Get all 11 Youngblood Brass Band releases available on Bandcamp and save 25%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Pax Instrumentals EP, Covers 1, 20 Years Young, RIP Arian Macklin, Pax Volumi, Riot Instrumentals EP, Is That A Riot?, Live. Places., and 3 more.
1. |
March
03:18
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"... to gather in us the desire for motion towards...
Motion to make that movement vertical... rewrite your
books while hovering... assemble and advance on the
sky... there is no more room for forward, for back...
focus in us flight, and spring. Jump... take up space.
It is in the air... take what is yours. Take on space... "
The month of armies. Month of stomping men.
Uniform winter tries to shed while fighting back
nostalgia's frozen tears. The melted path summer runs
along, naked but for her tanned hide. Yes, spring is a
bully. All the earth in coitus for lonely bees to watch.
And as the world grows green, broken birds grow envy.
True, man, spring gets all the love. Verb in season
form. This is its roaring mouth leaving bite marks
on the year's front quarters; aide memoire to the
thoughtless ranks who bundle up their fear of age
with tattered scarves of love lost.
But it is also quite mindful of two masters, for all it's
pomp and span: though keeping to the wings,
and later giving them up (only one needs the hand),
it serves the lion and leaves the lamb. March.
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2. |
Nuclear Summer
04:25
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"From the left shoulder of a nation
From skies lacking the mechanisms of death
From the burdened bellies of wrought iron angels
We come, we drop: we're bombs..."
And we're in... hordes of us, scraping over the walls...
There is no darkness so deep that we cannot paint it present.
There is no cause so bleak that we will veil in vain.
We are the rain's army, dispatched in vein and we course...
Dead eyes run through. Ink and pigment splattered on barren ground.
Swords aloft. Screaming battle cries in all tongues lost.
The old blood boiling over timeless ideals.
We are staining every soul present enough to look up.
Go home scarred and tattoo the sound all over your body, for these
sun-dipped blades herald brighter spirits coming
once that gray lump you call a head is sliced clean off...
Once a benevolent president tears open your cheek a tongue will come flopping out.
It will lay on the ground licking slush off our frozen streets. Then it will die.
Your love curdled already besides. I'll kiss your hand, but you won't see the smirk
beneath my lowered eyes. Nothing King get wise:
All my children are carrying knives
More pressure more fire more peace more vibe.
More people more free more heat more live.
More voice more feet more song more rise.
More echo more cloud more test more sky.
No quarter no vote no power no vice.
No king no vision no womb no right.
More signal more move more center more light.
More pressure more fire more peace more vibe.
More.
How about a little warhead in your abdomen? Ooh, how about a stain?
How about armada is to javelin what battle is to game?
Oh! Inverted world I'm thinking Nobel Prize,
because the marriage of preemption and commerce? That was mine.
I prefer a phallus to a circle every time.
I prefer to make a beat that wipes a village from the map.
I prefer a falling payload when it's dancing on your lap.
Are you perverts having fun yet?
It all comes out gray and matters less with each sunset.
Here come a bomb. The sound above language.
The sound off-kilter with casualties pending.
The sound of patented death. The action-packed ending.
It's not sarcasm. We're training eyes.
Hands were we can see them. Ass in the sky.
Asinine lies for assassins in need of motives
for making that human ink bleed.
Champions, fly.
Calling all living. Affirming all dreams.
Screaming all hell. As real as it seems.
Rescind your explosions. Get up off toes.
Kids are at attention tending toward prose.
Smolder at shows, shoulder all comers.
Dirty old bushmen your season is waning.
Sorry about peace... big fucking bummer.
Ignite a new kind of soul fusing father and mother.
Here come the heat.... nuclear summer.
More pressure more fire more peace more vibe.
More people more free more heat more live.
More voice more feet more song more rise.
More echo more cloud more test more sky.
No quarter no vote no power no vice.
No king no vision no womb no right.
More signal more move more center more light.
More pressure more fire more peace more vibe.
More. More. More. More. More. More. More. More.
More. More. More. More. More. More. More. More.
More. More. More. More. More. More. More. More.
More. More. More. More. More. More. More. More.
More.
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3. |
Waiver
05:30
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We are waving our arms.
To the left. To the right.
AK's over here. M9's over there.
There's a party over... our arms.
Our arms. Our arms. Our arms.
We are waiving our arms.
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4. |
But You Can't Run
04:06
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5. |
Pala Minima
05:58
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This film on your anvil has no shutter, no scope.
And woman, and song, and play do not appear.
Intoned words, the carpeted funeral
March slung like bullets from the mouth of a distant god,
Leave you shaking for mercy’s
Shameful touch. You are shook
By each woken man, each of these
Traveling magi, each supposed healer.
