Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
$9.99USD or more
Compact Disc (CD)
Our most recent, and supposedly "final" album, as following this release we notoriously announced a decision to henceforth only release our material on 7" EPs. Scandalous! Just as scandalous was the unique nature of this album's composition, which included the superior tracking and production of our brother J. Robbins backed with the unprecedented "experimental" post-production work by The Oktopus from Dälek. Not to mention the triumphant climactic cameo from Naked Raygun's Jeff Pezzati! We'd been listening to a lot of Silver Apples and The Bug in the studio and, at the time, thought this record kinda sounded like that. It doesn't, really, but it's still our favourite album we've made, collectively. Co-produced by J. Robbins & Alap Momin at various locales up and down the East Coast.
Includes unlimited streaming of New Lexicon
via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
Paint It Black is:
Josh Agran: Guitar
Andy Nelson: Bass & Vocals
Jared Shavelson: Drums
Dan Yemin: Vocals
Produced by J. Robbins, Oktopus & Paint It Black.
Live instruments and vocals recorded at the Magpie Cage, Baltimore, MD by J. Robbins.
Overdubs, samples and other sonic tinkering committed by the Oktopus and engineered by Alap Momin at DeadVerse Studios, Union City, NJ.
Mixed by Oktopus at DeadVerse.
Anthem Vocals in "Shell Game Redux" by Jeff Pezzati. Recorded by Daniel Esauriza in Chicago, IL.
Additional vocals by Andrew Mackie, Joshua Noah Charles and Father Michael Patrick McKee.
Mastered at West West Side Music, New Windsor, NY by Alan Douches.
Art Direction by Clint Woodside at Tomorrow.
Photography by Sean Dack.
He says he wants to get better, but first he has to get a little sicker. He holds his tongue like he holds his liquor.
Too young to call it quits. Too old to settle for nostalgia, so he settles for this.
Too scared to slow down and find out what he missed.
No more hiding his medicine under his tongue, because that song’s been sung.
Salutes the angels for his rescue and subsequent protection.
He’d like to thank the Windy City for blowing this angel in his direction.
Track Name: Four Deadly Venoms
Regression is my obsession. I keep screaming, never learned my lesson. Demolition is our best invention, and our favorite mode of transgression.
Chronic defect in my head.
Kick, snare, amp blare,
We’re black & blue but we don’t care.
Iron lung, broken rung; awaiting sentence, jury’s hung.
So I’ll reap what I sow and I’ll rest where I reside. Our hearts are cracked, but still intact. Welcome to the city that shoves you back.
To resist, some twist their hands into fists. But fighting each other, like slumber, keeps us under.
Track Name: We Will Not
This is a sermon for the vermin. A song to draw blood. A finger in the dam trying to hold back the flood. We are down, but we’re still not out. We will struggle with faith in the face of doubt.
So is it a crime to think that we’ve found something more sublime?
That we’re somehow more alive?
That we're not just busy dying?
No coincidence, it's by design.
Herded into a pen with the rest of the swine.
Born to shine, or born to stand in line?
So we better step up to bat, before our dreams get hammered flat. (This is the sound) Even when your ship has run aground.
Don’t let the bastards get you down.
Track Name: Past Tense, Future Perfect
It’s got nothing to do with luck, and it’s got nothing to do with sin.
You said, "God’s got it in for you. You’re fucked," but I don’t believe in him.
Standing underneath stars and satellites. The sky is not falling on my head tonight.
I can see it out of the corner of my eye, but this time I’ve got a running start. "What a perfect match," I thought, "Your black eyes and my black heart."
It’s in my blood. No, not that tired cliché. For me its literal, just check the hospital bill. It’s in my heart. Filed under “left for dead,” and sewn together with a needle and thread. It’s in my head. History is fiction. God can’t touch us now; we’re out of his jurisdiction.
We are invincible. We may bend, but we will not be broken.
Track Name: Missionary Position
Enter the plague-bearers throwing stones. The not-in-god’s-name swearers picking through the bones. A refuge for swindlers and hypocrites. Their traps are baited and their fuses lit. Preachers proselytize, and cancers metastasize. But you’ve been properly anesthetized.
So you won’t even flinch.
You won’t notice the unmarked graves, for the victims of their crusades. Cathedrals built on the backs of slaves.
They’re the salesmen adept at deception, the neighborhood thugs selling "protection".
Track Name: White Kids Dying Of Hunger
What will it take to wake you up?
What will it take to fucking shake you up?
I won't sleep at all tonight.
I'm not alright and you're too fucking polite.
Would you call this a hit and run? Can you tell the beating drum from the smoking gun? Not to be outdone, we've got V.I.P. seating for the blind, deaf and dumb
But what we promised we'd never become. That's what they call "comfortably numb".
You're not living in the real world.
It means nothing to you.
I wish I had your faith.
Maybe then I'd feel safe.
Track Name: Gravity Wins
We’re more than just the sum of our parts.
