BOMB THE MUSIC INDUSTRY!
GET WARMER

Bomb the Music Industry! grows from one dude two twenty-four boys and girls terrifyingly plowing through twelve punk rock tunes with about three million instruments. Alternative Press describes it as a "speedy mix of horns, synths, ska and punk with a healthy dose of humor" without even hearing it! How would you describe it after hearing it? Find out! Also it's a co-releaese with Asian Man Records with crazy liners and artwork!

click here for the whole album!
click here to buy the cd/12" picture disc from asian man records!

Download specific tracks:
1. Jobs Schmobs
2. 493 Ruth
3. Bike Test 1 2 3
4. Unlimited Breadsticks, Soup and Salad Days
5. No Rest for the Whiny
6. 25 Hour Goddamn Telethon
7. Depression is No Fun.
8. I Don't Love You Anymore
9. Pizza Claus is Comin' To Town
10. Never Trust a Man Without a Horribly Embrrassing Secret
11. Get Warmer
12. The Last Party (Foul)

Artwork by Jeff Rosenstock for Media Frenzy Design

Drums recorded by Joel Hatstat at the Bakery in Athens, GA in April 2007. 80% of the other instruments were recorded by Joel Hatstat at the Sweat Zone and the Goblin Campground in Athens, GA in May 2007.

Additional recording was done by Jeff Rosenstock at the Posi-Box, Slantyland USA and a bathroom (Athens, GA), Rick Johnson at SuSuStudio (Grand Rapids, MI), John DeDomenici at Live the Dream Studios (Long Beach, NY) and Mike Costa at Stu Stu Studio (Deer Park, NY)

Mastered by Jeff Capurso at Chase Park Transduction

JOBS SCHMOBS:
Luke Fields: Baritone Guitar
Joel Hatstat: Giant Drum, Backup Vocals
Rick Johnson: Bass
Matt Kurz: Backup Vocals
Sean McCabe: Trombone
Lolo Myers: Backup Vocals
Andy Pruett: Trumpet
Jeff Rosenstock: Bells, Guitars, Programming, Saxophone, Synthesizer, Vocals
Brady Smith: Drums
Scott Smith: Cardboard Box Full of Keys, Double Drums

493 RUTH:
Jace Bartet: Fuzz Bass, Backup Vocals
Al Daglis: Backup Vocals
Luke Fields: Baritone Guitar
Joel Hastat: Backup Vocals, Claps
Matt Kurz: Lead Guitar
Sean McCabe: Trombone
Jeff Rosenstock: Claps, Rhythm Guitars, Key Bass, Organ, Saxophone, Vocals
Brady Smith: Drums
Jeff Tobias: Claps, Vocals

BIKE TEST 1 2 3:
Rick Johnson: Bass
Jeff Rosenstock: Bells, Guitars, Synthesizers, Vocals
Brady Smith: Drums

UNLIMITED BREADSTICKS, SOUP AND SALAD DAYS:
Ben Duncan: Backup Vocals
Luke Fields: Banjo
Rick Johnson: Bass
Joel Hatstat: Backup Vocals
Christine Mackie: Backup Vocals
Sean McCabe: Mandolin, Voicemail
Jeff Rosenstock: Acoustic & Electric Guitars, Bells, Piano, Synthesizer, Vocals
Brady Smith: Drums, Sleigh Bells

NO REST FOR THE WHINY:
Al Daglis: Saxophone solo
Rick Johnson: Bass
Sean McCabe: Trombone
Andy Pruett: Trumpet
Jeff Rosenstock: Guitars, Organ, Saxophone, Vocals
Brady Smith: Drums

25 HOUR GODDAMN TELETHON:
Luke Fields: Countdown
Rick Johnson: Bass
Sean McCabe: Trombone
Sam Paulsen: Countdown
Andy Pruett: Trumpet
Jeff Rosenstock: Arpeggiator, Guitars, Organ, Saxophone, Synthesizer, Vocals
Brady Smith: Drums
Jeff Tobias: Backup Vocals

