Kevin’s Selection: 4/30/2017 – 5/6/2017
Theme: LP under 25 minutes
Release Date: 8/8/2006
Label: Dangers Records
1). We Broke the PA – 0:38
2). Power Chord Blues – 2:06
3). A Missed Change For a Meaningful Abortion – 2:24
4). Gashing In – 0:59
5). Half Brother, All Cop – 2:02
6). My Wonder Years Never Got Canceled – 1:40
7). Break Beat – 1:49
8). Shop Till You Drop Dead – 1:38
9). War? What War? – 2:50
10). The Tiki House – 0:25
11). Great Wall Of California – 1:19
12). Naysayer – 0:37
13). (D)anger(s) – 2:04
14). We Have More Sense Than Lies – 2:41
1). We Broke the PA
Hello. How have you been? It hasn’t been too long. But something’s gone awry. There’s something wrong. Everyone’s on edge. The danger is gone. We riot when we should break P.A.’s. Our music is so soothing. Our movement is not moving. We plug our mic’s into clear channels. They buy it, now we’re dismantled. We don’t need a microphone. We scream loud enough on our own.
2). Power Chord Blues
Liars. Liars. All you bands should just retire. You sing the songs of hypocrites. Like nuns with guns or chicks with dicks. Two. Four. Six. Eight. Buy our shit and regurgitate. I’m so bored with all of us. Kill yourselves. Please. I’m down here on my knees. I’m begging darlin’ ease my worried mind. What makes you think you have something to say that has not been said in a much better way? I’ve got power chord blues, ears jammed with feedback. Songs with no soul and even less of a sack. Went to the record store and what the fuck did I find? Thousands of records by thousands of kids with overpriced budgets but not one hint of a mind. Ludwig would be crying. Cash would slit your throat. Dee Dee wound up dying. Biz would hate your flow. Talk, talk, talk, talk but you’ve nothing to say. My headphones hate you. Silence is golden when you sound like my shit. My stereo hates you. Say something new or say nothing at all. My eardrums hate all you Guitar Center punks with broken record syndrome. Songs of straight edge and friends, shit we already know. What’s the point? Knock, knock, knock. Who’s there? It’s me! Every song from 1983. I heard myself on your LP’s. No way! I did! It couldn’t be! See, we mix Cro-Mags with The Clash! Well it sounds like every other piece of trash. Aren’t you tired? Don’t you want something new? Take back 1983. While you’re at it, take the rest of punk rock, too. I want more.
3). A Missed Change For a Meaningful Abortion
Eat shit. Well. None of you have to live with me twenty-four hours a day. But if you did you’d understand why I am not okay. I can’t stand ten of ten people that I see. It’s like this world took a shit for a billion years and shat it all right down on me. The ugly ones, the pretty ones, the ones with all the brains. Inner-city foster kids that dream of false-front hip-hop fame. Liposuction soccer moms. Bar mitzvah birthday boys. Darwin was right until you came along. How could poor Darwin have been so wrong? Kids at shows. Red. Men with in-ear phones. Rum. NRA boys. Red. And fake-n-bake gals. Rum. Your daddy didn’t want you. There was a pinhole in the condom. Fucks who don’t read. Red. Bands with a guarantee. Rum. Monster truck bros. Red. And fuck-me-boots ho’s. Rum. Your mommy was on the pill but she just forgot one. Spread your legs open so I can ram the hanger up into your crotch and kill your kids before it’s too late.
4). Gashing In
Clits and dicks. Clits and dicks ruin every night. Hudson Jeans and birth control. Perfume and the alcohol. Versus. Marshall stacks and sing-along’s. Myspace, Dunks, male chauvinists. Estrogen. Testosterone. My hormones ruin every night. And I’ve no one to blame but me, myself and I can’t stand bars, shows, or my dick. Should have stayed in. Read a book instead.
