by Paint It Black

  • Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    The proverbial sophomore, matured, focused effort. If the history books speak fondly of our time on this earth, they will no doubt recount that this,'s #1 Album of 2005, was our most universally acclaimed album. Fourteen songs composed in the midst of a hurricane of divorce, work, death, gentrification, war, sex and W. We still play most of these songs, which means they are still great! Recorded by the greatest human being we know, J. Robbins, at Phase at the end of 2004. A rough year.

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Election Day 01:09
Last call for the bloodsuckers, cheaters, and parasites. You've been relieved of duty, so let's call it a night. You'd better sleep tight, and get your head right. No more backdoor deals, it's not a fair fight. You're beating plowshares into swords and taking your glad-handing bullshit on tour. When those promises are broken we'll be scratching at your door, and who needs D.C. when we’ve got D4?
Pink Slip 01:27
I've got war on my mind all the time. I'm such a slave to the bottom line. Do you recognize that sound? That's your little white lie breaking down. It's coming back around. Selling us shit, hand over fist, we're sitting ducks and I'm sick of it. Do you really think you know what's up? I'll turn it upside down. I'm a guillotine waiting for the head that wears the crown. (Just don't look down.) Remain oblivious, and rest assured they’ll take our silence as permission. Is it still called "control" when it’s for our own protection?
Exit Wounds 01:37
I kiss the ground and you embrace the sky. I dig myself into a fucking hole while you unfold and learn to fly. That's the way it went. I watched your descent. You got your wings clipped and your halo bent. Scratching our initials into wet cement is as close as we get to something permanent. And I want it back. Don’t give it back.
Ghosts 01:35
We rattle chains. And we question how we are trained. We speak words profane. We'll be banging pots & pans until you understand: We're following a different plan. Tried to live the good life. I just wasn't good enough. Tried to live the simple life. I wasn't simple enough. Tried to live the high life. I couldn’t get high enough. We won't let you forget.
They've got an army of accountants counting matchsticks, and an arsenal of distraction tactics. They'll use our senses against us: Manipulating desire and consensus. And they'll use guns; they'll use tear gas. I can hear the sound of boots on broken plate glass. We'll use song as inspiration. To be the rust in their machines is our intention. It's time. We’ve got to set it right, but these devils can't be fought with fists. Dissent, they want to shut it down. Just run your mouth, boy, you've made their list. I lie down with one eye open now, I know that sleep is the cousin of death. The hammer's swinging down, down, down. Fight back until your last breath. You wonder why we always play it safe? Our comforts are tying us down, and holding us back.
Wipe that smile off your face. This is not happy hour. I'm not in the mood to celebrate. You're mixing cocktails while we're mixing concrete, fortifying bunkers and preparing for the retreat. You'll keep playing word games to disguise the cost. Just keep us entertained, we won't recognize the loss. And now it's Bombs Away, but we're not O.K. It keeps coming over and over again. When "us vs. them" is hard-wired into the brainstem.
Nicaragua 01:33
You better watch who you call "backwards" and who you call "uncivilized". Treating people like pigeons; I hope they peck out your eyes. Throwing crumbs and passing judgment; Nobody asked you to import that shit. I see paradise and you see pavement. Your renovations make a mess of it. Erect monuments to excess until there's no room left. We'll turn this place into a tomb.
Labor Day 01:22
I know that some days it feels like a 9 to 5 deathmarch. And that's half the waking day taken away. I'm pretty sure that we imagined something more. Don't let that fire in your eyes flicker and fade. They're experts at extinguishing hope, so you better hold it and keep it close. It's a one-round match; you better grab it by the throat. And don't let go…I'd like to say "Hats off!" to the slash-and-burn architects. They know exactly where despair and commerce intersect. They've solved the equation for the gold rush, soul-crush: Three hundred million open mouths choking on the surplus.