DEPRESSION IS NO FUN:
Luke Fields: Baritone Guitar
Rick Johnson: Bass
Sean McCabe: Trombone
Jeff Rosenstock: Guitars, Organ, Piano, Saxophone, Synthesizer, Vocals
Brady Smith: Drums
Jeff Tobias: Gang Vocals

I DON'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE:
Michael Clancy: Gang Vocals
Luke Fields: Gang Vocals
Joel Hatstat: Gang Vocals
Rick Johnson: Bass
Sean McCabe: Trombone
Sam Paulsen: Gang Vocals
Andy Pruett: Trumpet
Jeff Rosenstock: Guitar, Organ, Piano, Saxophone, Synthesizer, Vocals, Wurlitzer
Cara Beth Satalito: Gang Vocals
Brady Smith: Drums
Rob Thomason: Whistle
Jeff Tobias: Gang Vocals

PIZZA CLAUS IS COMIN' TO TOWN:
Neil Callaghan: Farfisa Organ
Rick Johnson: Bass
Jeff Rosenstock: Guitars, Synthesizer, Ukulele, Vocals
Brady Smith: Drums

NEVER TRUST A MAN WITHOUT A HORRIBLY EMBARRASSING SECRET:
Rick Johnson: Bass
Jeff Rosenstock: Guitars, Synthesizer, Vocals, Wurlitzer
Cara Beth Satalito: Vocals
Brady Smith: Drums

GET WARMER:
Chuck Bradburn: String Bass
Jason Calhoun: Violin
Luke Fields: Baritone Guitar, Vocals
Joel Hatstat: Giant Drum
Rick Johnson: Bass Guitar, Theremin
Sean McCabe: Trombone
Lolo Myers: Cello
Sam Paulsen: Silly Vocals
Jeff Rosenstock: Acoustic & Electric Guitars, Megaphone, Horn, Piano, Programming, Saxophone, Synthesizer, Vocals
Brady Smith: Drums

THE LAST PARTY (FOUL):
Jeff Rosenstock: Acoustic Guitar, Vocals

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.5 License.

 

SUGGESTED DONATION: $5 US
please note "bomb the music industry " in the subject or body of your donation.

LYRICS AND EXPLANATIONS!

This record was written over the period of six months in Athens, Georgia. There's a lot of firsts in this one: it's the first time a record has been solely based around a specific story arc in one location, it's the first time we've used live drums for a whole record, it's the first time a record has been demo'd and then re-recorded, it's the first time we used NO programmed synthesizers (all parts were played live, mostly analog) and it's also the first time anyone else has been involved with the recording process: mainly Joel Hatstat working the long long hot hot days of Bomb recording with me.

The recording process for a lot of these songs I think was fuuuun and I'll go into a little more detail about below. However, something that I tried really hard to do on this one was keep things extremely specific (songs about moving into new houses, washing dishes, riding bikes) but at the same time ATTEMPTING to use those specific situations to express huge life issues and emotional distresses. This record for me is a lot about escapism, depression, addiction, social, physical and financial problems but ultimately I think it's about positivity. I'm pretty sure people other than me take little shit, read into it and have that shape the way they view the world. This record is about accepting that and at least not reading too much into THAT problem.

We recorded this album in chronological order, labeled "Bomb 1" through "Bomb 11." When we stepped into the studio and got drums EQ'd, set up and everything, Brady picked up drumsticks and played Bomb 1 perfect on his first try. We were all confused and said "uh... you wanna do another take?" to which he said "uh... yeah, sure, why not?" His next take was also perfect so we were like "uh... we think that was right on? what do you think?" and he said "yeah... i think it was too?" This set the tone for the drum sessions; Brady went on to record twelve songs in five hours, many first takes. After all of which we said "yeah? alright! next!"

We tracked the drums, key bass, piano, organ and wurlitzer at the Bakery in Athens, GA which was a bonafide REAL recording studio. It was fun to have a room with a bunch of cool stuff I've never seen before that we could use on the record. The "Kee Bass" in Bomb 2 was a one note pure booty bass synthesizer that looked kinda like an accordion. Andy Baker even let us taken out one of the analog Moogs to record on our own.

