幽霊公園 (Yūrei Kōen)

by Ghost Park

supported by
Patty K.
Patty K. thumbnail
Patty K. All of your music is amazing. Can match any occasion. Highly underrated, hope your work gets the attention it deserves. Favorite track: Hiraeth.
  • Streaming + Download

    Includes high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more. Paying supporters also get unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app.

      name your price


  • Cassette + Digital Album

    Cassette limited to 50 hand-numbered copies. Alternate artwork, layout, and manufacture by Randall of Graveyard Orbit.

    Includes unlimited streaming of 幽霊公園 (Yūrei Kōen) via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    ships out within 2 days
    edition of 50  5 remaining

      $5 USD or more 


  • Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    CD limited to 25 hand-numbered copies. Alternate artwork, layout, and manufacture by Randall of Graveyard Orbit.

    Includes unlimited streaming of 幽霊公園 (Yūrei Kōen) via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    ships out within 2 days
    edition of 25  1 remaining

      $5 USD or more 




released December 16, 2015

All tracks written, recorded, mixed, and mastered by Matt in Boston in 2015; except Track 1, recorded somewhere in New Hampshire; and Track 10, recorded in Boston and Syracuse.

Cover design by Ally (allyhealy.com).

Jake plays Synths on Track 1, Piano on Track 13.
Nick plays Acoustic Guitar, Russian Scientist on Track 1.
Zach plays Cornet on Tracks 1 and 13, Euphonium on Track 13.
Tyler plays Drums on Tracks 2, 3, 9, 13.
Tyler and Caitlin sing on Track 2.
Composition of Track 10 by Conor.
David plays Piano on Track 12.
Caitlin recites poetry on Track 14.
Matt plays Electric Guitar on Tracks 1-13; Acoustic Guitar on Tracks 2 and 9; Bass on Tracks 1-5, 7-9, 11 and 13; Piano on Tracks 1, 5 and 7; Glockenspiel on Tracks 1 and 2; Tambourine on Track 2; Percussion on Track 8; and Vocals on Tracks 1, 3, and 5.

All sounds and field recordings shot by Matt in Massachusetts, New York, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, Washington D.C., and California.

Thanks to Conor, without whom Ghost Park would not exist.

Dedicated to the memories of Joseph Lombardi and Shane Howe.



all rights reserved


Ghost Park New York, New York

From 2017 onward, half of all sales will be going to charity.

contact / help

Contact Ghost Park

Streaming and
Download help

Track Name: Eloquent, But Rarely Outspoken
Eloquent, But Rarely Outspoken.
She commands my attention with her name's subtle mention.
I'm stealing glances from behind rows of empty
crystal parapets and stale cigarettes.
She holds all the cards and she knows it too.
The queen to my rook.
A clouded judgment, an inebriated stupor.
I swore she read me like a book.

She took my hand, she stole my breath,
She stole me away.
Staring into headlights, unblinking.
Hopelessness running through her veins.

Another day, another nosebleed.
Headaches and a fistful of pills.
Numbers blur, people melt away.
Pupils seared by the lights.
Track Name: Crossing Freeways In The Rain
City lights blurring by.
Equipped with roses, suit, and tie.
Her smile brightens up the room,
But I'm content to writhe in gloom.
She glares with contemplative lust.
The hinges of my smile rust.
Crossing Freeways In The Rain.
But she takes me to entertain.
Track Name: Cufflinks And Timepieces
We looked like ghosts that night.
Slivers of light reflecting off our faces.
Silver dress elegantly adorned.
Cufflinks and Timepieces.

So Here We Are.
Lying wasted on her bed.
I want to be,
Buried in the sky.
Track Name: 恐ろしい夜の街
The City is of Night; perchance of Death
But certainly of Night; for never there
Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath
After the dewy dawning's cold grey air:
The moon and stars may shine with scorn or pity
The sun has never visited that city,
For it dissolveth in the daylight fair.

Dissolveth like a dream of night away;
Though present in distempered gloom of thought
And deadly weariness of heart all day.
But when a dream night after night is brought
Throughout a week, and such weeks few or many
Recur each year for several years, can any
Discern that dream from real life in aught?

