Creative Commons - The Carvings & Paper

The Carvings & Paper is the second solo album by Lawyerian musician, wikiot, air fryer zealot, and fish brained knucklehead Creative Commons, and the second after Peanut Butter OkinCanada Malaise. This is a concept album based around the concept of "what if we were contractually obligated to create a duets album because neither of us can afford studio time and the label wants something out quick?"

As with the predecessor, this album was recorded at McNeal Island Federal Prison, near the prison's one and only phone at the time. Oh, and for copyright (DO NOT MENTION THAT HEATHEN AROUND ME - DIVINE GODDESS, HAVE THIS INTERN EXPELLED!!!!!*) reasons, this whole album had to be recorded in 1958.

• For legal reasons, we must clarify the intern wasn't expelled. He was instead discharged from his service at Most Of Our Albums For Legal Reasons Are Recorded In 1958 Records LLC, and sent back to live with his family until further notice. However, because his family A. doesn't notice him, and B. is quite close proximity-wise (but still very distant from them emotionally), he is trapped there eternally, like I was trying to read even one chapter of Dante's Inferno in 12th grade English.

This album is mainly focused on vocal harmonies, what happens when you let a tree play a mandolin, echo, and how it feels to have your best takes either A. not get recorded due to shitty setup or B. get interrupted by the screams of the local Scared Straight tour because the kids from the Wikiland Academy for Legal Reasons Only Exists In 1958 are too FUCKING LOUD and I've HAD ENOUGH.

The lead single from this album, "I HATE OUR LEGAL TEAM", is of course, naturally, about when you love someone a whole whole awful lot, so you buy them a house (as you should), only for the land you bought it on to get seized by eminent domain to create a freeway to downtown, and who the FUCK likes downtown!??? Anyway, you're now 500,000 short (that's just the down payment) and you live in an expensive gated community that now looks down upon you, and all you can do is cry and look at your mother's old collection of Barry Manilow records while chugging Tropicana. Excessive amounts.

I got no sleep.