TOKYO STORM WARNING lyrixxx

SPY HUNTER

I’m not so easily found

But you follow

I broke into the apartment

I ducked into the alley

I slipped deep in the shadows

You followed

In the window

I see

Your reflection

In the shadows

That’s my protection

I’m not so easily found

You’re not so easily killed

But still I'll kill you

How much did they pay?

How much to betray?

How much did they pay for you to kill me?

PLENTY OF MONEY

When you parked in the lot

The lot was empty

When you strolled through the mall

The mall was empty

When you walked in the store

All the aisles were empty

But when you look in your wallet

You’ve got plenty of money

When you go out at night

You feel so empty

When you come home to bed

Your bed is empty

When you finish vomiting

All your guts are empty

But when you look in your wallet

You’ve got plenty of money

When you look at the sky

The sky is empty

When you gaze in the mirror

The mirror is empty

When you look in your head

Hey! your head is empty
But when you look in your wallet
You've got plenty of money

But you come to easy

I think I’ve seen that movie

I walked right out of that movie

When I walked in the theatre

The theatre was empty

I took a look at the screen

The screen was empty

I even waited for the credits

But they were empty

When you look in your wallet

You’ve got plenty of money

When I get up inside you

I feel so empty

I put my fist inside you

You still feel so empty

When I come inside you

You’re so fucking empty

But when I look in your wallet

You’ve got plenty of money

CURATE MY LOVE

I went to the museum

I tried to take you home

Everyday I’m at the museum

Looking at you

 but you’re made out of stone

You’re just a statue

But I love you

Gonna add you to my collection

Find a place in my stone garden

Then I’ll put you to work in the kitchen

See what you can do with no arms

 and these knives

I’ve been all around the world

To the finest museums

Ain’t seen nothin’ fine as you

 and I call ‘em as I see ‘em

Gonna put you in the back of my pick-up

And take you home to Mom

Then I’ll put you to work in the kitchen

See what you can do with no arms

MISERY ANTENNA

Everyday I walk down the street

To go and go and go

Everyday I see you on the corner

So low so low so low

Everyday I look into your eyes

Hello! Hello! Hello!

Everyday you look away

cuz  you know you know you know

You got something to say to me?

Cuz I got nothin’ to say to you

You must have something to say to me

Cuz I’m picking up your frequency

You can fuck each stranger into knowing

You know you know you know

Fuck each stranger into knowing

Hello! Hello! Hello!

Fuck each stranger into knowing

Hello! Goodbye! It was so nice to see you!

You can fuck each stranger into knowing

Hello Goodbye Please shut the door

You got something to say to me?

Cuz I got an ear for this misery

Are you broadcasting on my frequency?

I can feel your current running thru me

It’s a cross-point bulletin:

New York to Switzerland

-

Cleveland to Richmond

-

Sacto to Brooklyn

-

Vancouver to Amsterdam

I think I saw you in a dream last night

SABOTAGE ON THE TELEPHONE LINE

They said you couldn’t do it

All that wire across the ocean

They said you’d never do it

“There’s too much water there”

They said you’d never do it

All that way across the ocean

You said you’d never do it

But I’ve seen that look in your eyes before

On that day

You sailed away

Scotland to Newfoundland

1500 nautical miles

Deepest depths charged

On that day

September 25^th, 1956

Heard your voice 

Crackling

 down the line

Every day

Mid-afternoon

In the sun room

Heard your voice

Crackling

 down the line

Every day

In the sun room

Mid-afternoon

Your voice like a ghost

And then it -------- stopped!

Sabotage on the telephone line!

Miscellaneous anarchists

Claimed credit for this

Oh how I miss those days

Of copper wire

How I miss your eyes

But they are closed forever

MOTHER OF PEARL

 

O this mother of Pearl

Forty years passed

Still a slip of a girl

Possessed of divorced furniture

She grew old enough

To spurn nature

O this mother of Pearl

Said “Vampire habits die hard

 dontcha know?”