5). Half Brother, All Cop
Ten-four. Over and out. Eat shit. Here’s my shadow of a doubt. Got a “fuck you” brewing for a man that’s half of me. We used to be half-brothers but now all he is is LAPD. Went from bullying me to bullying the world. Just a bigot with a badge. I don’t love you. I don’t even like you. What you do makes me abhor you. We’re through. A necessary evil but an evil just the same. The law’s on your side but that don’t make it sane. Code blue! I’ve heard you say wetback. I’ve heard you say beaner. And behind my back you probably call me a nigger. Fuck you. Man in blue. What you gonna do? We’re coming after you. Man in blue. Get a clue. Nine one one. Let’s have some fun. Why should I listen to you? Six six six. You arrogant prick. You break more laws than I do. Nine one one. Oh, what a masculine gun! I will not listen to you. Six six six sixty cease and desist! In my perfect world there would be no police. Yet we would still function in relative peace.
6). My Wonder Years Never Got Canceled
Just like I hate Fenders. Just like I can’t stand the snow. Just like my hand-me-down truck that I miss so much, even with no stereo. And just like fucking with a condom on, though I’ve got no fucking disease. Like getting tested for a brand new girl who just turns around and leaves. Like full-time school, a part time job, and a niece I never see. Like headwinds. Girls with boyfriends. No money for no TV. Just like that headstone with my name engraved from a generation passed. Like being twenty-three on Thursday. Like growing up too goddamn fast. Like a cell phone full of numbers but not one soul I want to call. Just like half-read books read by well-read eyes that pretend to have read them all. Like following a dream that cripples you with debt. Like laughing at a joke that hasn’t caught up with you yet. Because I once new why in those Kris Kross days. Spin the bottle and she moves in mysterious ways. Like a stupor. A Winnie Cooper. But now nothing makes sense to me.
7). Break Beat
But enough about me already. Who needs one more love song to get them through the night? Who needs a sucker, a rich motherfucker to croon into the mic about a redhead girl with a conman’s charm? Who needs a broken heart? Who needs another Sergeant Pepper? Another tearful tune about how good she blows? Her perfume on your clothes? How it was too good to be true? Who needs desperate guys with creative minds who turn dark cloud girls into something silver-lined? Who needs string sections? Sweeping three part harmonies? Who needs a slow dance? Love at first glance? Who needs woe is me? When there’s dead mothers and friends that slit their wrist. Who needs kids like me? Broken hearts beat just fine. Broken hearts beat just fine. And even my broken heart will be just fine. Broken hearts beat just fine.
8). Shop Till You Drop Dead
You sang to me that “you are free,” the “music is boring you to death.” But for me, you see, it’s just the goddamn kids. Us boring, boring, boring, boring, spoiled-rotten kids. Take. Take, take, take. Don’t give back shit. All spoils. All gains. Just dicks. No brains. More pills. Less pain. Just amber waves of grain. We stuff our mouths until we burst. This is consumerism at its very worst.
Our hands stuffed so deep into the cookie jar. And no, we will not share. We all have too much. We haven’t one desire. Us boring, boring self-righteous kids. Throw us to the fire. New sneakers, smaller cell phones, faster cars with larger rims. We filthy, stinking, scholarship punks. We watch them struggle for what we’re just given. I have nothing to complain about, but I know I’ll still complain. I’m so bored with us have-everything kids. Put a razor to our veins.
9). War? What War?