MOST of the record was tracked at the Goblin Campground which was immediately renamed the Sweat Zone once the intense heat of May in Georgia crept up on us. The GC/SZ was an air-condition free art/warehouse space where Joel had been recording bands. We had been moving at a comfortable pace through April, planning on getting the album released in July by ourselves, however in April we got a call from Asian Man letting us know that they'd be into releasing the CD/vinyl and that our cutoff date would be May 31st if we wanted it out by the original time. After several text messages between Joel and I (including "fuck it" "why not" "yeah" "no sweat" and "timelord is on your side") we started REALLY digging in in May.

Joel and I both had food service jobs (Joel a cook, me a dishwasher), girlfriends and scrabble addictions so every day in May was very very very long: it would usually start out with a game of scrabble at the coffee shop (why would we want to start early?) or joel cooking in the morning, setting up the computer, recording and mixing in a 100-degree-plus warehouse, working 'til 1 or 2 am, having about ten minutes for girlfriend time and then back into it the next morning. When Joel would work at night, I would record at my house. When I would work at night, Joel would mix. The final mixing, recording and mastering took place IMMEDIATELY before we left for a month-long tour in June; I was actually at Chase Park Transduction as Chotto Ghetto was picking up the keg for our tour kickoff show (which was, oddly enough, at the Sweat Zone.)

The FUN part of the record started when Rick Johnson called me up and asked me if he could play bass on the record. I said yes of course, but Rick eventually realized he wouldn't be able to get to Athens to record in time. Once he started recording at his house in Michigan, we realized "fuck it. let's see if everyone wants to do this!" Sean McCabe got John and Mike (both ex-ASOBers and current Bombers) to record his trombone and mandolin in various bedrooms and bathrooms and Neil Callaghan recorded stuff in his log cabin in the wilderness that I guess still had high speed internet. We also tried to get everyone we could in Athens in on it; all of We Versus the Shark, friends from Cinemechanica, Subversivo and Garbage Island, friends n girlfriends and my personal favorite Ben from the bike shop next door from the studio (myspace.com/bens_bikes). So it was like a big party that no one really wants to go to, but once you look back on it, it really WAS a fun party!

Jobs Schmobs

At a desk in a room that's always too hot or cold, at a computer where you're starting to lose you soul with a wage that they pay to keep you from ten to six. At 7:30, man, you're starting to lose your shit. You're stuck all night with a boss who's in love with nobody but herself. An army of washed up musicians sit on her shelf. Patronizing, taking her problems out on you while you do the work that she's too lazy to do.

"Do you like it now?"

When the world gets half away from you, you can go half a world away. All ya need is two weeks.

You can't leave or go to lunch. You have no health insurance. Two weeks vacation and you haven't been let off once. Suffer through insufferably boring days. You show up early and your boss always shows up late.

"Later, suckers," you'll say.

And your friends with their brains say that you cannot go back. If you move on your music business degree is trashed. Soon we'll be on the road though, and soon we'll be driving fast so when your boss starts to cry do your best not to laugh.

When the world gets half away from you, you can go half a world away. When your world and your friends and your job and your ends and your whole damn life starts to get away from you, you can go half a world away.

All ya need is two weeks.

493 Ruth

I brought a guitar.
I brought a handful of credit cards.
I filled a van and a trailer up to the top with shit that I'll probably never use.

I took 95 and then I transferred to the I-85.
Took it to 441 South to North Ave. to Ruth
and I drove through my backyard.

I could never understand why people can't begin again.

It wouldn't stop raining (we didn't have our key)
'til we met Helen and JJ at about 1 AM.
They said, "From LA to London there is no other place I would rather live than here."

We had to unpack things just to get to the mattress and boxspring.
Flopped it down in the center of our shiny new home,
a blue house with no cable and with no telephone
just a bottle of champagne and we popped the cork.

I could never understand how people hate the Minutemen,
how people can appreciate it takes time to make something great.
Yeah, I know. I'm repeating myself here.
Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. I'm repeating myself again.

