"New Golden Dawn"

by Memorial Gore

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02:45
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03:19
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03:17
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02:23
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03:58
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about

all songs by memorial gore ©℗ MMXVI
recorded at gravesend recordings in the silent barn, brooklyn, ny, usa
engineered and mixed by julian fader and carlos hernandez
mastered by d. reinecke
cover art/photo by k. mcknight
thanks to all families, friends, and slayers.

credits

released February 2, 2016

n. buckley-farlee: drums
c. hill: guitar, vocals
k. mcknight: bass, vocals
d. reinecke: guitar, vocals, organ, glockenspiel

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about

Memorial Gore Brooklyn, New York

william f buckley, jr debates gore vidal on the pulaski bridge; the murky waters of newtown creek swiftly rise up and swallow them whole.

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Track Name: Not the D.F.
In the state of the state of the state of:

Near a northern border sits a former Empire Builder, mountains high — and you can buy it. Stolen lotion, a pilfered bromide: “do you know where your kid is at this time of night?” See a cake, cut it into slices captured by a town filled with Bills and Bryces. Gorgeous Ford (Jesus fish bumper sticker): wait at the light while the smoke grows ever thicker in the state of the state of the state of—

She’s got the broadcast rights. She never sleeps at night, no. She televises every fight. She’s an endless highlight reel.

Longtime home of men in chinos tumbling dice at tribal casinos. Return Thanksgiving — and sometimes Christmas. Say: “James C. Hill, why don’t you miss us?” Meth-heads towing a truck chained clearly; automatic teller machine spills dearly. Wall St. clipping in a letter each fall, Californians cruising in May through Post Falls with no trends, only dead ends, casting prefab passenger pens:

“We are the unknown heirs. We’ve got a thousand shares, yeah. We’ve got a secret stare. We’re both the truth and the—“
Track Name: Carly Schmitt
The well-tanned crowds of Europe couldn't convince her to look back, nor even evince, a hint of recognition. “Are you better off than dead?” — internal devaluation, re-adjustment in my head. The pain must persist, for without this is all in vain. No Schmitt, no Hill, no Rocco, no Ekman, no Draghi, no names. She's a nice girl — if you do what she says. She holds steady in her path to the downtown of nowhere's history, science, or math: I put one to one, tooth to gun, get out baby run run run run. Don't look, don't stare, don't think, don’t love, don’t try, don't care. The bound still applies: no one emerges from her lair. Well we'll approach slicked, secular, zany on a windswept, austere Sunday. She’s got a grip you'll never forget, but nothing to say, so nothing to let get in the way of this project: a trip to Terre Haute, a trip to blow jest, a trip to motivate myself and decimate all the rest.
Track Name: French Tickler
Feeling kinda forgotten while you’re skiing Interlochen
And I didn’t care to know today’s forecast for snow

You are what you assume
Free to choose, free to consume
(The other way)
Wanna go back home and cry
Corrupt lifestyles for the mentally fried

We must tend our garden.

Sitting on a boat with your tiny boat shoes
Tonight’s not the night for an evening cruise
But you’ll go anyway
Throw caution to the wind in the usual way

You are what you assume
Free to choose, free to consume
Wanna go back home and cry
Corrupt lifestyles for the mentally fried

We must tend our garden.
Track Name: Vesto Slipher
Rights, rules: modern responsibilities. Models, meanings: empty civilities. Stay awake, stay alive -- don't you know that to sleep is a sin in space? Let me let you know I don't have the time, nor do I have the place. I came to my senses. I walked a fine line. I spared no expenses. I just took that which I knew was meant to be mine. Sights, symbols: representations. Sounds, signals: misinterpretations. Whoever it is that sets the slang of the era, western WA king, Tacoma-bred pharaoh -- I ask this once for a public reprieve. I'm on a mission from God to take what you need.
Track Name: You Don't Have To Say It Too Mean
If you think that I should wear a disguise, I’ve got a mind to.
I could turn and see the tears in your eyes, that’s just what eyes do.
But I’m not even gonna try, don’t got the patience.
You don’t have to say it too mean.

Sometimes I don’t have a nice thing to say, but I don’t mind you.
Well that’s a feeling that I might underplay, is that a crime too?
I always used to always get my way in situations,
But now I feel like doing nothing today. Congratulations!

