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We are still super fucking good. Hey, Victory, here’s how it’s gonna be: on behalf of Streetlight Manifesto, Taking Back Sunday, and JT Woodruff, we’re a factory for fucking hits, you’re a factory for fucking shits. If you wanna sign us, we refuse your hospitality, crash at the house of your label VP. We show up two days before we’re scheduled to be. Two days late to the board meeting. Take a shit on the table screaming:
"Here's what we demand. The CEO of Epitaph must immediately go vegan, 100 CDs of Punk in Drublic with the shrinkwrap unbroken, our faces on the cover of the next Cometbus, for Spoonboy to play an acoustic set just for the three of us, the Skanktuary gets a $10,000 donation, the route 90 bus comes a bit more often, unlimited purple Doritos on the tour bus, for you to watch us eat bagel bites until we throw up."
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Throw me in a wheelchair and roll me through the white doors for the coronary surgery. I got the heart disease! Yaphet, Kane, and Ripley try to help me, but out in space, no one can hear you weep.
I got no one. Jettison me, please. I left my heart on LV-426.
Two years here in darkness until I found a ship derelict and a creature who longed for my face. It hides a száj inside its mouth. The rejtett one, it bites so deep. It lurks above, it wants you out. Get me off of LV!
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4. |
Post-Modern Conditioner
01:30
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As a responsible punk band, we got archetypal arch-nemeses. Already well-known to our superfans are exploitative bookers and fucks like these. Yet there are tales of others who lurk at shows with keys for every singer. They only wear button-up shirts and hair heavy with post-modern conditioner. Slamming cocktails, thinking thoughts, just listen to them slur:
"What kind of music does your band play? Though of course ‘genre’ is bullshit anyway. There’s no fitting Maroon 5 inside a box. Incredulity toward meta-narratives, and all that stuff."
Us? We’re like the Tolstoy of ska punk, but if Tolstoy just couldn’t give a fuck. They’ll study our shit’s complexities, like Russian family trees. And while War and Peace looks super boring and long, we only write super short and great songs.
There’s no fitting Maroon 5 inside a box. Incredulous stare.
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Golden sun arises, crests your heavy goddamn head. Those holy trials are in session and they long for evidence. You turn to that old elixir for the cure of state you’re in and pray to expel the demons, but we know that they both work the same.
Suffer under pressure of your own phantom Corwin. Another sip’s another rock, an apocryphal sin. That last one cursed you full’a guilt, a hex on your conscience. But that spell was blank, those jewels were fake, that salt was carnallite.
That’s a fictitious cure, but it keeps circling down your drain again and again. That same bullshit hunt is back from century seventeen.
Come, they’re bringing out the dead. There’s a witch hunt for the ghosts in your head. Quick, there’s waistcoats to be fed. They’ll chase you all the way to earthen bed. It mends nothing.
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The only booze we’ll drink is with Mtn Dew, and that’s just cuz we want to. Straight edge for life (except for mixed drinks made with Mtn Dew).
I don’t know why you think this is a fucking joke. No, we don’t want to fucking drink your jack and coke. I don’t know why you think this is a fucking joke. Mtn Dew for life! Straight edge for life (except for mixed drinks that are made with Mtn Dew).
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7. |
Rhythm Extinction
01:57
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A broken rhythm locked in time. Populace free but refuse to mime, but what will the alcalde say? It’s imaginary crime. Feet in line! The rhythm is dead.
Excavate bones, dig the source. Ancient culture of repression? Par for the course. Extinction! Rhythm Extinction!
No eyes could foresee it on this isle. You’d swear we all were intactile. But down in Kreuzberg the soul holds no denial. Feet in line! The rhythm is dead.
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8. |
RIP Bob Seeger
01:11
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I remember the first time I heard Night Moves, I shit my pants because it was so good. My parents had to pick me up from school. All the kids were saying that I was so fucking cool.
Though years have passed and now I’m grown, I still fondly recall accidentally dropping that load. Seger they took you before your time. When we all hear that opening G chord, its super great, there’s no way to be bored. RIP Seger, but you’ll never die.