Shake the shakes away.
If you're going uphill at a very rapid speed,
Soon there's nowhere to go but down.
So take the time to rise back up.

I could never understand why people can't begin again.
Why people can't apprecaite it's okay to do something great.
Yeah, I know.
I'm repeating myself again and again and again.

Bike Test 1 2 3

Full speed along the North Oconee River.
I can feel it in my forehead and while that always fails, my lungs are getting clearer.
I see trucks racing by on the roof above my trail, cops are waiting to ticket anyone with out-of-state plates.
I'm not missing anything.

Swore off all prescribed medication and rode two miles through nowhere to a water fountain spitting out hot water.
I sit at a bench at a compost heap and I'm about to pedal up a sixty degree slope.

At the top of a hill at a very rapidspeed there's only one place to go.
At the top of a hill at a very high speed there's nowhere to go but down.

And it gets easier as I ascend my bike uphill on foot 'cause last time I kicked it into first I broke a gear by going too hard.

And it gets easier as I pass the Edward Scissorhands village where privileged white kids date rape girls and taunt me in their SUV's.

And it gets easier as I see the double vans in our driveways, I'm glistening but I know that some day I won't even break a sweat.

And it gets easier, as time goes things can only get better.
R-I-D-E. I wanna ride.

Unlimited Breadsticks, Soup and Salad Days

I bought a couch and a grill and a table with chairs, paid for gas, like, the whole way down here, electric n' cable, a shelf n' end table, almost a hundred bucks worth of veggie burgers and buns. I bought a case of beer and the charcoal to light
and said "we should do this every single night, don't worry about the cash because I've got the scratch and I can't save my money because that's impolite."

I don't know why I always complain about something when what I got to complain about's nothing. No goddamn kid's had a luckier year and I'm bitching about internet and beer.

And just like that I'm broke, not a buck to my name and nothing to do with the rest of the day. No parties last all night, just tv and websites and reproduction Peanuts strips I've read a million times. Can we please ride bikes and not just sit inside all day letting fresh Georgia air go to waste? It's really not funny how bad I am with money so let's pedal as far as it takes to think about something else.

I don't know why I always complain about something when what I got to complain about's nothing. No goddamn kid's had a luckier year, somebody break out the no more tears.

As we sit around being broke, I'm losing my penchant for jokes; it's just wry half-truths from a privileged youth with a constant nostalgia for bad times when they're through.

I don't know why I always complain about something when what I got to complain about's nothing. No goddamn kid's had a luckier year, and no one wants to be around me now, not then, not ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever again.

No Rest for the Whiny

We got knocked off the horse and we can't get back up. We can try to change but we've still got our bills that we gotta pay. And the payments stay the same no matter where you move and no matter how cheap the rent.

Stop screaming for a change.
Start screaming for a wage.

And the irony of plastic is when it starts replacing cash, soon enough you have no cash and it gets replaced with debt and all you're left with is past mistakes and the envelopes change color: all dimly lit pastels, they go white, then yellow then pink. It's like a fucking party to celebrate that you're fucked.


Electric flow and dirty clothes and students loans, oh god, ya gotta pay 'em.
Electric flow and student loans and dirty clothes, oh god, ya gotta clean 'em.

While you can't get a decent wage, I still can't find a job. Yeah, my life just repeats the 2005 series of rejected applications and me botching interviews and waiting for phone calls from a temp agency that never calls at all. It's never easy it's always electric flow...

The attack, I'm feeling the attack, I'm feeling the attack
of basic social skills I know I know I know I know I lack
I'm hyper-cognizant of facts
I'm well aware that we are barely scraping by
My good intentions aren't enough to salvage that
Gimme 1 gimme 2 gimme 3 4 5
Gimme more per hour so I can afford to pay for food and gas
And bags to throw away the trash
Ya gotta throw away the trash.

It's hard to pay the bills whne you can't work a forty hour week.
It's hard to interview when I am too depressed to even speak.
It's hard to have a blast when we spend all our spare time feeling weak because we're thinking about that electric flow etc.

