Brahe

by Pandas

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00:56
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credits

released 24 August 2011

PANDAS:
Col Norris: Vocals
Mike Bull: Bass
Jordan Hill: Drums
Conor McCann: Left Guitar
Greg Park: Right Guitar

GUESTS::
Courtney Park: Piano
Josh Watson: Backing Vocals
The Matrimonials (Edan Perrigo, Matty Hammond, Stephen Kaplan): Backing Vocals
Owen Norris: Backing Vocals

PRODUCTION
Recorded and Mixed by Jason George at Nice Package in Towson, MD
Mastered by Michael Tucci at Masterdisk in Brooklyn, NY
Produced by Conor McCann

WRITING
Music: Pandas
Lyrics: Col Norris

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Track Name: You Guys, I'm Really Nervous
Here’s another scripted tirade or apt explosive exposition. We’ll be your faults. We’ll clear-cut your ties with subjective rants that have all gone awry. You’ve heard right. Right. You’re right. You’re right. You’re right. You’re right. I might over react more often than not. Recite. Recite. Recite. Recite. Recite such a petty fuss. Insight. Insight. Insight. Insight. Insight. Indicative of some sort of spite just to excite. Excite. Excite. Excite a pulse. We’re a contrived sideshow but you’ll never know.
Track Name: Sharktopsy
You’re radiation but you ain’t radiating me. Splitting hairs or particles, makes no difference to you either way. This contamination ain’t contaminating me from the seeping reactors that power all the lines you say, which induce half-life decays. Your words, they’re weapons-grade. You’re no stain, that won’t exfoliate. So go and trip those circuit breakers that regulate cooling towers. Let lead walls melt like alka-seltzer into puddles of boiling slag. A capsized raft. Arctic seas. A well-polished guillotine. Is that all you’ve got? Well, that’s what I thought. With those rolled-up sleeves, don’t make me laugh. I’m welcoming the acid rain. I’m cheering on the discordance. I’m finalizing backup plans, and aren’t I fetching in the sunset apocalypse. Your contamination ain’t contaminating me from the poison byproducts of all the words you say. One can’t satiate a thirst to suffocate. Caught up in the fallout and debris, it won’t scald me. Dragged under by the riptides teeth, it won’t drown me. Fires leaping at my bound feet, they won’t asphyxiate me.
Track Name: High Noon At Rainbow Nebula
She can sense all their movements before the well-tuned instruments. Disruptive orbits are her sixth sense. Solar winds waft all those rustlers’ scents. (Well-bred to defend) They’ve become an extension. (All these bland farmlands) Those tumultuous kittons, a means to an end. A quiet ranch on quiet plains towers arranged on the grounds. The quiet radar dishes await and are aimed through the clouds. Her quiet minks quietly sleep their minds diseased and linked to trounce. “The quiet hum of defense systems is my home,” she sighs aloud. (A plano-form flash at noon) Sirens erupt. Her mind erupts in a shriek that cuts through scalp and skull. She funnels their thoughts into compressed results of unimaginable bedlam. Those synapses burn from the friction. The primordial shouts and the taste of blood. He comes into view. As she duels, she delights in their assumptions. Axons all burst. Minds unravel and strive to comprehend all her beasts’ thirsts. Your best shot is not enough. Your best shot is way off. Your best shot is all you’ve got. There’s more out there because poacher’s season is always open. Is there more out there between the cosmic bodies? There is more out there, but will my ship ever come in? Well, until then. The quiet ranch on quiet plains ends the day safe and sound. The quiet radar dishes await and are aimed through the clouds. Her quiet minks quietly sleep. An exhausting release leaves the crowd. “The quiet hum of defense systems is still my home,” she sighs aloud. She says “I’m here until the end.” She says, “this fail-safe weapon is my only friend until there’s one else.” She says to herself. To herself.
Track Name: Bonercycle