Her husband died fast

The rest of the family

Slow

O you’re mine

Frozen in time

One day you’ll become my kind

Two decades spent

Trapped in the cellar

Your mother is undead

And someone oughta tell her

She did away with the kin

But the checks

They still came in

Pretended she was

Pearl, her daughter

Until Pearl got revenge

With some holy water

“O beautiful mother,” said Pearl

 Vampires they die hard, I didn’t know”

“You killed Daddy so quick,

  I think I’ll watch you die slow”

A REASON FOR DIVORCE

Amidst the junkies and the whores

He found a reason for divorce

Can you get your mind around

  That part of town?

“I’m sick sick with dementia”

He tried to tell his wife

But she lay sleeping

On the other side of life

A white girl stuck him

While a black one bled

A white girl shot him

It went straight to his head

 -Did you hear what he said?-

“For this freedom I will commit

  any sin you ask of me

 For this sin I will repent

  any kingdom binding me”

It was a matter of course

Yeah the cops were worse

He found a reason for divorce

Sailing home in a hearse

http://tokyostormwarning1.bandcamp.com/

JACK SHACK HYPE MACHINE

FOSTER CARE  Bad Vibe City LP


The name alone conjures images of screaming brats, covered-up systematic abuse, and future employees of the state penitentiary.

The music itself crashes your party, steals your beer, then steals your girlfriend, kicks a hole in the wall, and then careens back out into the night, once again on the endless search for more kicks. This is their idea of fun, and fuck you if you ain’t ready for it.

Seeing Foster Care play is not a passive experience. A flurry of flying elbows, toxic sweat, broken gear, and bug-eyed intensity forces you to make a decision: Dive head-first into the chaos, or slink back into the corner; safe, dry, bored. Every Foster Care show is an eviction party, and their bodies are the soon-to-be-abandoned houses (no temples here). Anything goes, short of setting them on fire (actually, that’s probably OK too). Fittingly, Foster Care makes you feel like a kid again, hopped up on sugar (or the adult-equivalent), with no responsibilities and no worries.

Harnessing the speed of early 80s hardcore, the snot of prime Killed By Death punk, and the grit and grime of their New York City environs, Foster Care are channeling all of their pent-up neuroses and aggressions into first-rate scum anthems. Their debut LP, Bad Vibe City, is an aptly-titled journey through the underbelly of “The Greatest City in the World.” You may need a shower afterwards (sample lyric: “sucking on a hobo’s cock”), but you’ll be humming these tunes as you scrape the filth off of your body.

But this is no one-note “rager” of a record. On the surface, the 5 AM lament of “Don’t Make Me” could be mistaken for the kind of sappy pop-punk ditty that lesser bands have made a career out of; but there’s real emotion as singer Chris Teenager tells us how she not only stole his heart, but also took off “with my money.” Hey, this is New York City, and love don’t come cheap. Even on fuck-you sing-alongs like “Don’t Want To/Don’t Need To” the melodies come fast and furious. And don’t mistake these miscreants for dummies: the lurching swing of “Death on The Installment Plan” references infamous nihilist French novelist Louis-Ferdinand Celine.

Half of Foster Care are NYC-born and -bred. The other half (also half of the excellent Ex Humans) came crawling out of the South, hungry for the kind of oblivion and transcendence only the Naked City can provide.

Echoes of New York’s glorious punk past can be heard in these grooves. The swagger of the Dead Boys, the putrid stench of The Mad, the ferocity of Heart Attack, and the staring-down-the-barrel-of-a-gun intensity of the Testors (drummer Josh Martin, formerly of Carbonas and BeatBeatBeat, is the lead guitarist in Testors mainman Sonny Vincent’s current band) runs through the veins of the young guns that make up Foster Care.

Buy the record, go see them play, lock up the booze, keep your girlfriends at a safe distance, and get ready to party. Foster Care is coming, and, judging by the maniacal gleam in their eyes, they mean business.

CALL OF THE WILD 7"

While you were in school studying the three Rs (readin’ ritin’ ‘rithmetic), the three born rockers in Call of the Wild were boning up on the three Ms (Motorhead Metallica Misfits).

