so - we are back from massachusetts. recorded 13 songs with the masterful will killingsworth at his dead air studios. these songs sound insane. i can't wait for everyone to hear this stuff. we're gonna be pressing another LP. should be out by early 2010. we'll keep you posted as it progresses.
in other news, death by audio this thursday with pygmy shrews, passive aggressor, and our brothers, NOMOS. please come.
AND
Insound just named us the band of the week! check out the review:
http://www.insound.com/stuffwelike/swl_ind.php?id=180&from=99933
you can get our first LP from there, too, or from us.
ok - sales pitch and self shoulder patting over
Mark
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
incisions

Next Friday we will be playing this show, it will be fun.
The day after that we leave for Amherst, MA for 3 days to record a bunch of garbage with Mr. Will Killingsworth.
When we get back we are playing a show @ Death By Audio with Pygmy Shrews for their tour kickoff, Nomos is also playing. that is on October 29th. Flyer will be posted when it is produced.
LP's are still available but were going through them quickly.
There is a Boston show in the works, I believe it will be somewhere on the Harvard campus so look out for that.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
EVIL
While the red-stained mouths of machine guns ring
Across the infinite expanse of day;
While red or green, before their posturing King,
The massed battalions break and melt away;
And while a monstrous frenzy runs a course
That makes of a thousand men a smoking pile-
Poor fools! - dead, in summer, in the grass,
On Nature's breast, who meant these men to smile;
There is a God, who smiles upon us through
The gleam of gold, the incense-laden air,
Who drowses in a cloud of murmured prayer,
And only wakes when weeping mothers bow
Themselves in anguish, wrapped in old black shawls-
And their last small coin into his coffer falls.
-Arthur Rimbaud
Across the infinite expanse of day;
While red or green, before their posturing King,
The massed battalions break and melt away;
And while a monstrous frenzy runs a course
That makes of a thousand men a smoking pile-
Poor fools! - dead, in summer, in the grass,
On Nature's breast, who meant these men to smile;
There is a God, who smiles upon us through
The gleam of gold, the incense-laden air,
Who drowses in a cloud of murmured prayer,
And only wakes when weeping mothers bow
Themselves in anguish, wrapped in old black shawls-
And their last small coin into his coffer falls.
-Arthur Rimbaud
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