Happy With Myself
Gallon of Gin
Hop On The Monkey Bus
Little Billy Oshin
Panic Attack (Need An Octopus)
Life is Pain, Right T.J.?
For all intents and purposes, our home as a band is an underground bunker, locked away from the sunshine, and the troubles, of the outside world.
We endure a year of bombs exploding and continents drifting, then we grab our crumhorns and floor toms, lift the heavy latch, turn on our mechanical sun, and try to either make sense of it all or just heave it all back out in eruptions of noise and music.
Of course, even in an underground bunker, there is no escape. The poisons of the juniper berry as well as the soothing gurgles of the snow-melt mountain stream filter their ways into our hideaway foxhole, and so the songs that result are merely condensed and microcosmic and rushed and a little bit dusty and stale.
These songs were recorded in a dugout in the Northwoods of Wisconsin or Minnesota, and later, after a long journey by tunnel, in a hollow on Oregon's deadly Mount Hood. They reflect the great fears of our age, and in that reflection, they bend any light that music might shed on the meaning of it all.