Call of the Wild (COTW) are living, fire-breathing proof that Brooklyn NY is not just a playground for animal-collecting, beard-pruning, soft-chin-stroking hypesters. There are, in fact, real, red-blooded rockers amidst the sea of gauzy Garagebands, and COTW might just be the bloodiest of them all. They have a solid pedigree; skin-pounder Allison was in notable psych-rock unit Awesome Color; axe-wielder/main shouter Johnny was in AC off-shoot, Used to Be Women, while youngblood Max was in Nashville upstarts, Turbo Fruits.

On their debut 7-inch, Call of the Wild break loose with two meaty cuts of in-your-face ferocity. “The Call” opens with a blistering guitar riff, then divebombs into NWOBHM stomp, making time for alternately vicious and ominous vocals, and of course, a ripping solo. Filtering that kind of nasty hard rock through a Midwestern basement punk sensibility, COTW recalls underrated shitkickers like The Dogs (of “Slash Your Face” fame) and even a tougher take on the Suicide Commandos (whose own “Call of the Wild” may be an inspiration). “Tightrope” brings the groove, a horny ass-shaker that begs to be fingered on a jukebox’s controls. Hey, it’s a sweaty Friday night at your local watering hole. Loosen the tie. Pull the stick outta yer ass. Call of the Wild is howling from the hills. Answer them.

 

PAMPERS 7"

Pampers. I would forgive you if you were grossed out by that name. I would understand if you quickly flipped passed one of their 45s at the record store. Bug-eyed demon smile cackling at you with a wink and a snarl. But don’t be afraid. Snatch it up. Back at your home, where you are safe, put it on the turntable. You will shit yourself with glee as the waves of psyched-out garage punk pummel you into submission. Sometimes getting smacked in the face is refreshing; necessary.

Early Pampers material could have been somewhat accurately described as “Spits doing lines with Thee OhSees,” but these days the band has carved out its own identity. They seem to fit on any show, always providing a loud, messy blare, but focused; serious fun. The kind of band you just surrender to, and dance like a fool, beer flying every which way. Mongo vox, cranked Vox, primitive yet precise drumming, a cloud of warped sonics swirling above the rock n’ roll thud; Pampers delivers.

And that is the case on their new single (numero dos for the band). The A-side features “Guts,” a bad trip you can dance to, and “Rat Hole,” a short n’ sinister lil’ ditty that recalls prime Urinals. On the flip is the more melodic “Lies,” a cavernous rock n’ roll song that will get trapped in your head, pacing back n’ forth. It doesn’t make sense, but Pampers gets under your skin. A rash that you welcome, it feels good to scratch.

POLYNEUROPATHY

Pangs shudders twinges pinpricks
Aches full and sharp as spear-tips
Flatline season grudge living
The sun smacks of cave-dwelling

A fealty sworn
    and quickly shredded
A cruelty borne
    by the living dead kid

CRASS COMMERCIALISM

http://www.discogs.com/seller/Heir_ick

GOLDEN ERROR - "Game Theory"

Download it:

http://www.mediafire.com/?9pwxpgqqbkq9zc7


While this may be remastered in the future, here's a bass-heavy take on one of the last songs Golden Error wrote. This version appeared on the (unfortunately) final volume of Songs of Negativity, a series of CDR compilations that came with (Australia-only) copies of Negative Guest List magazine. My all-too-few contributions to one of the finer, if not finest, rock mags of the last decade can be found littered around this site. Here's the audio one. Recorded by Ben Greenberg @ Python Patrol.
Dedicated to Brendon Annesley.



