BURNT SONGS FROM THE TOASTER 

Q: “Serpentine” opens the album with an incredible amount of aggressive energy. Where did that track come from?

David Kitzmiller: “’Serpentine’ was one of the first songs I ever wrote — back when I was an angry teenager with the gods of heavy metal screaming in my ears. It came from that era of skateboards, cheap amps, and feeling completely out of place in the farmland I grew up in. I wasn’t even a huge metal fan at the time, but all my friends were, and I adapted to fit in. Writing something loud, aggressive, and over‑the‑top felt like the easiest way to belong. So I leaned into it, and ‘Serpentine’ was the result.

The name itself was almost definitely a misspelling from my 13‑year‑old self, but I’m glad it stayed. The wrongness fits the song — jagged, crooked, venomous. The poem was teenage fury dressed up as menace, the kind of thing you write when you’re trying to sound dangerous even though you’re still figuring out who you are.

When I brought it onto Burnt Songs from the Toaster: Volume I, it made perfect sense as the opener. The moment that first riff hits, I’m right back in those early days — adrenaline, rebellion, and the urge to scream at something even if you didn’t know what. The song version turns the poem into a full metal assault: gang vocals, shredding solos, divebombs, double‑kick drums, the whole chaotic storm. It’s theatrical, loud, and unapologetically angry.”

Q: The track “Eternal Internal Struggle” carries a very heavy, claustrophobic weight. What is the history behind those lyrics?

David Kitzmiller: “’Eternal Internal Struggle’ was one of the last pieces I wrote before seeking professional help in late 2024. By then, the internal noise had become constant — sharp, intrusive, and impossible to ignore. The poem was the fight between the voice in my head and the part of me that wanted out. No metaphor, no character, no disguise. Just the pressure of living with a voice that wouldn’t shut up.

The anger behind the lyrics had been building for years with nowhere to go. The poem captured that tension, but the song gave it shape. In the studio, James’ vocal delivery changed everything. The way he shifted between spoken confession and melodic release made the track feel like a conversation between two versions of the same person. His performance made the conflict audible — not just something on the page.

It’s the moment before anything changes — when you’re still crawling, still screaming, still trying to silence a voice welded to your skin. The repeated mantra of ‘YOU ARE ME / I AM YOU’ became the spine of the song, the acknowledgment that the enemy wasn’t external. It was me. And saying that out loud was the first step toward doing something about it.”

Q: “Forgiveness Is a Full-Time Job” has a relentless, driving pace. What is the core message driving that rhythm?

David Kitzmiller: “’Forgiveness is a Full‑Time Job’ is an apology disguised as rage, and eventually it drops the act. It’s about being loved unconditionally and still finding ways to screw it up — and worse, realizing there were moments where I preferred the chaos. The song leans into that contradiction. It’s the sound of someone who knows they were given patience and stability and still chose the mess because the mess felt familiar.

The beat never lets up. It mirrors the cycle the lyrics are stuck in — pushing someone away while wanting them close, burning down the boat while they’re still trying to patch the holes. In the studio, The James Fields Band leaned into that tension. Every instrument pushes forward, refusing to slow down. Anger masking vulnerability. Rhythm refusing to settle. A narrative admitting that hurting is easier than healing.

James’ vocal delivery sharpened the whole track. His shifts between spoken confession and melodic release made it feel like a confrontation with yourself — the version that knows better and the version that keeps breaking things anyway. His performance captured the exhaustion behind the lyrics, the weight of being loved by someone who deserved better, and the guilt of not giving them the version of yourself they hoped for.”

Q: “Anarchy Is Reality” stands out as a track with historical roots in your timeline. How did that piece survive into this album?

David Kitzmiller: “’Anarchy is Reality’ was written during a freshman summer school class in Westfield, Indiana — long before I understood anything about politics or global conflict. It was frustration on paper, the kind of rebellion you write when you’re first realizing the world is louder and more chaotic than the slogans adults hand you. What surprised me years later is how much of that early disillusionment still hits. Some things don’t soften with age.

In the studio, The James Fields Band treated the track like a time capsule cracked open at the right moment. The lyrics didn’t need much updating. The defiance, the disappointment, the sense that peace is always promised but rarely delivered — all of it fit the album’s broader themes.

This song is about the realization that chaos isn’t hypothetical — it’s the backdrop we’ve always lived in. ‘Anarchy is Reality’ blends my teenage frustration with adult perspective, turning a classroom scribble into a thrash anthem that says more than I meant it to at the time.”

Q: “A Graphic Moment” feels like a massive stylistic shift for a heavy industrial record. How did that track materialize?

David Kitzmiller: “’A Graphic Moment’ is one of the most misunderstood pieces I’ve written. People assume it’s some kind of horror‑novel take on intimacy, but that’s not what it is. Yes, it’s about sex — but not in a conventional way. It’s about intensity, the kind that blurs lines and bends the room. The poem tries to capture the feeling of being completely in sync with someone, where adrenaline and connection twist together in ways that don’t fit cleanly into language.

It’s the way intensity can feel overwhelming, how desire can feel like panic, how closeness can feel like losing control. The poem uses surreal imagery because the experience itself felt surreal. It wasn’t meant to be pretty. It wasn’t meant to be gentle. It was meant to feel like the moment itself — chaotic, consuming, and hard to explain.