25 Hour Goddamn Telethon

No matter where you go to you can still sit on a couch.
You can still sleep 'til it's dark outside.
You can still just hang around.
You can still not make new friends.
You can ignore the ones you have.
You can always ostracize yourself.
You can forget how to laugh.

Problems are all I create.
I live in four month mistakes.

So can we leave today and start the next mistake or are we fucked this time? Can we not go away?

Upon my last trip back there I remembered why I left.
All their flakiness, my shakiness, the friends I've never met.
But I didn't feel relief.
In fact I just felt more regret.
With a higher wage and a Metrocard I could deal with loneliness.

And in four months when it finally gets warmer,
I'll have already planned more disorder.
When I'm comfortable and feel like I'm in my place,
I'll be on my next mistake.

Another boring story, another problem self-imposed.
So can we leave today and start the next mistake or are we fucked this time? Can we not go away?
Blah blah blah problems self-imposed blah blah blah.

Depression is NO FUN.

Got a lot of shit on my head.
You know we got to pull it together
'cause it's not gonna stop until we're dead.
You know we got to pull it together
'cause it's not gonna stop it's not gonna stop it's never ever ever gonna stop
Until we're dead.

Ian Graham says it's a temporary solution to a permanent problem.
Even when locations change, the imbalance stays the same
And you just run out of cities, states and countries you can blame.
So you just keep running away.

Got a lot of shit on my head.
You know we got to pull it together
'cause it's not gonna stop until we're dead.
You know we got to pull it together
'cause it's not gonna stop it's not gonna stop it's never ever ever gonna stop
Until we're dead.

It took her to the hospital and then her parents' house.
I'm walking home at 3 AM alone.
When the bartender's asleep, ya gotta think things through yourself
And when it gets this late it's hard to find someone to call for help.

I got my hands in my pockets and a hood tight over my head.
I'm all out of smokes and I'm wishing that I was dead again.
I'm drunk and alone and I'm thinking about how
I couldn't deal with anti-depressants
But now I'm anti- depressants I guess,
'cause it just makes a different mess.

I Don't Love You Anymore

I don't love you anymore.
No this isn't some mistake.
For the past two months I've just been getting drunk and wathcing Lost and then getting even drunker just so I can fall asleep.
Every second I'm with you I get an ache in my head and I spin in my bed and again and again and again and again.

And all the money I spend is my money again
I'll understand what is said when I'm out with my friends.
And at the end of the night, baby I'm'a gon' drive 'em home.

And all the time that I waste repeating mistake
And the ridiculous taste and the look on my face.
I'm gonna take it back.
Baby I don't love you no more.

I don't love you anymore and no this isn't some mistake.
I cannot count how many nights at 5 AM I lied awake.
I can't remember all the stupid shit I said.
I didn't give a shit about myself.
I didn't give a shit about my friends.

Every night I spend with you
I get increasingly sick and I stop thinking quick and I act like a dick like a dick like a dick.

Get off your ass and work this out.
Don't be such a bastard to yourself.

I don't love you anymore and no this isn't some mistake.
Spent 25, 35, 45, 55 nights a month I lied awake.
I'm really tired of being broke.
Really tired of all the shakes.
I'm really tired of being ashamed.
I'm gonna stop.

Pizza Claus is Comin' to Town

Let the day roll in.
Let the day roll out.
Let the robot transport me from Clayton to my house.

Let the shit roll in.
Let the shit roll out.
Because I'm goddamned bound to stick it out with my survival pals.

Let the shit crash down.
Let the shit crash down.
Let the servers giggle, holler and ignore the sound.
And at 2 AM I'll be closing up alone.

Today I played my first show in like twenty-seven days
Or got my ass kicked in like twenty-seven ways.
And no matter which way it goes at the end of the day I gotta change my clothes.
Maybe it's mundane when I explain it to you but I just need something to do.

Or else I'll just think about the shows I've played while forgetting all traces of the people, the places, the music, the faces, when we could talk in present tense without being complacent and when we could be more honest without being fucking wasted.
Man, shit, I let the shit roll in.
And at 2 AM I'll always be alone inside an empty home.