This seems. This seems so. This seems so familiar. It’s just. It’s just the way. It’s just the way of culture. Hey man, I can weather rough storms, since they’re just weather patterns. Yeah man, I can weather all storms. It’s not like we have not before. Purge, repent, rebuild again. That’s our rinse-repeat society. Faith in all we’ve accomplished is a false sense of security. Multiply. Divide. Align to a nationality. Isn’t that humanity? Well, I guess that’s all I’ve ever perceived. So you say you got it written down. The perfect prose but I’m afraid we’re past the works of literature. So you say you got it all worked out (the math has been all checked) a formula to let us evolve together? Well, I swear I’ve heard that one before: out of the tomes of scholars’ thoughts; within the confines of church spires. All those answers have become stock. Stock. So as machines become more complex to try and fix this sprawling mess, I’m another purveyor of wasted time. A fickle facsimile fading fast. This seems so familiar. It’s just the way of culture. A broken dyke floods a pasture. A city full of sleeping disorders. A tension bridge snaps from earth fissures. Recycled lives/Recycled buskers. That pretty song can sum it up well. That pretty song, such an axiom. That pretty song of your prolix swill. That pretty song is sealed in a vacuum. The clockwork is slowing down. Internal springs are wearing out. Clenched teeth of gears all erode in a quiet clicking droning sound. So you say you got it written down, the prose to break past errors. So you say you got it figured out in equations. (The math is all there) So you say you’ve got it all solved, “just follow the word of our savior.” So you say you got it all figured out. Well, I swear I’ve heard that one before. So you say. Hey man, I can weather rough storms after all they’re just weather patterns. Yeah man, I can weather these storms just like before. The drains are clogged with the stagnance of repeats. Hey man, I can weather a rough storm, the same old weather patterns. Yeah man, I can weather all storms. Just like before the drains are clogged with the stagnance of histories. Well, I guess that’s what I’ve seen.
Track Name: Underhorn
So he fell in love with the fortuneteller, such a sultry soothsayer. Fell in love with the fortuneteller. Spoiled tomorrows are here. As the day breaks my dawn breath escapes. All these loose strings tied in bows and snipped. Nothing left to chance; nothing to rebel against. Cash is pre-spent before I spend a cent. That clock still feeds on time insatiably and it tics and it tics. Tictictictictictictictictictictic. Its rings, its chimes, it’s no surprise. It rings it chimes, it’s no surprise. It’s no surprise. There’s no surprise. It’s no surprise. There’s no surprise to me.
Track Name: T.F.B.S.I.Q.O.T.S
With a knife to the captain’s throat and a starving engine bellow, we’re adrift but our wake keeps us all afloat on this barely buoyant bow. We’ve been taking on water awhile. On deck, rust and sweat and the crew that’s still left. Drowned rats float all around. Shovel all your bunks into the fiery gut. We won’t rely on luck. Keep making way. Past storms have left us awash. Ignore the maps and charts and the seas’ assaults. Keep making way. French inhales of smoke. The turbine, it chokes on this iron boat. Keep making way. We’re dancing on a blade and tempting fate but, come what may keep making way. No shoreline in sight, but that suits me just fine. HeyHeyHeyHeyHeyHey. Take up your rum for the fire, a spark to start the fire. Your tobacco boy is for the fire, the blood that fuels the fire. Furnace, persist. Our driest days are left behind us. Scrap the lifeboats to stoke the fire, the hungry belly fire. Cargo and love-notes’ desires consumed in lusty fire. Furnace, persist. Soaking days are now upon us. There’s no bed for rest or bread to ingest but we’ll not desist. Keep making way. Past storms left us awash. Ignore the maps and charts and the seas’ assaults. Keep making way. French inhales of smoke. Soot covered clothes. The engine bellows, “keep making way.” We’re dancing on a blade and tempting fate, but come what may keep making way. No lotus-eaters aboard. No sirens singing us to the shore. Shore leave? Sure. A waste, when you never make port. The ocean. The rake. The whore. Cast the waves aside. Underway, her wake keeps us all topside. Heave Ho. Keep on making way.
Track Name: Fellas, I Got My Confidence Back!