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From our last show; w/ A Frames @ Death By Audio, Brooklyn NY [filmed by A Frames drummer Thommy]:

Erck - sing
Jeff O - drum
Keith B. Well - 6-string
Jordan Error - 4-string

feedtime

Nearly twenty-five years after their formation, Australian underground rock legends feedtime (always with lowercase “f”) embarked on their first US tour last week. This past weekend, the tour brought feedtime to the NYC area for three shows; Thursday at Death By Audio, Saturday at Cake Shop, and Sunday at Maxwell’s. For longtime fans, and new converts, this was a rare glimpse into a corner of rock n’ roll that the die-hards out there consider to be as essential as Detroit ’69, Cleveland ’75, and London ‘77. Early-mid ‘80s Aussie postpunk is among the rawest, most brutal, and utterly physical rock n’ roll ever wrestled out of the classic bass/drums/guitar triumvirate. Feedtime epitomize this uncompromising stance as well as any combo before or since. Initially forming in 1979, finding their footing in the ‘80s via Aberrant Records, and achieving moderate international success via distribution deals with Rough Trade and Amphetamine Reptile; feedtime have come for their reckoning, thanks to a brand-new 4-LP box set on Sub Pop (collecting their Aberrant years) and a new LP/CD of previously unreleased material, Today is Friday (S-S Records).

Feedtime songs don’t have riffs per se; they are made up of sinew, gristle, and sweat. The bass sounds as if it has been constructed from steel girders, the guitar is usually attacked with whatever is handy, resulting in a slide-frenzy that sounds like what having razorwire dragged across your face must feel like; it recalls the most savage of blues. And the drums, the drums are beaten mercilessly, much like the sun beats down on the unshaded in the Outback. Rich man, poor man, the sun don’t care how much is in your bank account. Feedtime doesn’t care either, but they do care about what’s in the bank itself, as the debut album’s “Fastbuck” notes: “Got a Pontiac/gasoline/grab the cash/split the scene.” Why this wasn’t used in a chase scene in Chopper is beyond me. There is a cinematic flair to feedtime; a dirty, sandswept noir sparsely populated by violent and unpredictable outsiders, desperate loners lurking on the fringes of society.

Thursday at Death By Audio was a well-attended example of the possibilities of amplified rock-like noise. Perpetual local no wave faves Sightings lurched through their patented short-circuit compositions, walking a jagged edge of falling apart/building up, unleashing waves of discomfiting deep-bass stabs and roiling sheets of slicing guitar noise. It was a night of veterans, as former labelmates (in their previous incarnation as Hammerhead), Vaz brought a punishing set of their uniquely harrowing and pummeling take on hardcore.

Feedtime took the stage and fumbled through a few of their opening numbers. Did the old guys still have it? Suddenly, they found their groove and rode it like a freight train to Hell, all dense bass chug, perfectly on-point drumming, and that nasty slide guitar. As the set progressed it seemed feedtime actually became more unhinged and threatened to jump the tracks. There’s something thrilling about a band that can maintain that nearly-falling-apart tension while also remaining firmly in control.

 Two nights later, at the Cake Shop, feedtime came out like gangbusters, on fire from the very start. Songs like “Dead Crazy” and the catchy, relatively straightforward punk of “Don’t Like” whipped the crowd up, but they balanced out the blunt instrument approach with cuts like the melancholic “Ever Again” and “Fractured.” Feedtime is also known for their excellent covers (their Cooper-S LP is all covers), and they didn’t disappoint with a brisk run-through of contemporaries and inspirations, (Aussie) X’s “I Don’t Wanna Go Out,” and a deconstructed cover of the Stones’ “Paint It Black” that ended in a double-time hardcore blitz. Once again, drummer Tom nailed the band’s feet to the floor, giving the other fellas plenty of room to roll all over you with that metallic (as in the substance, not the genre) bass and savage slide. Never underestimate the power of a gnarly bass tone.

While the crowd was smaller than the DBA show, it was like a pow-wow of several generations of gritty rock n’ roll, as members of classic Oz/US bands like Lubricated Goat, Chrome Cranks, and Bird Blobs looked on with big smiles, and, just maybe, a napkin with a few notes scribbled on it. Good on ya, feedtime.

[originally appeared on the Brooklyn Vegan website; photos by Keith Marlowe]

SSKKKRAGGG

"Saw You On the Street"

http://www.mediafire.com/?033sw325pof54cf