Nail House Rock

by Go Die

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    We made a short run(200) of these CDs, completely DIY...from the CD case to the hand-stamped cover to the lyric booklet, we put lots of time, love and Go Die TLC into making a neat, personal introduction to our band via CD. We've mainly been slanging these things at shows, but if you like the album and want a physical copy, we'll send you one for just a couple bucks.

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about

Nail House Rock is a treatise on the highs and lows of modernized life in a slowly-materializing dystopia, all set to heavy, swarming guitars and thunderclap kicks and snares. It is the work of two lifelong best friends, Josh and Cris, who found that in order to save their neighbors and loved ones from intermittent screams of capitulation and madness, they decided to channel their marginalized anger into the one thing that made them friends in the first place: punk rock. This is, however, punk in the most nebulous of definitions; Nail House Rock is, stylistically, just that. It's Nail House: loud, pissed off, sardonic, snarky, noisy and melodic. This is Go Die.

credits

released May 27, 2014

Josh Mayhood: Guitars, Vocals
Cris Cordero: Drums

Recorded/engineered by Go Die(Cris Cordero) at Iceman Studio, YOLO Studio #1 and YOLO Studio #2. (AKA some friends' houses)

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all rights reserved

about

Go Die Orange, California

We're a punk band from Orange, CA., specializing in the heavy, the noisy and the melodic.

contact / help

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Track Name: Nail House Rock
We’re gonna have some fun, sticking out like sore thumbs. Mocking the sycophants with venom from our tongues.
I can’t deal, I didn’t pan out. I spent all my money boarding up the windows of my house.
We’re gonna crush some dreams, throw away all of our shiny things, be the nails to resist the culture critic regime.

I can no longer hide the fact that I stick out amongst a generation addicted to echo chamber shout outs.
I can no longer reconcile with a past where I was raised to be an upstanding member of the criminal class. A stubborn nail, an outspoken obtrusion in the eminent domain arms race to delusion.

They built all around me, as much as I tried to resist.
They told me take these drugs if the disenchantment persists.
They told me to let go of the dream of being accepted, and to exalt the theater of consumption they’ve erected.
But I told ‘em “fuck off”; no way, no day, Go Die. And I lit the fuse that would eventually set off my own life.
Track Name: Interphase
Where there’s a will, there’s a war. It’s always been the same.
Setting the scene: unrest, distrust, another smog filled day.

And the crowd is sickened by their dwindling rights.
A crowd-funded coup outsourced to kids too lazy to fight.
The powers that be look at the world through their dirty PRISM.
And settle their hash with drone attacks or threats of prison.

This is just an extension of the cyclical nature of things.
History’s a broken record. It’s fucked up, to say the least.

The Interphase.

Anger subsides, and if still alive, you’ll find some relief
Pelphase arrives, perfection thrives, or so we’re lead to believe.

And guess what? We’ll burn it all down again.
An endless, blood-soaked way to reaffirm we’re all human.
Blood, guts, God, politics and religion.
Rinse/repeat. Everything's a trigger warning.

War waited for us, and love is the end.
Track Name: Ripped To Shreds
Getting distant, getting obliterated.
Getting high on sci-fi fables told through curly white cables.
Making money. Making art.
Making time with the corpse of an abandoned mythos.
Kissing all the hands and feet
of people who cut through sinew to make ends meet.
Let’s worship at the altar of our moral exemplars.
There's no better living through chemistry, it fuels our tempers.

Getting sunk, getting drunk, getting ripped to shreds.
On post-human timelines and theories.
Making threats, making bets, making formaldehyde soaked cigarettes
in strip malls that used to be cemeteries.

It's a dour mood for a rancid and sour brood
Young minds see bloody money, they want that power too.
Set out to lay waste to expectations
of a world teeming with cancer causing agent.
Getting caught, getting shrugged off,
getting buzzed on cheap beer and grain alcohol.
Pretending we're barely getting by.
Knee deep in post-whatever manufactured lo-fi.

Getting sunk, getting drunk, getting ripped to shreds.
On post-human timelines and theories.
Making threats, making bets, making formaldehyde soaked cigarettes
in strip malls that used to be cemeteries.

The screens in my face tell me I should be scared of this place
but I know that they’re just missing out some laughs.
They’ve got no appreciation for inanition,
or bombastic applause for riots and chaos.
No tributes to being near death and destitute,
or fondness for pain and despondence.

