Six Feet Over

by Sjur Lyseid


The video for Dystopian Sci-fi was filmed in the lounge/kitchen of Six Feet Over, my studio here in Oslo. The name is a strange one, and one I've regretted repeatedly. Like this stupid band name of mine: Something that just got stuck, from back when it was just a few songs I'd recorded for myself and a few of my closest friends. Unlike the band name, however, the name Six Feet Over has a clear motif and a meaning. It's in an old industrial building in Tøyen, Oslo. Located above a grave stone masonry. So there you go, I'm a poet, yeah I know it, hope I don't blow it.


Six Feet has been so much more than a studio for me, though. It's been a place of creation, community, frustrations, excitement, sometimes refuge, and where I've made and maintained most of my adult friendships. Plus all the amazing records I've been a part of making there, of course. The song "Six Feet Over" is my attempt at celebrating both the physical place and the people I've shared it with. After ten years we'll soon pack up and leave, they're turning the building into condos.


This is weirdly the most autobiographical song on Half Empty. It's also the most tounge-in-cheek. In a way, that sums up what I think is the central theme of the whole thing: What's a character? What's a persona? Can you truly write about anything but yourself and your own experiences? Am I able to write about anything but writing? What am "I"? Who are "you"? What is love? (baby, don't hurt me).


It's a song I wasn't sure was going to go on the album. I'm still not really sure it fits, lyrically or musically. It's the only country-song on there, to the extent that it uses all of the cliches. But we had so much fun playing and recording it, and hopefully that sense of collaboration and effortlessness shines through. So here's to three chords and the truth! Or four chords and a lie.








When I cleaned out this place, I found a small leather pouch under layers of dust behind the living room couch. 

With things I’d forgotten I actually own. And a note with your name from when we were still unknows.

I am what I am or pretended to be. Threw the bathwater out with accuracy. 

Now I paint my maps from memory with an aerosol can. Let the rough edges proclaim I am a better man. 

Maybe I am, I’ve been doing what I can, but you know how it’s easy to stray from a plan. 


They’re making gravestones in the basement while I rule in the control room. Keeping warm in my sheep’s clothing 

while you're out howling at the moon.


When you had first stumbled upon me and my lies, you had a halo of sadness and twinkling eyes. I forgot that this place has revolving doors. I held on to your bag as you hit the dancefloor. My outlook may need further explanation. See, my first love, she got married in the Appalachians. That might sound pretentious, but actually it’s true. Unlike most of these things I’ve been telling you: I’m bitter and blue, there’s no beauty or truth. And where timelessness comes to an end, there’s solitude.


They're making gravestones in the basement, while I'm cutting down on my metaphors. Grazing on the green grass between us, while you're out dining with the carnivores. 


Oh wait, my apprentice. I still have stories to tell. Like when we went to the crossroads, but had nothing to sell. 

So if you wake up at night, thinking everything must change, just means there's something still pounding 

behind the bars of your ribcage.


They’re making gravestones in the basement while I rule in the control room. Keeping warm in my sheep’s clothing 

while you're out howling at the moon.