Picking pebbles out of a drain

(n.b. one word NSFW)

I've posted a video of Will Sheff of the band Okkervil River performing "A Stone" live in Milwaukee. This is a bit beyond our usual purview here at Tria Corda, but there's archaeological imagery throughout the lyrics—unintentional I'm sure—plus I happen to like the song.

"You love white veins, you love hard grey, the heaviest weight, the clumsiest shape, the earthiest smell, the hollowest tone..."

I originally heard "hard grey" as "hard grain," which would have made the description of the stone a bit more scientific; for some reason I imagined the stele of Hammurabi, though its hard-grained, heavy, clumsily-shaped diorite doesn't have white veins in evidence. Nor have I detected any particularly earthy smell about it; if anyone's ever given it a ding, could you let me know how it sounds?

"You love a stone, because it's smooth and it's cold. And you'd love most to be told that it's all your own."

As long as there is a demand for antiquities, looting will continue.

"You're out singing songs, and I'm down shouting names at the flickerless screen..."

Sounds like somebody got stuck doing the GIS work while everybody else nipped off for a drink...

"And I think I believe that, if stones could dream, they'd dream of being laid side-by-side, piece-by-piece, and turned into a castle for some towering queen they're unable to know."

I particularly dig this part: the agency, intentionality of objects; taking their meaning from being grouped into "castle," anyone?

I've posted the lyrics below, because the band's site is in Flash and doesn't allow for direct linking to particular bits...

Hot breath, rough skin, warm laughs and smiling, the loveliest words whispered and meant - you like all these things. But, though you like all these things, you love a stone. You love a stone, because it's smooth and it's cold. And you'd love most to be told that it's all your own. You love white veins, you love hard grey, the heaviest weight, the clumsiest shape, the earthiest smell, the hollowest tone - you love a stone. And I'm found too fast, called too fond of flames, and then I'm phoning my friends, and then I'm shouldering the blame, while you're picking pebbles out of the drain, miles ago. You're out singing songs, and I'm down shouting names at the flickerless screen, going fucking insane. Am I losing my cool, overstating my case? Well, baby, what can I say? You know I never claimed that I was a stone. And you love a stone. You love white veins, you love hard grey, the heaviest weight, the clumsiest shape, the earthiest smell, the hollowest tone - you love a stone. You love a stone, because it's dark, and it's old, and if it could start being alive you'd stop living alone. And I think I believe that, if stones could dream, they'd dream of being laid side-by-side, piece-by-piece, and turned into a castle for some towering queen they're unable to know. And when that queen's daughter came of age, I think she'd be lovely and stubborn and brave, and suitors would journey from kingdoms away to make themselves known. And I think that I know the bitter dismay of a lover who brought fresh bouquets every day when she turned him away to remember some knave who once gave just one rose, one day, years ago.

We now return to our irregularly-scheduled programming...