooo... Baby be cool. Don’t give me hipster blues
Oooo... Baby be cool. Don’t give me hipster blues
Track Name: The Girl's Got Legs For Miles
I can’t wait to tour again in the UK (whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)
There’s a girl over there, I saw her picture on the plane (whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)
I gotta know someone who knows
The chick from the Zutons

She wears miniskirts, she’s got legs that go for days (whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)
She rocks a saxophone, I bet she dances when she plays (whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)
I gotta know someone who knows
The chick from the Zutons

She could be married, she could be single
I would give anything to mix and mingle with her for a while
The one thing I know... the girl’s got legs for miles

I can’t wait to tour again in the UK (whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)
Maybe we’ll be introduced at some BBC soiree (whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)
I gotta know someone who knows
The chick from the Zutons

She could be married, she could be single
I would give anything to mix and mingle with her for a while
The one thing I know, the girl’s got legs for miles

I can’t wait to tour again in the UK (whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)
There’s a girl over there, I saw her picture on the plane (whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)
I gotta know someone who knows
The chick from the Zutons
The chick from the Zutons
The chick from the Zutons
Track Name: Bronagh
Shake it out, shake it out of my mind
She’s just 17, oh and Lord knows that I’ve tried
To shake her out but those big blue Irish eyes
Make my knees knock, make my head feel so light
She puts that grin on me everytime
If only she were mine
I gotta know, could this ever work out? (ah - oo, ah - oo, ah - oo)
Baby girl, you’re too young right now, oh now, oh now, oh now, oh now, oh now

Bronagh, Wish I could know ya a little better
Bronagh, Wish you were older when I met ya, who knows we might be together

Shake it out, shake it out of my dirty head
Gotta get her out but maybe someday back again when
She’s 28 and I am 33
Tell me then how much difference could there be
She puts that grin on me everytime
If only she were mine
I gotta know, could this ever work out? (ah - oo, ah - oo, ah - oo) You’re just a...
Baby girl, you’re too young right now, oh now, oh now, oh now, oh now, oh now, OH...

Bronagh, Wish I could know ya a little better
Bronagh, Wish you were older when I met ya, who knows we might be together

She puts that grin on me everytime
If only she were mine, oh mine, oh mine, oh mine, oh mine, oh mine, OH...

Bronagh, Wish I could know ya a little better
Bronagh, Wish you were older when I met ya, who knows we might be together
Bronagh, Wish I could know ya a little better
Bronagh, Wish you were older when I met ya, who knows we might be together
Track Name: The Composer. The Artist. The Atlantic.
How could this be, I only met you once
Could I wait a year to take you out to lunch?
Oh it seems that way ‘cause you and me
We won’t always be across the sea
Do I love you? Maybe so, I don’t know

I’ll be back again when the new record is out
I hope by the spring, you can come hear me sing
We can talk once more like we did outside the 100 club
I told you, you got old eyes for someone so young

I cherish the letters that you send to me
From your busy life about twice a week
I adore the French you slip in between
And the English words you spell phonetically
Do I love you? Maybe so, I don’t know

You have a tendency to say beautiful things
The way you look at trees or when describing
The color blue, a royal blue, You are royal too
If I could see you tomorrow, tomorrow couldn’t come too soon

I’ve been going out with American girls
But I get so bored, no they just won’t do
When I think of you looking right at me
In those pictures you sent over to Tennessee
Do I love you? Maybe so, I don’t know

If we could be together for a month or more
Could I write symphonies on your bedroom floor
Would you be my best friend, sew a jacket for me?
Oh, I’m dying to see because you’re already
The coolest girl I think I’ll ever meet

You design wonderful clothes, you draw and you paint
I think we think about art in a similar way
Impressionism is your favorite style
Same goes for me, oh, you make me smile
Do I love you? Maybe so, I don’t know

Sweet French girl, every week
You exchange a sketch for a classical piece of music I write
I find it all so romantic
The composer, the artist, the Atlantic
Track Name: So, Here's To Your Death
Before we could drive, before we could moan
When coming back home was still coming back home
Sydney stopped by she said hi for you
Before Anna left and Lucy did too
So long, we’ve been gone for so long

Standing alone and losing belief
Looking for crooks and catching the chief
There’s no art in life and no prize in this fight
The money’s in arms, cards for the rich and white
So long, it’s been gone for so long

Suitors of fate, two by the sea
Our parents’ demands will have us tied down in the street
He had violent lips when I kissed him goodbye
Like watching old films when Brando still tried
When bands were just cool not caught up in scenes
When folksingers still learned how to sing
So long, it’s been gone for so long

So here’s to your death, oh you’re carving out a good career
Marks on your head, got the devils whispering in your ear
With all due respect, I’d say ‘I don’t care’
I don’t care
Track Name: An Artist. Am I? No!
I want to be an artist but an artist I can not be
In a land of fools, phonies and freaks, an artist I can not see
You might jump on a chair, dye your hair, call yourself Panda Bear
But that don’t mean a thing now do it though?
I might strum upon a guitar but an artist am I? No.

I went to school in New York City and fell into a band
Wore cool sunglasses, polo shirts and wrote some catchy tunes god damn
Hear those Lion King-Beach Vibe-Ivy League-Whitified-Semper Phi’d-
Grooves on alternative satellite radio
I might cite African influence but an artist am I? No.

I tried to be a painter, I couldn’t wait for it to dry
I filled a car with darts, called it modern mart, make money like Republican
I put a lightbulb in my mouth
Charged five dollars for the show
I might put shit in a can but an artist am I? No.

I wasn’t so bad way back in the day
But I forgot how to sing when I found something to say
I’m the last man alive
Who needs a giant microphone
I might dine with the President but an artist am I? No.

I want to be an artist but an artist I can not be
I can rhyme a line, I can play in time, but there’s no soul in the 21st century
I’ve looked high and low
I’ve read all those paperbacks, Kerouac to be exact
It’s hard to find Dean Moriarty when it’s four bucks a gallon Jack