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We Appear, Again
Fellow Punks,
It is with a coupling of anti-ambivalence and no small amount of disbelief to announce we have somehow managed to move both heavens and earth to make ourselves able (or, if you prefer, to Enable ourselves) to perform at least twice more in 2013. And lucky us, both shows are on home turf: Philadelphia, PA (August 11th) and Gainesville, FL (November 2nd). We will play our songs. We will not sell t-shirts.
Seeya then,
PAINT IT BLACK -
Something gets lost in the simplification:
It’s sort of about subcultural semiotics and their reproduction & commodification. But if that’s too much of a struggle you could just say, “it’s about posers.”
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Our Vinyl Weighs A Ton
People seem to be curious about the pressing info for our new 7”, so we took a few days off work and did some intensive detective work (or, slept until 3pm and texted Var). So here it is. We sold all the pink and clear at the record release show and the yellow and white were all for mailorder. We’re told the only thing left is purple but who knows? Word is these are going fast too, so I dunno. Maybe buy one if you care about physical things? Or not, whatever.
1st Pressing:
1,000 Purple
500 White
400 Clear w/ Hand-Colored Labels
100 Yellow
100 Pink
100 ClearPhoto stolen from someone on Twitter who somehow has a test pressing even though not all of us do :(
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BANDCAMP
Hey everyone, we’re excited to inform you all that we now have our own BANDCAMP page and as of this writing the entirety of our recorded output — including some songs you may have never heard before — is now available for immediate streaming and (paid, sorrys) download in your choice of high-quality MP3, FLAC, or just about any other format you could possibly desire. This is cool, spread the word:
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Invisible →
I’ve got a problem with the way you see, your eyes are always trying to take something from me. I’ve got a problem with the way you hear, only listening to the bankers & the bombardiers. But for now I’m not invisible. I’ve got a problem with the way you think. Respect could keep us afloat, but you would rather sink. I’ve got a problem with the way you act. Run your mouth, confuse opinion with fact. Your stare, the weight of your glare, pinned & mounted, but you best beware. And if I don’t make any sense to you, well, I never really wanted to. Through fictions fed & feelings misconstrued, at least I know my aim is true. I learned to crawl, to stand, to fall. I even learned to scale those fucking walls. I learned to scream, to swim upstream, and to subsist on optimism & caffeine. Ice will melt. Seas will rise Iron will rust. Fire will fall from the skies. Hearts will break, but ours will mend, once we’ve spent all that we can spend. We will turn against ourselves, we will feel fear. We are a moment, and we will disappear.
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D.F.W.
“Irony and cynicism were just what the U.S. hypocrisy of the fifties and sixties called for. That’s what made the early postmodernists great artists. The great thing about irony is that it splits things apart, gets up above them so we can see the flaws and hypocrisies and duplicates. The virtuous always triumph? Ward Cleaver is the prototypical fifties father? “Sure.” Sarcasm, parody, absurdism and irony are great ways to strip off stuff’s mask and show the unpleasant reality behind it. The problem is that once the rules of art are debunked, and once the unpleasant realities the irony diagnoses are revealed and diagnosed, “then” what do we do? Irony’s useful for debunking illusions, but most of the illusion-debunking in the U.S. has now been done and redone. Once everybody knows that equality of opportunity is bunk and Mike Brady’s bunk and Just Say No is bunk, now what do we do? All we seem to want to do is keep ridiculing the stuff. Postmodern irony and cynicism’s become an end in itself, a measure of hip sophistication and literary savvy. Few artists dare to try to talk about ways of working toward redeeming what’s wrong, because they’ll look sentimental and naive to all the weary ironists. Irony’s gone from liberating to enslaving. There’s some great essay somewhere that has a line about irony being the song of the prisoner who’s come to love his cage.”
— David Foster WallaceObedience ingrained, so discreet.
Our chains rendered obsolete.
Post-everything.
Feel nothing.
Ironic detachment replaces outrage.
I’ve grown comfortable in my cage.http://gluehc.com/exclusive-paint-it-black-d-f-w-new-song-stream/
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LITTLE FISTS →
Good morning bright eyes. I watched you while you slept, reflecting on resolutions broken & promises kept.
You know we’ve got to fall before we walk; we’ve got to sink before we swim.
So have patience, stop checking the clock, and if someone locks you out, kick your way back in.
They’ll tell you what you are, they’ll tell you what you’re not.
They’ll surround you with mirrors, baby, dont get caught.
They’ll reduce you, sterilize you, try to cut you down to size, too.
Shine too bright, they’ll say you’re just craving attention. You’ll run the gauntlet of their smirks and condescensions.
Did you run too fast? Did you fly too high? Did you see too much with your eyes open wide? I’d rather “yes,” be our reply, than have as epitaph, “Too afraid to try.”
So we’ll dance like wild beasts, charged with disturbing the peace. And when it looks like things can’t get any worse, we’ll sing until our hearts burst.
No compass, no maps,
we’ll find our own way back.
And when things look bleak, I’ll kiss the tears from your cheek, and watch you clench your little fists in your sleep.http://www.bigcheesemagazine.com/features/article/exclusive-song-stream-paint-it-black-little-fists
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“Hardcore without punk isn’t music, it’s a genre of porn; punk isn’t a genre of music, it’s a thought process.” - Dominic Mallary
(via gennahoward)
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PROPS FOR VENTRILOQUISM →
You don’t know this song, but I caught you trying to sing along. Your mouth is moving but the words are all wrong.
False signifiers.
Like little liars.
Send in the clowns
numb from the neck down.If you don’t know now, chances are you never will. The pitcher’s full, but your plants are wilting on the windowsill.
You talk, and I wince, but you’ve got everybody else convinced; You’ve memorized and rehearsed your lines, while I’ve forgotten most of mine.
You know all the steps, but you’ve got no swing. It’s an “I know why the caged bird sings,” type of thing.
http://www.punknews.org/article/51068/streams-paint-it-black-props-for-ventriloquists