Shook by a single sound
That could burn down projected
House. Eyes like suspended lanterns
Wandering between crowds, attaching
Themselves to a trolling thigh here,
An advertisement there.
The film! battered at home, pounded
Into your family’s forum, shoved
On your friends’ beds, grows
Through winter a moss and a thistle. It covers
a plaque tossed off by a preacher.
But it will not cleanse
It will not show
It will swim in your head
Until the credit rolls
It shall not cleanse
It shall not show
It will slowly be covered by
Dunes, blood, dust, and snow.
You are resurrecting a history found
Gutted and stripped by adolescent,
Sharp-toothed boys. Through arduous
Season and season it spills
itself for them. It says
“Run with my line, my moves,
My play; tell your elders whence
It comes.” No more the taint of populace,
The cancer of submission, the folly of art.
My stains are all of this life,
Strewn o'er head and hand,
Soaked on piercing bone.
Steal my stage
As you will, long as each bone is paid,
And each stain rendered permanent
on the farce of your love.
I sell wounds for fun to fans,
And have a new thing everybody should see!
It is an anvil wrought of my inverted
Stars. You must turn it, now,
Just so.
But it will not cleanse
It will not show
It will swim in your head
Until the credit rolls
It shall not cleanse
It shall not show
It will slowly be covered by
Dunes, blood, dust...
And the film of all that's good will froth and run
New flora bathed in blood
All cost no sun
The film of all that's good will froth and run
New flora bathed in blood
New bush, no son
Emergency. Rock.
Of the People For the People By The People
Of the People By the People By The People
By the People By the People By The People
By the People Sell the People Buy The People
Emergency Rock.
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6. |
JEM
01:35
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7. |
Dead Man Stomping
04:33
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Hark. Lo. Ye, if it please the court...
this is an example of a convoluted overture / cacophony in form
catch a beating from a coma camera / focus on the norm
automatic automatic automatic cool
he edited it and edited it and delivered it after school
mountain-moving man / tantrum for sale
banter and fail / band on a scale
a phantom, a male predisposed to getting jiggy in his head
presuppose they’ll give a shit before you’re dead
to be precise: preset prose arguments for elders and a mint in a black box
bugs on your ear and a king that you jack off
sample data sample data sample data sample
jack a beat instead and off a queen for instant cracker clout
or offer her an essay on the virtues of aggression
assuming that it’s pretty good’s the new second guessing
case in point: the minute boy made his juice on the backs of skeletons stacked
irrelevant facts come better when disguised as your own kinda genius
we thought it was a song but it turned out to be a penis
oh my...a closed eye that won’t cry
your whole side is angry but you’re really just bovine
you don’t eat your friends unless they come covered in cheese
you don’t make amends unless receiving currency
substantiated claim that these are the rules of a personality passed
it’s the scent of death you recall, not so much the gas
parentheses here
e.g / e.g. / e.g. / e.g. a skull minus a tongue performs the art of all your uglies
that’s the sound of money...the world when it’s round
your ass when it’s flat / your back in a cast / your movie at last
this is an example of a
i.e. soldiering for medals when you’re driving the war car / holding broken bottles by the cut in your forearm
sottering your marrow for a notch on a scorecard / held by the imaginary culture police
shard of a man with a scab and a tendency to pacify his enemies with radical solemnity
a passion for the penalty of acting out offensively / illiterate hyperbole / glass eye vandal
verified clause says stop on a consonant / ring on a whim / stomp on a continent / sing your own hymn
tra-la-la-la-bullshit
exhibit C / exhibit / do explicitly exhibit seven degrees of separation
from a cognizant connection to the consequence of hell-bent ciphers
he’s a skeleton sniper
your honor, this is an example of a
(sample data / testimony reveals / illustrated here / supporting evidence)
this is an example of a dead man stomping
permit me introduce a dead man stomping
committed by a dead man stomping
the sound of a dead man stomping
this is an example of a dead man stomping
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8. |
AKE
05:49
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9. |
Is That a Riot?