On the album, ‘A Graphic Moment’ fills the role every heavy metal or industrial record eventually needs — the twisted love ballad. Tim’s voice gives the lyrics the right edge. Not soft, not candlelit. The kind of edge that feels like nails down your back and the world shaking under your feet. The music leans into that energy with industrial drums and distorted guitars, turning the poem’s intensity into something you can feel in your chest.” 

Q: “Your Local Pizza Place Sucks” opens Volume II with a brutally honest perspective on the aftermath of a relationship. What sparked this specific narrative?
David Kitzmiller: "I wrote this while I was still sitting in the bitterness of a breakup. What makes it strange is that I’m the one who ended it — but that didn’t stop me from picking the whole thing apart afterward. I kept replaying every moment, every compromise, every tiny lie I told to keep things smooth. Eventually I landed on the truth I didn’t want to admit: the whole thing fell apart because I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

The title and the closing line bring that full circle. 'Your Local Pizza Place Sucks' isn’t just a joke — it’s the symbol of all the pretending. She loved that place. I didn’t. I sat there eating bad pizza and acting like it was fine because that’s what she wanted. After the breakup, even the taste of it became a reminder of how much of myself I’d sanded down just to fit her world."

Q: “You Dropped Something” shifts the record into a completely wild, theatrical direction. How did a track about a zombie romance come together in the studio?

David Kitzmiller: "I wrote 'You Dropped Something' during what I called 'Spooktober' — a self‑imposed Halloween writing marathon where I tried to flip every ghost, ghoul, and monster into something human, stupid, or strangely relatable. It was my way of taking the things that normally cause nightmares and turning them into something my friends and I could laugh at instead.

This one came from a simple, ridiculous question: 'What do you do when it’s 2 A.M., you’re lonely, you’re horny… and she’s a zombie?' You make the best of the situation, I guess.

I don’t say this often, but I loved this one from the moment I put the words down. I could already hear the chorus, the pauses, the 'BRAINS!' group vocals — the whole thing played in my head like a punk band trying way too hard to write a serious pop love song. When I brought it into the studio, that was the exact pitch: make it catchy, make it stupid, make it sincere in the worst possible way.

Fred McArcher said something was missing, disappeared for a minute, and came back holding a ukulele. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. The moment he played the intro, the whole track snapped together — the perfect mix of comedy, chaos, and accidental sweetness."

Q: “Open Buttons” hits on a very relatable kind of emotional relapse. What is the conflict at the core of this track?

David Kitzmiller: "'Open Buttons' is about trying to recover from a relationship that already ran its course. This song follows up on the ending of the relationship with the same girl mentioned in 'Second Place, Second Rate' on the Recorded Songs from the Toaster: Volume I.  I was doing everything I could to move on — rebuilding routines, convincing myself I was fine, trying to put distance between who I was with her and who I was trying to become without her. And then she shows up.

Everything changes the moment her buttons started coming undone. All the progress, all the clarity, all the strength I thought I had — gone. It’s the kind of relapse you see coming from a mile away and I still walked straight into because the pull is stronger than the plan. Eventually, I had to —  wait, that's a story for another song."

Q: The atmosphere on “On the News at Eleven” feels incredibly tense and ominous. Where did that specific psychological energy come from?

David Kitzmiller: "I wrote 'On the News at Eleven' as a kind of channeling of my brother Shawn’s treatment of relationships. When we were teenagers — and honestly well into his twenties — no relationship was ever over until he said it was over. He didn’t let go. He didn’t move on. He didn’t stop. That kind of emotional damage sticks with you when you grow up watching it.

This track is built on that behavior — the obsession, the chasing, the refusal to accept an ending. The melody feels like footsteps behind you, the kind that make your spine tighten even when you know you’re alone. James sings it like he doesn’t realize he’s not the victim in the story, but the predator. That’s what makes the whole thing work: the denial, the desperation, and the danger sitting right under the surface."

Q: As the closing track for Volume II, “one last request” carries a massive, devastating weight. How did this song evolve from its original poem?

David Kitzmiller: "'one last request' was written before the breakup — back when I still believed things could be fixed if I just tried hard enough. It came from that quiet, desperate hope that if certain things changed, if certain promises were kept, maybe everything could go back to being good again. It wasn’t a plea, and it wasn’t manipulation. It was the last flicker of wanting to save something that was already slipping away.

The poem is a spiral — every line a different attempt to make sense of the collapse. It moves through anger, bargaining, nostalgia, denial, prayer, and regret like someone pacing a room they can’t escape. It’s the kind of writing you do when you’re trying to hold onto something that’s already halfway gone. Every image is a different version of the same question: What do I have to do to make this stop hurting?

When I brought it into the studio, the band didn’t treat it like a breakup song. They treated it like a confession. Everyone had their own version of 'the one that got away,' and that shared weight shaped the arrangement. The soundscape — the wind, the static, the heartbeat, the dripping faucet, the tape machine — all of it feels like the inside of a mind that hasn’t slept in days. James’ delivery makes it even heavier. He sings it like someone trying to bargain with a ghost.

The ending is the part that matters most. After all the pleading, all the wishing, all the attempts to rebuild what’s already gone, the truth finally lands:
'Dream the dream of love…
Dream the dream of love…
Then realize I’m dead.'"