Have you been asleep? “No one buys subtlety just guitar glitz, a messiah complex and limerick poetry.” Measured in refrains, who are we to complain? These petty sneers we’ve seen for years cannot compare when we’ve turned up the gain. So let us rant and rave to keep you always guessing and as we spit and spray the frenzy usurps the fashions. It’s not all depraved. We’ll keep your endorphins rushing. It’s all a hook and bait, a match struck by munitions. Sharpen your teeth, chomp at the bit, and don’t lose your nerve. Bite Bite. Sharpen those teeth to bayonets. Deaden the nerve. Bite Bite. Sharpen your teeth, chomp at the bit, and don’t lose your nerve. Bite Bite. Sharpen those teeth.
Track Name: Check Out K-Mart Danzig Over There
So you’re so concerned with the plight of modern man, but not so concerned to make a buck off suffering? Host vs. Subject. Celebrity vs. Drudgery. “In the field one needs to get their hands dirty.” A perverse glee in separating us from them. We the blooming flowers, they only the stems. Petty compassion for us to pretend. We the drooping flowers they the lowly stems. Your glib portrayal still won’t leave me as convinced as you’d wish me to be and yet that sympathy can open all the legs of the housewives you’ve so enthralled. So show, show, show, show me how their lives just make you ache then discuss this over posh drinks. We’ll talk in crooked mouths. We’ll pay, show us a little more. Factories all shutting down. Film it, show us a little more. Pious well-hidden taunts, we’ll beg. Show us a little more. Incite a guilt response. Close up, show us a little more. Ivory towers of serious teeth. Deep-throated vines of ivy-league leaves. Wrap that degree around sewage caps to hide the waste that flows underneath. We’re misery merchants but all on the sly. Fret over the lower class strife to all the audience’s delight. Idolize the lower class life bathed in the shade of rose-colored light. Glorify the lower class life. We’re starving to see how they all survive. Fret over the lower class strife. Phony benevolence is how you profit and pander and persuade and thrive. Oh yeah, come on. We’ll grant safe passage through those seas we fear to sail. Oh yeah? Come on. We’re ambassadors to these scenes of no avail. Oh yeah? Come on. We’ll send maudlin tales from these seas you fear to sail.
Track Name: More Like Vulcan't
I’ve bet on the last horse of this race, rendered to plaster and glue. Regrets extract, is that what age begets? Lost last nights’ cocktail napkins. Bankrupt on spilt milk seas. Bankrupt on splitting pipe dreams. You can find me in discarded old tickets of late buses, missed. (YeahYeahYeah) You can find me taking refuge in epiphanies that use to make sense. (YeahYeahYeah)You can find me poisoned by past poets’ syrup sentiments. (yeahyeah) Just a rhyme. Just, to pine. A justified waste of lines. Just this justice, just mist. Just a rhyme. Just, to pine. Just a line. Just the rinds. My introspection is so nearsighted. Listlessness is the only list I’m writing. “I literally can’t see what you’re saying.” Coaxed by imagery, emotion and opiates, oh yeah. Hoist that pen and that bottle and start again, oh yeah. Filled with form function and formaldehyde, oh yeah. Hoist that pen and that bottle, and replay those lives, oh yeah. Just lines in rhyme.
Track Name: How 'Away'?
You are a shark that has been circling and we all tread water at the surface. You are luring us with your coy desires as we all try to fend off this shiver. So what’s your point? There’s something caught between your teeth. A flag so regurgitated. Those broadband addicts are too pixilated to notice and the skyscraper worshippers all let blood into the oceans while lingerie peacocks sell strip-teases to distract us. Too much is never enough for you to swallow. Too much is never enough in a free market. Too much is never enough for you to control. Too much is never enough to fill your stomachs. Wait wake wait wake. He awoke from a dusty binge in the wet bowels of the bar light. The room breathed as the ribs all creaked to keep the walls all so airtight. He tipped and slipped from the soused and the soaked to crawl up the throat to the mouth, to the streets (past the teeth) and gaped at what he saw: Cola Molotovs; Factories spewing legislation; A balsa wood soap box and megaphones choked by infomercials of rubber bullet sales. So sell me. Sell me. Sell me a larynx untied. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me what’s worth my time. Sell me. Sell me. Sell me what once was mine. So what’s your point? It’s just a receipt. Registers ring us in. Registers count us up. Registers march in step. Registers drain us out. Fell out of a televised trance to wander from her apartment complex, towed towards the waterfront where all the stars were struck down by harsh neon. She ran along the slippery skin of wet docks and fresh vomit to the edge of the tongue of the town. To the rotting harbor, she was distressed at what she saw: Rescue-note bottles; Parched mouths of skeletal muckrakers; Strip mall runoff of asbestos mixed with artificial flavors. We’re all treading water and shooting off our last flare. We’re over here. Fins cutting through water. Jaws poised to devour. We’re over here.
Track Name: Sky Fortress Pretend Friend
What’s your god? What’s his worth? What else have you got? False prophets state those empty promises. Spark semantic debates, but I think you’ve missed the point. It’s cute. It’s quaint, but not quite my taste. You just speculate and I think you’ve missed the point. Some one's philosophies seem coerced into reality, but I hope it’s true for your sake. Someone was sacrificed and someone kept it all archived, yet I hope there’s more to your faith. Could your beliefs be based on mistakes? The afterlife, just allegory? Well, I hope it’s true for your sake. White white lies keep everything so pasteurized. Nice nice try but I’m not the one looking to buy. Life life-sized tales never stick to timelines. Don’t call it a vision. Don’t call it religion. Don’t force all this fiction. Moral-measurement meanders a bit, you have to admit. Your moral measurement meanders a bit when referencing myths. Your moral measurement meanders a bit once life intersects. Your moral measurement meanders a bit so leave me out of it.
Track Name: Throat Magic
A smoking gun is that how I see love, when lustfully looking down one’s nose just to gloat? A loaded tongue, is that all I’ve become? Buckshot that sprays such spiteful spit all around. A loose cannon, is that what I call love? Vapor trails of such convinced ghosts. (Friend or foe) This steely tongue is all I’ve relied on, but these polished prose cut oh so cold for so long. So take back all I pontificate, is that enough? To never state another God-damned thing, is not enough. Far from enough. I’ve been Indian-giving my opinion to all who’ll listen. End of a scene, the bones picked clean and my blanket statements hold small pox and fleas. Miles and miles of foaming bile, I’ve spilled my contents onto every surface. The bar stool seats and sad city streets soak in my pessimistic logic. Cobbling together all this debris is not enough. To shout but never learn a God-damned thing, that’s not enough. Still not enough. Take back all I pontificate, is that enough? To never state another God-damned thing, is that enough? Will that hold up? Well, close enough. Is that I’m still shooting to kill with burnt coffee grinds and an endless landfill. Retract these claws, unclench this jaw, I’m out of sorts without ear-poison discourse. Instead. Instead let’s stay in bed where the ruins won’t pile from the things I’ve said. Heart in a drought and an ugly mouth, I’ll keep it down in this nest of down. I’ll keep it down. I’ll keep it down. It’s more than words left on the page. I’m more than words left on a page. We’re more than words left on the page. You’re more than words left on a page. You’re the quotes I cite short and concise. The perfect line I’ve never figured how to write. You’re my fixed dice. Scotch on ice. The perfect line I’ve never figured how to write. You’re all numbers prime. The constant pi. The perfect line I’ve never figured how to write. You’re a peregrine dive. The scent of pine. The perfect line I’ve never figured how to write. You’re red skies at night. Sweetness and light. The perfect line I’ve never figured how to write. You’re Beethoven’s ninth. Form and rhyme. The perfect line I’ll never write.