05:23
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10. |
Bone Refinery
04:22
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Gimme that low-carb honeysuckle caramel thigh
Shake enough to make a man from the dairy state cry
Nice femur
Helluva shin
Strong clavicle
How 'bout it, 'how bout it, 'how bout it, how 'bout it
Horns
We can coat your skeleton in gold for a fee
You can have Mel Gibson's shoulders
And Ed Norton's knees
Put your time in now, they can't see but they'll believe
You got a certain member, we know you got needs
Put it in the bone refinery
Shove it in the bone refinery
Stick it in the bone refinery
Na na na na bone refinery
Federal executive admitted for free
Pony up the marrow get your calcium creed
Certified hippie only shit what I eat
Killing time at the co-op, fashionably
Hand-held stem cell helium spree
Coffee in the morning complimentary teats
Everyone's down at the b-o-n-e-r-e-f-i-n-ery
But forty seconds later and you're wondering who fell
Computer-poser premium, the kind of sleep you sell
Back to your parents when the going gets techno
Immortal with the marrow and a cartilage-free well
Logically emotive for the ladies with no cares
Folklore head wound sex in song
No-clue carpenter, gold beer bong
Captivate a left-brain tumor for an upgrade
You oughta buy a milk crate and fill it with teeth
You oughta think harder but the pills are really cheap
You oughta make 'em feel it but the protocol is pummel
It's all atrophy anyway: flesh fades
Here, take a flyer I distribute them free
I got handbills, I got photocopies
You can find me at the Kinko's I'm in good with the dweebs
Or up north telemarketing, rocking polar fleece
So buy you a tibia, buy you peace
Outbid empathy, buy out dream
Take out celluloid, come next week
The blood is free-flowing and the bones are cheap
At the b-o-n-e-r-e-f-i-n-eryyyyyyy
On the way to use the toilet say hello to your friends
Custom engineering excellence, boy you can depend
Cancel that subscription, endoplasty is cheap
And we're making men of pussies and a bombshell of greed
It's all down at the bone refinery
Give it to the bone refinery
Work it in the bone refinery
Deposit in the bone refinery
We got a well-dressed sentinel having our fun
Daddy caught in coitus wearing kindergarten under-roos
Give the hairy eyeball to a woman in a bun
All the lonely heroes and a longing for a better butter
Pink Moon scattershot, only tell it slant
Laureate, Laudable, Robust, Fortified
Catch 'em in the act, say hello to the scene
Watch it burn on a 40-inch platinum screen
The less you listen, the more real you are
Study only scores, underscore the part
Legitimacy coin, old school for the cops
Words are sticks and stones are rocks
I'm a drummer, little wonder that I beat off tops
Lyricists I got the beaucoup stutter / stutter
Wis-con-sin, I got the brew and the butter
What do we do when it's supper in the summer?
Shuck that corn mama
Shuck that corn daddy
Shuck that corn baby
Bless John Zorn
Come on
I got plenty of closet space
What do I need
from the b-o-n-e-r-e-f-i-n-e-r-yyyyyyyy
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11. |
Sell Me More
03:17
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12. |
Will
04:00
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You will sit down to write a letter with no recipient.
You will stumble, but it will feel true. Do you not stumble?
You will look out the window onto the empty street,
and appear to reflect.
But it is appearance.
You are soaking. You are certain that all the air in
the house is conspiring to hum. And you will sing to it,
silently. You will consider your noble deceased, those
who left you here to finish a painting already sold,
displayed, and burned – with joy.
It is with joy.
You will sleep, and you will wake, and it will be memory...
and even that will be memory. The ink will age, remembering.
The ink well gives, eventually. You will consider the fallen
snow, the falling snow, and the unawares sea that will soon
watch his children be swept up into their perfect dream.
You will know each crystalline picture, named by our
nameless admirer. You will admire her. You may love her.
It is just fine, to guess. You will be studied by people.
People are studious. Pay attention to the students – they pay
with their youthfulness. You will open a book and greet
your reflected image.
It is image, imagination, and, already, gone.
You will close a book and imagine another. Tomorrow
(image) another. You will meet her a thousand times.
Or once, years ago. It will be years ago. Before you
know her. It will occupy you. It will make its home
in your head; will set up shop in your soul; will
commandeer your hands.
Don’t buy nothing just yet.
You will hear a different set of notes, while wandering.
You will be in awe of many people. They will applaud this.
It will be trying. Try to become their applause. You will have
to be chaos. You will have to collect consciousness without
keeping him, for the rest of the senses – the less aware – are
waiting. You will clap. You will attend your friends’ ceremonies,
your family’s rituals, your own funeral. You will clap.
You will intend to tell your father. You will attempt to
steal your mother. You will extend the life of your teachers.
And you will end.
It is appearance, image.
You will envy every lit candle. You will wish upon each wick.
You will stitch her a wound that only you can undo. You will
put on a stolen sweater and saunter off to school, pretending
to be her pupil, but you will not be in her eyes. You will see,
it is sight. She will look...luminous. You will keep moving.
You will find yourself an old forest. You will befriend the picture,
the shoots, the stalks. Then you will fire. You will light.
Will, be done.
It is appearance, joy, image, will.
You will be done.
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13. |
Thanks
05:43
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Youngblood Brass Band Madison, Wisconsin
Original riot jazz crew, wrecking stages everywhere all the time since 1997. New EP 'Pax Instrumentals’ out now. Members are available for online lessons, commissions, arrangements, and custom studio work as well. Thanks for listening.
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