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9. |
Drankshot
01:15
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Drankshot!
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10. |
Don't Die
01:43
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There’s still so much left to live for! Well there’s...
1. Reading that stack of unread books
2. Writing tunes for all those unused hooks
3. Getting stoned inside that Target bathroom
4. There’s still time to write donation checks
5. Read those shitty magazine articles on sex
This goofy planet’s got no shortage of shit to do. So when you feel like crawling six feet underneath the floor, just remember there’s still so much left to live for.
6. Call your dad ‘cause you two don’t speak
7. Buy a sammich for a guy whose fate looks bleak
8. Get laid inside that Target bathroom
9. Tell that cashier you still love her guts
10. Start a band that sounds just like the Ruts
‘Cause life’s so long and your bucket list should be too. Of course I know it’s tough, after all I wrote this song during a work-based anxiety attack, one month after the girl I loved crushed my heart with a slapjack. Your heroes may have died, but you’re still alive, so strap on those Docs and get on the move. You’ve got a whole lot of wrong people to prove.
When was the last time you got smashed and moshed the night away? Or skanked like yesterday was your last night in Alcatraz bay? So grab that bag of weed and Protex and meet me inside that Target bathroom, but don’t let us lose you. Target has a special, buy one and get two!!
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11. |
Come What May
01:28
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All my closest friends humor me with condescending smirks, pats on the back, and they tell me that I will come around. But I run trial after trial. It's desperate work in my lonely lab, always doubting what my experiments have found.
Even though data underdetermines theory, now nobody takes me seriously. I just follow evidence where it leads: away from the esteem of all of my colleagues.
When my closest friends pull me aside, in hushed tones they tell me that I’m stuck in the past and I need to come around. For my own sake, time to get with the times. The obsolete is the obsolete. And then they take me back to the comfort of the crowd.
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12. |
Roll Over Confucius
01:08
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Fifteen is how he feels inside. 10 years late, devoid of pride. Each day he’ll miss the train until the morn' he dies. Fifteen is how she wants to look. The notion’s gleaned from flimsy books, but hundreds blown on greasepaint will only get you so far.
Fifteen is the number they chase. Sense of self? Mission: efface. Avoidance is the goal until you’re in the ground. Fifteen: the handspan we obsess. Milk the koe under distress. Pasturbate the time now missed and long for grains since slipped away.
Lifetime in pursuit of airplay in Peoria. Fact of the matter is you only got there in your dream cage. Cardiac arrest when the world chooses to ignore you. You’ll never fit inside that precious teenage grave.
Dreamking of the tombworld. I enter into an eternal oath. Creating my paragon belial.
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13. |
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I still remember telescopes with my father, questioning the night sky. I grew older and I still hoped to become an astronomer. I was searching for a reason why we all wound up here on this pale blue dot. Wasn't that something Neil Degrassi Tyson said? It was one of those PBS talking eggheads.
Friday night, November '03. At home watching TV, of course Discovery. Documentary on Einstein. It takes too much thinking, conserve my energy: turn off TV, get new CD. Start track 14 and hear Tom sing: I am Lost Without You. Space noises are super cool. Brain like Einstein in 1905. Science ideas so true, drop into my pants hot soup. Some Brownian bowel motion.
I started my research, will create great scientific works, maybe write a 6th season of Bill Nye (the Science Guy). Edited the wiki for Max Planck to make it less boring. Tom has shown me the reason why.
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14. |
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Sing along!
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15. |
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A broken rhythm locked in time. Populace free but refuse to mime, but what will the alcalde say? It’s imaginary crime. Feet in line! The rhythm is dead.
Excavate bones, dig the source. Ancient culture of repression? Par for the course. Extinction! Rhythm Extinction!
No eyes could foresee it on this isle. You’d swear we all were intactile. But down in Kreuzberg the soul holds no denial. Feet in line! The rhythm is dead.
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Barking Carnies Washington, D.C.
"You were pretty good" -Ian MacKaye, actual quote, to Barking Carnies about Barking Carnies, 9/9/17
UPCOMING SHOWS:
12/3 @ The Runaway
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