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Shit Week LP SPR09

by Shitty Weekend.

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    This is the debut LP from Shitty Weekend, Portland’s most smart-mouthed DIY shredders. The band shares several members with the Taxpayers, including frontdude Andrew Link, as well as PDX grindcore stalwarts Transient. Taxpayers fans will be happy to recognize some familiar goofpunx elements in “Shit Week”, including bouncy horn lines and plenty of folky arpeggios, but Shitty Weekend. But it doesn’t shy away from the nastier, thrashier end of the punk spectrum either. Songs like “Don’t Tell Me Don’t” and “Employee of the Month” channel the frantic hostility of ‘80s hardcore punk in furious bursts, self-destructing before the one-minute-mark as often as not. Andrew’s shrieking vocals expound on religion, government, dad rock, and 9-to-5 ambitions while distorted guitars screech and Noah wails on the drums like his life depends on it. The end result is melodic, aggressive, sarcastic, dissonant, sincere, and punk as fuck. No fucking flossing, punk rock or die.

    Featuring similarly punk as fuck cover art by Keith Rosson.

    This is a run of 500 LPs: 250 on randomly mixed colored vinyl and 250 on black. Random mix vinyl comes in a few variants and all of them legitimately look awesome. You get what you get! If you reeeaally like a certain color, leave a note in your order and we'll try to get you one.