Do you think I wanna be this way?
Do you think I wanna be this way?
Hey! Don't you know that I've had better days?
But we've all had worse and we've all felt hurt so
Maybe it's mundane when I explain it to you but I just need something to do to get the past out of my head.
And stop replaying shit I've said.
Put my head right down, scrub hard and I will get through this night...

(leave the pit giving pizza to the homeless, show up late at the bar the drunks are talking about politics (i'm not really digging the idea of driving 15 hours at 8 am) step in the shower, the water cascades down my head like the dirt on the hood of a six year old van)

... and go to sleep.

Never Trust a Man Without a Horribly Embarrassing Secret

Remember when we danced at shows, before we all stood in the back?
We sang guilty pleasures so damn loud our lungs were sore.
Competition can't compete with that.

I guess I got back on the horse as I get on another plane.
I'll try to ride it less, mom, and be more responsible
But we both know dad and I are the same.

So I need damage control.
Another shot of whiskey goes down easy.
My reputation does exceed me.
Fire in the hole.
Soon I'll be falling backwards as expected.

I don't know if I wanna do this for you
I don't know if I gotta do this for you
I don't know if I'm gonna do this for you
But I'll do this for me.

This isn't how I pictured things:
Standing on the side, pocketing hands, answering your questions boringly and humorless.
"I'm not as important as you think I am."

I don't wanna make new friends.
My friendships always end up in a blaze.
I just wanted to be something that I'll probably never be, a happy well-adjusted human being.

Me, I won't impress. I'll bore you with kindness.
Everyone's obsessed with this whole mess of impressions they wanna make.
But once you know you won't impress, you'll find that being nice is nice for its own sake.

Ya don't need damage control.
Another shot of whiskey goes down easy.
My reputation does exceed me.
Fire in the hole.
Soon I'll be falling backwards, stealing your beers, crying loudly, singing Green Day, pumping my fist, getting stared at, making phone calls saying that I miss the days back when I had real fun.

I don't know if I wanna do this for you
I don't know if I gotta do this for you
and I'm sure as shit not gonna do this for you
But I'll do this for me so it can be my fault.

Get Warmer

It's fifty degrees in December and the heat in my house is always broke
So it feels about twenty-five colder and I can't feel my fingers and toes.
I miss the G train with a passion that used to be reserved for hate.

Am I getting too carried away with the bullshit of leaving today?
I know that I'm getting bored.
Real bored with myself.

It was six o' clock with friends in Boston and I'm diggin' the winter's first snow.
Now it's midnight, I'm drinking Blue Ribbons and I'm already sick of the cold.
The bartended skipped my Tom Waits songs.
It's Wham! now. I wanna "go go."

Let's live like elephants
Stomping on sychophants
Paws in a polygraph
Not favor loneliness
Over companionship
Let's not be jealous.
Let's give the pretentious a cure and not just a name.

'Cause I'm getting too carried away with the bullshit of leaving today.
I'm really more than just quite a bit bored of myself.
'Cause I'm getting too carried away with the bullshit of leaving today.
I didn't wanna be this damn unsure of myself.

But it never seems to get warmer.
No matter how far south you go.
It'll get too hot in the summer
And the sweat'll soak right through your clothes.
And you'll feel self-conscious and awkward
And the feeling stays with you all day
Until you go and put on a new t-shirt and throw that old one away.

The Last Party (Foul)

A roof in Greenpoint and a keg of shitty beer.
I can't believe anyone came to watch me disappear.
Drunk but without wistfulness.
Smiles instead of tears.
I knew you'd be okay with it as I sped along the road.
Is it a self-fulfilling prophecy that I'll always be alone?
'Cause you'll always say we're cool.
You'll always be my home.
You knew I'd be okay.

They say to live is to have no regrets
But sometimes staying put is fine.
So I'll hang around 'til the last one's leaving town
And I don't wanna die.

I'll hang around 'ti I love this shitty town
And I don't wanna die.