Murderous Melodies for the Discerning Drinker

by Gin Shop Revolt

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  • This is the downloadable version of our new 7 song CD, it comes complete with the artwork used to create our custom CD stamps and a PDF version of the inlay card containing the song lyrics.

     

1.
04:10
2.
03:32
3.
03:24
4.
5.
05:34
6.
04:35
7.

credits

released October 10, 2013

All lyrics by Tom; except 'Don't' by Andy & Tom.
All music by Gin Shop Revolt.
Recorded by Lee McConnell in Nile Street, Sunderland, between the months of October 2012 and October 2013.
Mixed and Mastered by Lee McConnell.
Artwork and layout by Cockney Dan and Stephen.

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about

Gin Shop Revolt Sunderland, UK

Gin Shop Revolt was a ska punk band from the North East of England. Featuring members of various other punk and ska bands including 46Itchy, The Difference Engine, Leatherface, Loudmouth, Quatermain, The Stumps and We Done it for the Don!

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Track Name: Eleven
The card's unmarked, the rough merely trade: this ruinous bleeding it feels like masquerade.
The cry of filthy lucre, the sport of other songs, the head of wild Medusa, a poisoned way of tongues: I never thought they’d mean it, in simple words collide, a token revolution with nothing left to hide.
‘They want a meeting Friday? Can Travis cover that?’
‘Lets have a spot of breakfast and then we'll bat it back.’
‘The rumour has it; the guy’s a drunken bum;’
‘What’s that, ‘you knew my dad’? Well there’s worse to come...’
Chorus: The card's unmarked, the rough merely trade: this ruinous bleeding that feels like masquerade.
One jet is banking silence, a sun is melting wax, at once a host of targets inside a file-o-fax: all thought of destination just a cryptic curse;
this is no revelation, a poor excuse for verse.
Stupidity is legion, the stuff of fantasies, they talk in suppositions and trite anomalies;
one truth is caught on camera: inside a worried look and polished lack of grammar, they don't give a fuck.
Track Name: Don't
Do it right, do it easily, then tear it all apart;
play it out where we can't see that bleating human heart.
Throw it out for sympathy, then let the feeling go;
it’s a picture of morality that your audience won’t know.
Propaganda is getting bolder;
it seems a wake to me.
Chorus: Don’t cry, no darling sleep tight.
This is just how he made you feel.
Don’t cry, no darling it'll be fine.
I wish I could take away the pain you feel.
There’s a part, there's a vacancy, there's an angle and piece of fame, touching gods in the memory but really much mundane.
Do it right, do it easily;
it’s eternally insane: all a show with alacrity, in ignorance, a game.
How many thoughts have there been about this state of mind, how much delirium as truth?
How many lies unfolded, and heartlessly unkind, in selfless effigies of use?
Track Name: God Channel
Did anybody really listen to the stories that they'd tell about the messing up of feeling, about the platitudes of Hell?
Never thought I’d hear it said about old hats and empty heads in the kind of terms you now employ;
but you know, we’ve come this far never knowing who we are, taking everything from a simple boy.
Chorus: Did anybody really listen to the stories that they’d tell about the messing up of feeling, about the platitudes of Hell?
They’re churning out another show inside some glistening studio, with the dubbed applause a lesson learnt;
a spark of light unseen, a half-remembered theme:
the link man with his fingers burnt.
I sometimes catch a glimpse of it, where all those photos seem to fit.
Another smoke is bearing fire, around the corridors and ceilings, and though it’s not at once revealing, we can sense another funeral pyre.
Chorus: Did anybody really listen to the stories that they’d tell about the messing up of feeling, about the lattitudes of, outrageous attitudes of, about the platitudes of Hell?
Track Name: No Revolution
Find you sitting with the prophets sizing up your fleeting chance simply crazy with the failing of forgotten circumstance;
in the leaflets and the meetings, there’s denouncement and applause, mock perdition without ceilings that the wiser man ignores.