You better lock your doors, find a place to hide. Build the walls thick, & dig the trenches wide. The perimeter's secure; it’s the "great divide". You can make believe that you'll never have to go outside. Burn the Hive! No one here gets out alive! We'd have a great view if it weren't for you. Selling protection that we don’t need. "Fear thy neighbor," the prevailing creed. You'll teach us just who to avoid. We're suspicious, frightened, and paranoid.
Panic 01:44
I checked the pilot lights & double-checked all the locks. But the captain's asleep at the wheel; we're heading straight for the rocks. I've got the anxiety blocked. Nose to the grindstone, both eyes on the clock. It's a matter of trust. They want to re-write the history books, they want turn back the clocks. They want us to leave our hope at the ballot box, and leave the wolf in charge of tending the flock. Make no mistake. They watch every move that we make.
Angel 01:22
Running out of breath, I was running out of time. Every clock tick reminds that I'm falling behind. We are one skin; you can't convince me to believe in sin. Language has us wired to explode, we know how to hold on and how to let go. When it feels like I'm swimming against the tide, our heads are stupid but our bodies are wise. When I lose sight because the light has died, I find hope in your hands, lips and eyes.
The medicine cabinet's empty, there's nothing for my head. Inside I'm made of concrete, my eyelids feel like lead. I'm feeling for a pulse, but it's no use. My head was screwed on tight now it's coming loose. And I've been to the bottom of a bottle or two; that shit just kept me down. I'm sick of short cuts that leave me on the ground.
365 01:40
Caught in the act you fucking thief. Give it back, it's not yours to keep. I guess you're trying to prove that candy-coated bullshit still goes down smooth, so we won't choke or gag, just wave the white flag. You're intimidated so you stick with the sickness and you use your favorite dirty tricks to inflict this. I've always had my doubts but our vision's so myopic we see no way out. As long as hope exists, it will be met with angry words and swinging fists. But there's an itch that we've got to scratch. So set the fuse and we'll strike the match.
Memorial Day 01:36
I bet you never thought you'd see me scratching at air like an amputee. So what's left? I've got a head like a trainwreck. Who's keeping count of the casualties? Fatigue thrusts its jackhammer fists into my eyes, but I'm afraid to lie down. Afraid to slow down. Afraid to go home. It's gonna catch up to me…I'm tied in knots because of what I'm not, and I can't share what I haven't got. So here's to the skinned knees and sutured hearts. Here's to the unhappy endings and all the false starts.
Looks pretty good from your spot in the food chain, but I never trust a top-down arrangement. This was built from the bottom up, and you bet your ass it's a limited engagement. And we want full disclosure, so if you can't digest and retain composure, you'll just stick your head in the sand. We're sick of the truth, we want lies. I'm tuning out, you can keep your alibis. We're sick of lies, we want the truth. You'll earn the right to contradict yourself if you survive your youth. And I'm still looking for something real. (We live disengaged from what we feel.) Something you can't buy, something you can't steal. Struck dumb by the info overflow. It's piled high in the hall by the mail slot. Don't believe everything that you download. A head full of static sets you up for the cheap shot. And isn't it ironic?Don't you think? Drunk on rhetoric, I can't stand the stink. A job well done, a pat on the back. Our lungs are iron and our hearts are black.


released March 8, 2005

Paint It Black was, on this recording:
Colin McGinniss: Lead Guitar
Andy Nelson: The Bass Guitar / Vocals
David Wagenschutz: Drums
Dan Yemin: Vocals / Guitar

Melodious assistance:
Dave Hause & Jason Yawn

Produced by J. Robbins & Paint It Black
Recorded and Mixed in September 2004
by J. Robbins at Phase / College Park, MD

Mastered at West West Side Music by
Alan Douches / Assisted by Kim Dumas

Design by Tim Gough (

All Songs © + ℗ 2005 Paint It Black
© + ℗ 2005 Jade Tree / JT1103


all rights reserved



Paint It Black Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

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