Accidents & Time

by Sjur Lyseid



This is the worst song on the album. I know most songwriter’s will say things like: “They’re all my babies, I can’t choose between my babies”. I also know they’ll be lying. Of course we have our favorites, but also some we for some reason struggle with, even after the fact. The reason for you disliking it as a writer can be completely unfounded, or at least not grounded in any valid terms as far as a listener goes. There might be an instrumental part you feel like you couldn’t quite nail, or that the lyrics didn’t really click with you immediately, or that the mix just didn’t sound right no matter how it actually sounded. Or that you were just really hung over the day you recorded it. 


To me, that song was sadly Accidents & Time (and all of the above is true). For a lot of people involved with the making of the album, it’s their favorite. Which just goes to show you can’t really be the judge of your own art, a fact that is both inspiring and scary. Who knows, maybe in time I’ll learn to appreciate it as well. 


A big thanks to Morten Myklebust, who in about half an hour learned how to play the guitar part I had been practicing for years, and recorded it effortlessly in the half hour after that, on Nils’s great grandfather’s old archtop from 1911.





In this northern town we are getting old, 

united by our love for John K. Samson and our disdain for the cold.

It’s how you replied, clear avoidance, crooked lines. 

When all I need is straighter answers, overtures and hope,

you said


“I believe in accidents and time. Promises, conversation and wine”. 

Yet the marks on your skin pull me into the dark.


The continents drifted further apart. 

We were Mid-Atlantic swimming, divided islands, states of the art.  

You were always bent on finding something else than this. 

Oslo’s awkward kinesis is always easy to dismiss.


While I believe in accidents and time. Broken trust and condescending lines. 

Yet the light on your skin pulls me into the night


Where the black matter eats every line

and I tie them to knots.

There, when daylight descends without rhyme

I was trying to disconnect the dots.

And I was right on time.


I've got words that could make you  spin. And a box I put them in. 

But we are right on time.