Get Disowned

by Hop Along

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03:07
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05:32
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06:43
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02:32
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02:52

about

This album was produced by Joe Reinhart and Hop Along and was engineered by Joe Reinhart.

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released 05 May 2012

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about

Hop Along Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Hop Along is Frances Quinlan, Mark Quinlan, Tyler Long, and Joe Reinhart who all went to rural suburban high schools (except for Joe, who went to a suburban suburban high school). Eventually they moved to Philly and started playing music together.

Get Disowned is their first full-length release. It was made piece by piece, over the course of two years, at Headroom Studios in North Philadelphia
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Track Name: Tibetan Pop Stars
How content are with ones with simple demands? They meet their fiancés cherry picking out in Canada.
While cursing the river, a seven fingered man, his three sleepless wives all equally sick of him.

Honey I left to see some action. What's with all these swamps? All I'm passing are hospitals and space-camps. Nobody is asking me "What about your other?" If they did I'd tell them you're a

Stanger in India
I'm gonna be creepin' on you so hard
You're seducin' Tibetan pop stars and
Wreckin' motor-cars

I know its true. This Is wrong love. Why is everything so expensive? Maybe in two years you can forgive me. I'll be living kinder. I'll have found my place as a

Stanger in India
I'm gonna be creepin' on you so hard
You're seducin' Tibetan pop stars and
Wreckin' motor-cars

A stranger in India. Doing ok so far. I'm just waiting on the feathers and tar. You are the only one. You are.

Nobody deserves you the way that I do.

Come home my stranger in India because waiting on you is too hard. The reason I haven't written back is because I'm still doing all that bad sh** I was.

My love is average. I obey an average law.
Track Name: Sally II
Two days gone. Somebody checked in on you.
That unsettling smell got into all the tenants' rooms.
You were found sitting up, all alone in the bathtub, your clothes dry.
But your brother doesn't wanna know and nobody told your caseworker you died.

Weigh-lifting magazines, your little TV set, your cigarettes...
Some ad sent you a big fake million dollar bill. You thought it was the real thing, you were gonna buy the world. How crushing in must have been to find this is not your place, this is not your time. At least you're numb to the sun crashing down upon your fifty-something hide.

Time's already working hard against the mind. There is no kindness. There's a different kind of crime. Those voices you were hearing, baby blue, was it God? Why did he only want to talk to you?

Your forgotten mind is also mine.