    Includes unlimited streaming of Shit Week LP SPR09 via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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1.
I'm an ambitious twenty-something-year-old I get my foot in the door for potential beneficial work opportunities I am punctual and orderly I know the rules of workplace safety I got my name on the wall in the back room marked and dated with the month and the year I go home after work and wipe the brown from sniffing the boss's rear And nothing's going to stand in my way, oh no Because I'm motherfucking employee of the motherfucking month.
2.
When I was a kid I got religion shoved down my little throat Coughed it up with demonic dry heaves; I was a spry ten years old Tried to scare and scar me from made-up maladies that only Jesus could quell Said I ought to watch my back or else I might rot in hell But you ain't gonna save me, save me, oh no no You ain't gonna save me, save me, oh no no And no one's gonna save you No one's gonna save you No one's gonna save you but yourself Back then I use to have the same nightmares most every night Seized me up and made me scream all the horrors that I hid inside My mind was a web but I was both the fly and spider that I so feared Struggled but just got more tangled up fighting it after all of those years But you ain't gonna save me, save me, oh no no You ain't gonna save me, save me, oh no no And no one's gonna save you No one's gonna save you No one's gonna save you but yourself Sometimes I used to get this weird joy thinking I was gonna snap just like a rotten stick Some simple demented pleasure keeping my feet on the ground when the metaphoric mud got too thick They said I was a bad seed with my head in the gutter; I'd softly mutter incantations to raise the living hell They weren't far from being right—I took a rusty knife and I put it through the savior's heart myself No one's gonna save you No one's gonna save you No one's gonna save you but yourself
3.
(Eat ROCKS, Mom and Dad!) Don't tell me Don't Because I won't Don't tell me what to say Don't tell me how to play I'll break the bars of your cage That are trying to hold my brain You're driving me insane Don't tell me what to do Don't tell me what to do Don't tell me what to do Sometimes it feels like the opposition is just the same I want a place where I don't need to point a finger of blame I'm just trying to fit in without going nuts
4.
Crabcake 01:41
This is gonna be the weekend that we take this place by storm Like gasoline and a packet of matches, tear down the stage like locusts—we just wanna swarm And scream our little heads off so we can pass out for the night To wake up in a pile of our own filth, down headache pills and coffee at noon, noonday light Then the cops arrive saying Creedence Clearwater would be ashamed That you kids have no respect and Marilyn Manson's still to blame Back when I was a young man music use to have a message and a melody Now all you kids do is blast that crap while decent people are trying to sleep Now all the high school kids, they gotta go home Now their whole fucking weekend’s blown Twenty missed calls from their folks on their smartphones And oh shit, they just missed the last bus headed their way
5.
Geneva 02:02
Well, I'm getting fucking sick of it It's bad for business to be free You know, I'm getting sick of it Trade your rights for security You know, I'm getting sick of it They’re fucking people over every day You know, I'm getting sick of it We gotta stand up and say We have to abandon this defeated helpless role Quit counting on the government, we gotta question their control Put our bodies on the gears and wipe this system clean Instead of helping worthless scum with massive blindfolding Singing it ain't me babe, It ain't me they’re looking for, babe It ain't me they’re looking for, babe, oh no no It ain't me they’re looking for, babe, oh no no It ain't me they’re looking for Oh, Geneva, where have you gone Oh, sweet Geneva in the land that I love You're not here, love, so where are you now Oh, sweet Geneva, they've taken you down To Cuba in the dark of the night You're charged with suspicion of suspicion They never read your rights Have they no shame, are they human at all At least it ain't you or me, babe, is that reason at all It ain't me babe, It ain't me they’re looking for, babe It ain't me they’re looking for, babe, oh no no It ain't me they’re looking for, babe, oh no no It ain't me they’re looking for
6.
I don't even know.
7.
This is a song about rebellion This is the fucking opus of a unique subculture You got a lot of nerve showing your face around here Not even ironically oblivious to this groundbreaking shit No table manners No bedtimes No fucking flossing, punk rock or die And we're gonna smoke weed every fucking day We're gonna smoke weed every fucking day We're gonna smoke weed every fucking day We're gonna smoke weed every fucking day And well, you got a lot of nerve showing your face around here I bet you've never even read Steven Blush's American Hardcore
8.
Hop in this car, take it all the way down to the place where we fell into each other Talk about something new, some old commotion, resurrecting the dead in one another Let the past be blind and I'll divvy up what is mine and shake it off like nothing’s lost, like fucking John Wayne The odds are bad, it's kind of funny watching them get worse It's so rehearsed, these Hallmark Trademarked reactions These Hallmark Trademarked reactions It's four o'clock in the morning and I'm stumbling through your back door Your dog is barking, doesn't remember my scent anymore Why the hell would he, I'm a stranger in your house and it's fucking four in the morning If I were him I'd be sick of hearing humans and their thought-out bullet-point conversations Let's laugh it off, cut the cream from the top and save these emotions for christians and co-dependent suckers And maybe in the end it'll turn out like the fucking movies, my friend, and we can fall right back into these Hallmark Trademarked reactions These Hallmark Trademarked reactions
9.
No, I never cried at the part when little Bambi's momma died in the snow, died in the snow No, I never bought candy hearts for nobody, no, nobody knows It's just the way life goes, it's just the way life goes You wouldn't know love if it spit in your eyes Yeah, you wouldn't know if love spit in your eyes You wouldn't know love if it spit in your eyes Yeah, you wouldn't know if love spit in your eyes Someone won't you please, won't you pity me, oh fuck it, oh no
10.
Gone Fishin 00:56
Push the limits Find the crack in the prison cell Seep through the concrete Plant your feet against the swell It's a cold, it's a cold, it's a cold and burning world It's a cold, cold, cold, and burning world It's a cold, cold, cold, and burning world It's a cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold and burning world Because I am weak, and a warm bed trumps the fight against authority And I'll crawl back to my cell for a roof and something to eat And they've got a hold on me
11.
Throw me down in the mud Kick my stomach in till I piss blood Chew me whole all damn evening Then light me on fire and we'll call it even It's gonna take a lot more than physical pain to clear my name And you're all saints for not 1, 2, 3 degree murdering me Scream at me till you can't speak Then burn down my house, stomp the final coals out Tell my family and friends what I said about them when their backs were turned Then maybe I'll learn Not even moving to Antarctica would refrain From all you fucking people stomping in my brains And if you need a punching bag use me I'll be Apollo Creed's great-grandchild You'll be the indisputable champ of Rocky 23 You'll be the champ of Rocky 23
12.
Oh Dear 04:08
Get the fuck out of the house, goddamn those sad songs Throw me off the ship that drives its suburban walls Burn the mast, hit the gas, split the asphalt sea apart These days I don't feel so reckless in the heart These days I don't feel so reckless in the heart These days I don't feel so reckless in the heart She always gave everything that she had in her body But her guts were full of liquor and her brain knew karate And we'd lie in the dirt, disturb the peace and curse at the skies These days we don't remember those kind of nights These days we don't remember those kind of nights These days we don't remember those kind of nights And oh dear, how things have changed Barfed up our youth down the societal drain And oh dear, how things have changed Hide away in the woodwork, hide away from the rain And I wish our parents would let us stay home sick in our beds So we could flush down the commitments, down the toilets in our heads Revert to a time before a dime is how we counted our worth But we're stuck here in the future chained up to the Earth Yeah we're stuck here in the future chained up to the Earth

about

"Shit Week" is the first full-length LP from Portland's Shitty Weekend.

You can download it for free/donation but I would seriously consider ordering the LP from us or donating what you can, this record looks and sounds awesome! (And it ain't free to make!) Thanks so much!

credits

released March 8, 2014

SHITTY WEEKEND IS:
Andrew Link – Vocals, Guitar, Piano, and Trumpet
Noah Phillips – Drums
Stefan Thompson – Guitar
Kirk Fatland – Bass
Rutger McKenna – Tenor Saxophone
Alex Bekuhrs – Baritone Saxophone

Recorded by Trevor Oatts, Jake Hinshaw, and Andrew Link
Artwork by Keith Rosson

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Secret Pennies Records Corvallis, Oregon

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