And if you think you got a reason to stay, I’m right behind you.
And if my opinion still holds any sway, then you would like to.
Track Name: Quarantine
Live to play, play to live
Hit the snooze button, fall asleep again
Feel the ankle, a deep sprain
Cold compress, try not to complain
Swollen promises, aching joints
Try to guess: what’s the fucking point?

I don’t care, I don’t care
But every time you go away I do

Stuck inside a quarantine I don’t even know
Is this truly love I see? Or really should she go?
Go ahead and take a seat, see my name in lights
Shock and awe, feel the heat — I don’t want to fight

Play to live, live to play
Take out the take-out, it smells bad today
Plastic containers, a dull fork
What are you waiting for? An albatross, a stork?
Tasteful silence, thoughtful repose
What should I think? What should I suppose?
Track Name: What's Left
What you say: authority on nothing, C.E.K. What you do: five names to tell me that what’s old is new. What you make: the initials accrue in the cruelest of ways.

What is left of the left? I can’t sleep; thoughts running through my head all night. I ask to myself in a silent shout: how’d we ever make it this far without a fight?

This time next year, will I still be here? Well, I gotta leave you — what’s left just can’t keep me. Organize yr thoughts on matters lost. Decide if the price is worth the cost. Tell me what’s in a number, baby is it true? What’s left of the left between me and you?

What you take from those whose thoughts are real not fake. What you write: a measure of nothing, a vapid flight. What you know, across Midwestern plains covered in snow, does not obtain — Zafirau will say: you and I were always worthless anyway.

What’s left of the left?
Track Name: Total Recall
Bricks and loans may break my bones
My friends, you should forgive me
I should try to realize for now
That you love me

I can’t go back to those days
I can’t recall my ways
Total recall

Bricks and loans may break my bones
My god, the pressure should kill you
I should try to reconcile my life
And let me love you
Track Name: Fillin' the Void
The greatest unheard L.A. house party band could hold the universe in their head or in their hand. A public art project ruling from the moon, holding sway, holding forth from Cambridge to Kowloon.

Possessing prescriptions, carrying light twin reverb echoes deep into Laurel Canyon night: no blizzard, no earthquake, no flood, no tears could hold back proprietors of unguarded years.

Always going for it, always cutting it to shreds. Always looking for it, nothing but dead ends. Always thinking of it, a maker of amends. Always always yeah I was so to speak in a word whatever what have you if you will — I was fillin’ a void.

Lay down the coordinates: specify the state between the axis of love and the praxis of hate. I’ve got cigarette burns on my forearm and my leg. What a world it would be if Olli Rehn had to beg.

“Let’s go across town to see some hardcore bands. Let’s go across town, but not to Manhattan.” Fateful words in the summer of ’10 — self-actualization started there and then.
Track Name: Skyway
Off all the way
Listen up for a place to stay
Cash for homes, cash for gold
Cash for gold, cash for loans
Circuits up all the way
Hear that sound here today
What’s it cost to live alone?
What’s it cost to hear the tone?

What you see and what you get in the modern age, I do forget
People lie, people shout, saying “hey man what’s that all about?”
Well take a pause, look around, you might be surprised if you read the laws
I don’t believe in anything, but you can go back to the Pleistocene.

Stop all the way
Listen up for a place to stay
Hear the sounds of the drums
Echo forth up above
Circuits on all the way
Feel the pulse here to stay
Do not bend or fold
Place the card, reap the cold
Track Name: Broken Modelo
I wanna go to Bakersfield, breathe in the thick smoke
Loud, loud music — cough, hack, and choke
Listen to Buck Owen and the Buckaroos
Loud, loud music with that fuck-you attitude

I can’t believe all that’s left for me is a broken modelo.

Well I was on my way for a pre-sliced lime
Southern-bound, cannonball record time
On the seat was a letter bearing my name
The verdict was in: k*ian shame.

I can’t believe all that’s left for me is a broken modelo.

Back in Bakersfield, heading to the diner
Ordering the tri-tip never felt finer
Catching up with Gina
What would you do? No more driving, no more attitude

I can’t believe all that’s left for me is a broken modelo.