For life is but a dream whose shapes return,
Some frequently, some seldom, some by night
And some by day, some night and day: we learn,
The while all change and many vanish quite,
In their recurrence with recurrent changes
A certain seeming order; where this ranges
We count things real; such is memory's might.

A river girds the city west and south,
The main north channel of a broad lagoon,
Regurging with the salt tides from the mouth;
Waste marshes shine and glister to the moon
For leagues, then moorland black, then stony ridges;
Great piers and causeways, many noble bridges,
Connect the town and islet suburbs strewn.

Upon an easy slope it lies at large
And scarcely overlaps the long curved crest
Which swells out two leagues from the river marge.
A trackless wilderness rolls north and west,
Savannahs, savage woods, enormous mountains,
Bleak uplands, black ravines with torrent fountains;
And eastward rolls the shipless sea's unrest.

The city is not ruinous, although
Great ruins of an unremembered past,
With others of a few short years ago
More sad, are found within its precincts vast.
The street-lamps always burn; but scarce a casement
In house or palace front from roof to basement
Doth glow or gleam athwart the mirk air cast.

The street-lamps burn amid the baleful glooms,
Amidst the soundless solitudes immense
Of ranged mansions dark and still as tombs.
The silence which benumbs or strains the sense
Fulfills with awe the soul's despair unweeping:
Myriads of habitants are ever sleeping,
Or dead, or fled from nameless pestilence!

Yet as in some necropolis you find
Perchance one mourner to a thousand dead,
So there: worn faces that look deaf and blind
Like tragic masks of stone. With weary tread,
Each wrapt in his own doom, they wander, wander,
Or sit foredone and desolately ponder
Through sleepless hours with heavy drooping head.

Mature men chiefly, few in age or youth,
A woman rarely, now and then a child:
A child! If here the heart turns sick with ruth
To see a little one from birth defiled,
Or lame or blind, as preordained to languish
Through youthless life, think how it bleeds with anguish
To meet one erring in that homeless wild.

They often murmur to themselves, they speak
To one another seldom, for their woe
Broods maddening inwardly and scorns to wreak
Itself abroad; and if at whiles it grow
To frenzy which must rave, none heeds the clamour,
Unless there waits some victim of like glamour,
To rave in turn, who lends attentive show.

The City is of Night, but not of Sleep;
There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain;
The pitiless hours like years and ages creep,
A night seems termless hell. This dreadful strain
Of thought and consciousness which never ceases,
Or which some moments' stupor but increases,
This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane.

They leave all hope behind who enter there:
One certitude while sane they cannot leave,
One anodyne for torture and despair;
The certitude of Death, which no reprieve
Can put off long; and which, divinely tender,
But waits the outstretched hand to promptly render
That draught whose slumber nothing can bereave.
Track Name: Oct. 4, 1886 /31.952
I was 37 then, strapped in my seat as the huge 747 plunged through
dense cloud cover on approach to Hamburg airport. Cold November
rains drenched the earth, lending everything the gloomy air of a
Flemish landscape: the ground crew in waterproofs, a flag atop a squat airport building, a BMW billboard. So - Germany again.
Once the plane was on the ground, soft music began to flow from the
ceiling speakers: a sweet orchestral cover version of the Beatles'
"Norwegian Wood". The melody never failed to send a shudder
through me, but this time it hit me harder than ever.
I bent forward, my face in my hands to keep my skull from splitting
open. Before long one of the German stewardesses approached and
asked in English if I were sick.
"No," I said, "just dizzy."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. Thanks."
She smiled and left, and the music changed to a Billy Joel tune. I
straightened up and looked out of the window at the dark clouds
hanging over the North Sea, thinking of all I had lost in the course of
my life: times gone forever, friends who had died or disappeared,
feelings I would never know again.
The plane reached the gate. People began unfastening their seatbelts
and pulling luggage from the overhead lockers, and all the while I was
in the meadow. I could smell the grass, feel the wind on my face, hear
the cries of the birds. Autumn 1969, and soon I would be 20.