Oh damsels, don’t distress! You’ll see your brave boys soon! They’re winning wars on Gulf War tours and staving off the doom! Hooah! Semper Fi! Oh pretty, pretty girls. Dry your sad, sad eyes. There’s terror still, we have to kill! The towelheads must die! Our guns. Just toys. For brainless soldier boys. Who bomb. Who maim. Who kill in my name. Kill in our name. Oh young strapping lads, with blue blood in your veins. You’ve shock and awed their savage gods. Only our glory shall remain! Oh glory! Hallelujah! God shed his grace on we: the proud, the few, the me’s and you’s, who pretend not to see. Our guns. Just toys. For brainless solider boys. Who bomb. Who maim. Who kill now in our name. There’s no honor in fighting voluntary wars. I’ve never felt so ashamed to be American. And really I’m no better than those camo-wearing pricks. I’ve never felt so ashamed to be American. I think less about this war than who’ll be next to suck my dick. I’ve never felt so ashamed to be American. When really I should break every trigger-pulling finger. I’ve never felt so ashamed to be American. Of every heartless, grim-faced, trigger-pulling fuck that thinks he’s doing me some kind of favor. I’ve never felt so ashamed to be American. You fucking assholes. Fuck wars. Fuck soldiers. Fuck yellow ribbons, too. Fuck authors and musicians. Fuck me. Fuck you. Presidents don’t pull triggers, so don’t blaming Capitol Hill. It’s hearty boys just like me that are signing up to kill. So fuck the Army, the Navy, the Air Force and Marines. The boys and girls that spill the blood that are just like me. Except the kill. And then they die. And I don’t care. We don’t care. I won’t. I won’t. We won’t take lives.
10). The Tiki House
If home is where the heart is then my heart’s a Tiki House. A Misfits land of Peter Pans and acne never looked that great to me. The kids, the kids, the kids, the kids. By the fucking kids. The kids, the kids, the kids, the kids. For the fucking kids.
11). Great Wall Of California
Tell June Gloom I’ll see her soon. I’ve got two lungs filled with smog and this Bo Kimble sort of heart. Cause there’s an actor signing laws instead of autographs. And I’m stuck, in a rut, between an ass and an elephant. We vote for things we don’t believe. We build a wall. To keep them out. Cause we hate aliens. Raise high that wall. Till we can’t see out. We’re locking ourselves in. A broken home ith a three car garage. And every California dream is just an earthquake or a fancy mirage. From small pox and guns. Ya basta. To La Cienega slums. Basta ya. Now our votes are at fault. Ya basta. Can I get a witness? Amen! Live and let live. Basta ya. Then tax more the rich. Ya basta. Till your borders mean shit. Basta ya. Enough already.
I saw Jesus and the Devil and they were sitting in a tree. Blasphemy! No! A-S-S-H-O-L-E. L-I-C-K-I-N-G. Amen! Jesus and the Devil are exactly the same thing. They mean shit to me. I’ll believe it when I see it.
We’re full of shit. Anger ain’t a mood, it’s a goddamn way of life. It’s why we drive twenty straight hours up the five. To play for twenty kids in the basement of a house. Kids that are angry and alive. That threaten us with knives. But one black eye does not a blind man make. No. Cause I feel fed-up every morning and let-down every night. And in a world with so much wrong, there must be better things to fight. Cause And the truth is I’ve wasted too much time making excuses for this stupid music of mine. When there’s still popes and wars, I think my mother’s got it right: we’re all just angry, angry kids with the most shortsighted of lives. One black eye does not a blind man make. There’s more to fight than big mouth kids like me. Punch my face until your fingers break. It’s time to fight the real enemy. Anger ain’t a mood, it’s a goddamn way of life.
14). We Have More Sense Than Lies
And lately, well I’ve been feeling down. It’s like there’s no more room for a hopeful sound. I need to believe in something new. To believe in me like I believe in you. We’ve had our hands held much too tight. We’ve been more wrong than we’ve ever been right. Can’t place our hopes on a hanging chad. We need much more than just one punk rock band. Clenched fists and blackened eyes. Break wide open our heads and fix our broken minds. We’re crossing fingers and we hope for the best. We’ve lost our anger. We’ve been suppressed. And we can’t just hold our breath. Sit back and sing along. Pretend that it’s all okay when we know we’re wrong. And this is not a call to arms. Just a hope that we might try. To use our heads and open eyes. We have more sense than lies. We have more sense than lies. And nothing changes if we don’t change ourselves. Bombs burst my trust away. Red glares and empty stares. We need something to say. We need to start to care. And we can’t just hold our breath. Sit back and sing along. Pretend that it’s all okay. When we know we’re wrong. We must change. Ourselves.