The songbook, the wordbook, the lyrics.
Black and ivory vinyl, ready to take home and own. The music of Rats On The Run – Out now on Other Voices Records.
Coloured and black vinyl, CD, stream and cassette available Apr 4 2020. Pre-Orders open from Other Voices Records.
From the forthcoming EP ‘How’s The View There?’ Coming April 2020 on Other Voices Records.
“Only duct tape and whatever substance comes to hand holds these scifi dumb punk songs together… Produced on a dime, it’s strip thin and loose, it’s a throwback to all types of uber-cool sub genres for those who love cheap punk and pleasures.”
We pitched it, ditched it, decided against it, but closer we got to Vegas the better it sounded. Hell we drove from Florida all way to Colorado taking in and tearing out of every high-end lowlife pit stop on the way and we didn’t die, kill each other or worse. And if we can do that and keep breathing, and manage to not fall out too badly, then we can do pretty much anything.
Including getting prepped up, pretty and primed for a wedding in less than a week.
“Dumpunk and primal clubstomp screw-you, wrapped in black and white twilight night static.”
Austin. Achingly hip and alarmingly cool. Coffee bean fetishists, thrift store hi-glam, nu-age craft ales in gleaming clean structures and retro set wide-eyed fresh faces.
Hot dog and burger bars tower their meats with all kinds of sides, only skyscrapers outside match their stature. Weed’s offered out by bar maids and waiters and I don’t feel young, pretty or thin.
Back home I had intent and purpose. I made shapes and sense of music and words and all time was divided, devoted. I made time to draw lines from without to within and direct them back out in new twists. People around me helped me build a home studio and they’d switch out the songs mine to ours. Back home I made time to make something with all of my tools at my tips.
Here we move place to place with a speed and a greed that breeds barely no time to take in. We breathe in the air but don’t pick up the scents, time to reflect slim to none.
Typewriters clack with their meat cleaver keys,
Stamping their feet in red letters,
White ribbon scriptures hang cracks to the walls,
And I cant catch a break of a word.
Fragments hang backs to the rafters,
Sheets pass their last owner’s best incantations
Up into my skin with precision.