Hands off our bodies, hands off our hearts.
And who the fuck are they to tell us where we can and can’t find divinity?
We looked around and found their god nowhere in the vicinity.
Because I see too much hunger and too much greed. What we want getting in the way of what we need. Too much neglect and too much blight. You point your finger, instead of trying to live your life right.
We’ve been condemned. We’ve been gagged and bound. The hand that feeds can be the hand that keeps us down. The rain won’t wash away your sins. You’re gonna fall.
Track Name: Dead Precedents
A charm school success story.
Top of the class in Slash & Burn Diplomacy. Setting phasers to stun is no fun. So says the syllabus for Blitzkrieg 101.
So Johnny get your gun.
You singed your wings, flew too close to the sun. Too bad you never learned to turn tail and run. That’s where we’ll come undone.
There's a thousand broken hearts on the home front, baby. That you’re too nearsighted to see. That’s why you’re falling off the charts on the home front, baby. The mathematics of complicity.
We are falling apart.
That’s as honest as I know how to be.
Track Name: The Beekeeper
We are the sound and the fury.
We’re what’s left of the hope and the glory. Foreshadowed by the dust in the ghost town, and the rust of the factory shutdown. I’ve got a fistful of crumbs, and a mouthful of lies. Everyone needs a hobby. Ours is suicide.
We had all the right tools: Opposable thumbs and big brains full of useless shit.
A long history of wrong turns and dead ends brings us back to where we started again.
And I think that I’m outranked,
Outmanned, outgunned, and outflanked.
"Out of Step"? Yeah, I know what that feels like.
This contract is null & void. We tore it up before the ink was dry. Can I remember how to forget? Well let’s hope so. Because tonight I can’t tell friend from foe.
Live fast (but don’t die young).
Slow down, but never, ever stop.
Track Name: Check Yr Math
This is not an argument. It’s a one-sided diatribe, & I’m on the wrong side.
It’s not a traffic stop. But I think you’d make a pretty good cop.
This is not a photograph. We never advertise, just cut them down to size.
These are your rules of engagement: Close your eyes, pull the trigger, save the questions for later.
It’s never just black and white.
But that’s all you see.
Talk minus action is still zero. We won’t allow another witch hunt here, so check your math, don’t go off half-cocked.
Your mouth is loaded and locked.
Track Name: So Much For Honour Among Thieves
There’s a price on our heads. Remember when we couldn’t give it away?
They want to see us dead, but they’ll be happy just to watch the decay.
And I’ve been reading about our demise.
Trying to see myself through your eyes.
Well, it’s an open casket wake.
Enjoy the show.
I heard the herd is nervous, that the murdered verb disturbed it. Anabolic egos can’t consider how their words hit.
Translation: no action, just consumer satisfaction. Light a match & watch the rats dividing into factions.
There will be no more heroes; there will be no more "death or glory." Just second story men selling second-hand stories.
Track Name: New Folk Song
If I had a hammer, it would probably be covered in rust. I've got a broom and a dustpan but they're covered in dust.
I tried to fill the cracks. But they're everywhere in this town. This place is haunted and I'm gonna have to burn it down.
We've got to start from scratch. All that's left is dust and ash. No idle hands; we stay busy hauling out the trash.
In fact, to keep my head intact I learned to stand with the wall against my back.
We don't know what we are, but we're sure of what we're not.
I know that language will fail us, but it's all we've got.
Track Name: Saccharine
Lowered expectations met. Once were wolves, now domesticated pets. Hijacked syntax, footprints on our backs. I guess in retrospect we should have covered our tracks.
But we see what’s underneath, the empty threat when they bare their teeth. Like priests we speak a dead language, written in sand. We need a new lexicon, devils be damned.
Now M.B.A.’s twist the DNA.
I guess the kids have had their say.
Track Name: Severance
So you're the fucking tin man? If you only had a heart. Your eyes are rusted shut, too caught up in yourself to start letting down your guard or trying to discard your insulation. You got fired before you could retire or hand in your resignation.
You better shed your skin, man, or this is going to get more frustrating. Inhale, exhale, repeat. But you're still asphyxiating.
The ice is getting thin. You better watch where you’re stepping or you might fall in. It's no sin (and this is where the strings come in). All this pretending is wearing thin.
We don't know where to start.
We shut down with the intent to prevent things from falling apart.
We won't fall apart.
Track Name: Shell Game Redux
Sweep out the cobwebs & recalibrate the currency. They’re robbing us blind. They’re trimming the fat, and counting every calorie. Can’t you see that they’re robbing us blind? Inveterate invertebrates ingest and regurgitate. They are robbing us blind. There’s no convincing explanation for the crumbs on your dinner plate.
Sharpen the knives and sugarcoat the medicine.
Consult your astrologist and be sure to tip the weathermen.
I know we promised you a dividend…
They steal the bread from our mouths. They steal the air from our lungs.
And they steal the ground from under our feet. They will try to steal the words from our tongues.