Hi there, my name's Richard D. Bartlett and I have some music that you just have to hear. You mightn't like it, but you simply must listen to it - preferably up very bloody loud. I'll upload selected tracks that will be available for a limited time; it's a bit illegal, so I urge you to go out and buy anything that takes your fancy.
This week in the first instalment of EYMTWRDB I'm going to start right out on the fringe, with a screamo band you've probably never heard of - The Blood Borthers. Do you like The Mint Chicks? They effing love the Blood Brothers. I can absolutely guarantee there is barely a parent alive that will appreciate the sheer noise of this band (what better recommendation could I possibly give?)
"Screamo" means there is some screaming, so it is legit hardcore, but the 'emo' suffix suggests the lyrics are poetic, self-obsessed, and awesome. Once you come to terms with the banshee wail, the face-burning riffs, and the gut-punching double-kicks, you begin to appreciate delicacies like the lush Hammond on this particular track, or the startling lyrical imagery throughout.
Camouflage, Camouflage
"Alice, where's your tongue?"
she said, "look in the encyclopedia's ceaseless chatter."
"Alice, where's your hair?"
she said, "look in the sharp of a well-worn butterfly knife."
"Alice, where's your teeth?"
she said, "look at the piano. they're dangling from every single chord."
"Alice, where's your lips?"
"look in the empires roaring; the tyrants getting so loud and boring."
"Alice, where's your man?"
"look in this black eye written like the o in the word goodbye."
"Alice, where's your house?"
"it's built on the hush of your favorite record's screeching halt."
"Alice, where's your clothes?"
"they'll be sweet sheets around your eyes when street boars eat you alive!."
"Alice, where's your swans?"
"flying in hotel rooms stealing stereos."
mister the sky's a contortionist.
the streets are skipping records blaring hiss.
camouflage, camouflage.
the city's draped in camouflage.
the taxis are jaguars throwing fits.
subways are subterranean bullets.
camouflage, camouflage.
the city's draped in camouflage.
can't you see the sidewalks are just snakes peeling off last year's skin?
can't you find your own face shining in the sky's false reflection?
where's your voice?
where's your dress?
where's your bones?
draped in camouflage.
where's your beach?
where's your sky?
where's your clouds?
draped in camouflage.
and she says give me one good reason not to empty the heart of all it's zeros and ones,
not to smash that telecaster before it births a thousand useless slums.
love bit you in the throat while you were staring at the sea.
all the girls in Montreal are smashing skateboards in the street.
it's 4am and she's at your door with a suitcase, in a nightgown.
we slip through mansions with fences full-grown.
we slip through streetlights in crooked rows.
i saw the sky split in two: one half jealous and one half cruel.
i felt my chest cave in under a pile of synthetic grins.
the fields are day-glo under sobbing rainbows dragged through filthy thoughts,
false applause and camouflage.
i couldn't see the solar system,
it was camouflaged as a tape loop repeating.
i couldn't see the glorious meadow,
it was camouflaged as a smashed in glass window.
i couldn't see the love and affection,
it was camouflaged as a jungle of erections.
i couldn't see the skeletal lightning,
it was camouflaged as a young machete.