You’re a fan of Sandinista, so you’re foaming at the mouth, then there’s ticking off injustice from the sanctity of doubt;
now it’s hanging round the walkways and unfurling tattered flags, as you castigate the shoppers walking by with plastic bags.
Chorus: Foment a revolution, define your bleeding role, the seeds of rank delusion to occupy the soul.
There’s a devil in his arbour shelling peas to pass the time and mimosa-seeking insects by a plenitude of swine;
preposterous indulgence with the shutters firmly down and the inward-leaning tyro with his good eye on the crown.
In time moving on, in time moving on, in time moving on, as you castigate the shoppers walking by with plastic bags.
Track Name: Larks
They were drinking in the Half Moon, playing dominoes for muck;
they were dreaming about lost fortune and the tips were topside up;
someone said they heard him knocking, pistol in his hand.
He's got some notion they've been mocking, pulled the trigger now he's dead.
There was lyrical enchantment when she sang a line or two, unplugged inside her basement through a balmy afternoon;
indeed, that tiny concert might have saved the bloody day only Lord, as luck would have it, she would never sing again.
Chorus: Forgetting my manners and that’s where it starts.
Only pockets and spanners.
Are you good at darts?
That's where it starts.
Why me?
Why me?
Are you good at darts?
There’s an echo in those footsteps and a certainty of fools but no calling cards or rain-checks, only lies and bitter rules: can you see it? Can you feel it?
There’s a point and price to pay;
At the grinding of the hatchet, he is come to pass again.
There's an apostolic number found his Christ and left its mark: don’t go thinking of stigmata nor those moments in the dark, only speak of resurrection, put aside the Burke and Hare, see it named as tired rejection and be glad that you weren’t there.
One hundred and eighty good reasons to fly;
around the sun lately the whereto and why: green curry for breakfast, discovering a knack, a muffin in earnest and signs of the clap.
Track Name: Cataract
News to follow: coppers and copses;
floodlights set out in the rain;
whisper of radar: tasers, then doctors;
mother in tears once again.
The best they could bring was a cap and a can, the outlook was grim: a despicable man gunning for someone, or something or worse, misguided celebrity, cure of a hearse.
Stretch out to the farthest horizon;
one eye seeks the gap in my hand, dismissive of change in arising;
I think they might understand.
I have a conspiracy theory that always points sharply to me, my needs and a slight lack of breeding, the endless, submission, to greed.
Chorus: Throw the bullets down the sink, hear them rattle as you pray; life is plainer than you think, it's just an ordinary fate.
Checking me out with your look like Medusa. Checking me out with your glazed over eyes.
A word to biographers looting and routing: straight to the profit, straight to the facts;
half of the night in intolerable shooting, missing dates and indefinite acts.
Track Name: Treasure Hunting
See me treasure hunting: never touch the ground.
Must be something: debility’s profound.
See me treasure hunting: lies are all around.
Must be something: deliberately profound, lies all around.
I won’t accept responsibility, diminished sorts or otherwise;
perhaps they’ll see it as a flaw in me: no doubts on that score or surprise.
It’s fine, I know: they’ll wipe my arse for me;
I really am a ruthless sod, my claw-like toes and sense of entropy my protestation and my job.
In the waiting room, in the taxi-queue, in the babble of the bank taking up the time, pointing out the place and the cretins that we thank.
In the council rooms, in the avenues, in the corner of the house making up the lines from a poker face with the presence of a louse.
Chorus: See me necking out with my matchstick frown, circus face hanging upside-down, eyes on stalks, arms turned brown, cardboard town.
See me treasure hunting: never touch the ground.
Must be something: debility’s profound.
See me treasure hunting: lies are all around.
Must be something profound.
Lies all around.
There’s no regret inside this malady;
the signs and sinners fill the road, the precious lot outside society: prescriptive comments overload.