PERVERSION

by OLD LOVE

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03:58
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06:33

credits

released March 24, 2016

Recorded 14/12/2015 + 27/01/2016 by Dan Stork in Melbourne.
Mixed & Mastered by Jack Shirley at The Atomic Garden SF.

Album Art by Leonie Mulqueeney 'Loniart'.

Thank you all kindly for the support!

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about

OLD LOVE Melbourne, Australia

"Thanks to your gloomy music, they've finally stopped dreaming of a future we can't possibly provide".

www.facebook.com/oldloveband

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Track Name: Godshatter
We tell of the shame we've been feeling, the need that we've been feeding. Wearing that chimp suit, dancing for change. Straight to the awareness that purpose is fleeting. A process refined by keeping feet moving. We're living the life. You'll come to know god. You'll come to no gods. We're nothing but the liquid of our father's loins. A process of lust, fuck, then regret. All instinct is bust if you're not in the know. We're fucking floating alone. Again to the drinking and the ash in our lungs. And to the knowledge better songs were sung. We've laid our bellies on a bed of angry snakes. It's the only proven cure for a soul that aches. And in the swell we will drown, no limbs are useful in this ghost town . In the sand we will dig until the Earth has no soil to give. We'll starve our children for fuck of it. We're drowning and it makes sense to sink. We're done for it. Embrace the cosmic shift. We're done and now it's obvious we're full of shit. We're drowning because it's to our benefit. We're broken because we're fine with it.

** Preach, Preach to the converted you know.
Track Name: The Deepdene Dasher
We picked our scabs until they bled, we needed a new perspective on life. Ten years getting high, laying tribute to people, to progress, to the dust. It's not you it's your cage. Every day we get up, drain our blood, take our drugs, beat our lungs, tell ourselves we'll be better in the long run. Praise our preachers of majestic features. We're ill. Angst ridden. We're just the product and so are our children. It's not you it's your cage. Praise be the society we're in.
Track Name: Nunburner Part I
In tough times he will breastfeed on disease and manage to hide his teeth. Swapping syringes and bad decisions. This is his golden age. A suburb that he knows. A disgrace that stalks the streets. It's said he preys on the weak. A slave to deceit. If he could prevail in shutting his eyes he'd only see himself inside out.

** I'll wash their stained bodies, then paint with charcoaled hands. Once bright eyes fading out.
Track Name: Nunburner Part II
Overcome with sonder. Each face holds a venture, a reason, a purpose, a plague, an immense shame. When he's returned home he'll learn he's outgrown his condition. His philosophy - “sobriety will be the death of me”, and begins he's ascension to the divine. There's something to be said about the freedom in pain. The rejection of liberosis sickness and shame. And one could begin to explain all his sin, but one would be foolish to try. One could begin to explain all his sin but one would get lost in reason and distinction. A mess of semantics. He's a killer behold, a trophy design. A winner, a slime, a crook and a marvel. In a time of suppression he's the exception. A mongrel attempt at a improved state. A dubious attempt at improvised affection. A life of distraction. He moves just for the fun of it. Just for the fuck of it.
Track Name: Windbreaker
She stands by the light and feeds on the moths. They help with the heart. Constricting the loss. Replacing the doubt that comes with commitment and when there is love she'll simply ignore it. She came from the highest. A gift from the low set. She sat by the stone and begged for the 'cid to absolve us. Like a blizzard in a desert, it was a skill set meant for madness. Yet it remains. The constant numbness that comes from monotonous ownership. She only listens to Division. It eases the tension. She takes comfort in the thought that the voice had long left us. A spectre with a tone of knowing what's coming. A special resolve with allowing a flooding, submit to the rip, she'll sink with her ship and fold her arms as if nothing is happening. And gave nothing but cold eyes. She could move mountains, if she could feel them. A guide by sight would not succeed, a lucky retreat, but not fulfilling her dream. And there's exhaustion in the way she moves. The dance not a dance, but rather her last chance to reclaim her home when there's no place left to go. This is catharsis, and it of the purest. The lines are a guide to tell her where the resentment can reside but there's no backing for expedition. No team on the verge to conquer the unknown. "I'm alone! Anemone! Daughter of wind! The mother of all design, save our hearts and tell us where to lie”. And when in the gateway there's writhing in her soul, and a dread that dying probably won't resolve the way her dreams never yield anything but bits of hope destined to dissolve. “I'm alone! Anemone! We're alone! And waiting to dissolve!” When there's a mirror on site an immediate saliva reaction. She must spit at the face that glares her direction. This could be mistaken for aggression, but don't be fooled, it's just ridding herself of what she calls venom. A flair up of the adrenal glands. She's set the alight the sacred straw man. And there's something in the wrath that moves her. She's forgetting desire. And regretting the regret. Now a machine will remove what's left. There's a discomfort to it, but it is needed to gain one's admiration. And a need to feed. A fool to sink when she floats. And her breathe makes her sick, she continues with the shit because to cease to live would be victory for them. "I'm through being weak, now I will feast”