THE BAND:
PETER MOFFETT DRUMS, VOCALS ASSISTANT TO MR. BARBOT BASS GUITAR, VOCALS J. ROBBINS GUITAR, VOCALS, CASIOTONE
THE 7":
A Tilt and whirl, rise and plummet. Stalled in the sky and loved it. Blacked out, the stars above the lot still shone on you. Wired on raw good luck, still never get far enough above the sordid and sticky low-rent show that moves below. Now I'm finding my own way around our carnivalesque common ground. When are the tents coming down? Savoring stale confections, and magically cheap concessions to faith in the framework built to stand a test of days, I can still smell the money: net beneath everything which falls into the gap between love and pornography. Now I'm finding my own way around our carnivalesque common ground. When are the tents coming down? The medicine show comes around, to peddle a prescription to medicate mistrust of crowds, the pitch coming on sickly proud. And there's no way around it, and there's no way the carnival tents are coming down.
B Hand-made brass, poised for the past, made to sever and made to last. You timed this gift like a perfect test. Scissoring, senseless thing. Sharpened, shine, waiting on why. Break the seal on a certainty. Leave those acolytes on their knees. Scissoring, senseless thing. Scissored nerves to numb every kiss. I cut the maps up to cheat distance, slice to ribbons the senseless bliss of this.