If you find beauty in ugliness, which if you're like me you do,
this world's a treat; a sick, sardonic fucking dream,
that's getting more perverse with every turn of the screw.
You hear crazy things; you feel the urge to repeat them.
That shit becomes gospel, that's how you get programmed.
Next thing you know our lives become bullshit art schema.
Pretending we're barely getting by,
manufactured, knee deep in post lo-fi.
Track Name: 1994
Put to bed with the TV on, and mom’s downstairs crying.
Because he walked out, took all of his clothes. Met up to talk or to give the impression they’re trying.
The last time I tried to pray in earnest, my convict cousin in the room next door.
He’s on the run and I’m cursing the churches, and scanning the radio for songs to record.

There’s only a few more days ‘til I’ll probably get shipped away, from some commuter airport to a hot, sticky field.
There’s a Gala I’m gonna miss and a Jenny Id stay behind just to kiss, but my mom’s downstairs crying and her and I had a deal.

Saturday morning is the magnet of bad news, and I think my pet crawdad is dying.
It doesn’t feel right; these days never do, written words work better for lying.
In case this is the last time I’m ever here, I’m going to make a mix tape instead of tears. It’ll have my ruminations on love and God in between all the songs.
Speed and a copy of the new Rolling Stone, then I’m forced to be the next man to split from home. Thinking of problems back in California all summer long.

There’s only a few more days ‘til I’ll probably get shipped away, from some commuter airport to a hot, sticky field.
There’s a Gala I’m gonna miss, and a Jenny Id stay behind just to kiss, but my mom’s downstairs crying and her and I had a deal.
Track Name: Sweet Backflip
Let's tell each other about our lives, our likes and dislikes.
Let me suggest the touch of my hand when we walk side by side.
And then if you're still down, we can maybe fool around.
And waste a bunch of your sweet, precious time.

Silly like graffiti on statues sitting in front of a school.
Sweet like a backflip into a new swimming pool.
Sorry like the day I got drunk before noon.
Empty like the promise I tried to make too soon.

Spend a few hours, just you and I adrift,
and see if it’s hard at all for us not to kiss.
I haven't been evil in the way I treat people.
That depends on who you're asking, I guess.

Silly like graffiti on statues sitting in front of a school.
Sweet like a backflip into a new swimming pool.
Sorry like the day I got drunk before noon.
Empty like the promise I tried to make too soon.

I’ve had my fair share of goings on here and there.
I know I shouldn't divulge, but then again I don't care.
Deep-sixed by many, for a long list of scares.

In love like a hug from you in cheap, smoky bar.
Wrecked, but still working, like my last three cars.
Mended is our friendship, like the tear in my old jeans.
Happy in the end, as long as the end is you and me.

Silly like graffiti on statues sitting in front of a school.
Sweet like the backflip...
Sorry like the day...
Empty like the promise I tried to make too soon.
Track Name: Modern Me
Waking up, tasting blood in my mouth.
Get off the ground, just to fall back down.
I'm not a pretty sight to see,
but it's okay, man, because no one's even looking at me.

Looking at Modern Me

Guess I've had another night,
of drunken lies; promises that I'll never keep.
I'm just trying hard not to fuck up every day
but I'm afraid that's the way I'm supposed to be.
What if I can't slow down?
Why should I want to slow down?
Ride the bomb till it hits the Earth.
Too smart for my own good, scream until I run out of words,
go out with a bang before the world gets worse.

Even though they say:
"The way you beat yourself up,
you're just burning the candle at both ends."
I just reply "The way you live your life all 9 to 5,
well that's not what living really is."
Can my bleeding heart be reduced to book smarts,
and making money that I don't need to spend?
No way, I put to good use all my skewed views.
Conformity never leads to any change.

Guess I've had another night,
of drunken lies; promises that I'll never keep.
I'm just trying hard not to fuck up every day
but I'm afraid that's the way I'm supposed to be.
What if I can't slow down?
Why should I want to slow down?
Ride the bomb till it hits the Earth.
Too smart for my own good, scream until I run out of words,
go out with a bang before the world gets worse.
Track Name: Vex
We won’t take this shit lying down any more.
Conservative values shoved down our fucking throats.
And you can have religion, you can have your wars;
have your capitalism, have your thoughts controlled.

I say my only saving grace is seeing through all this bullshit;
knowing that the air out there is poisoned, and I’m holding my breath.

I feel like I’m fighting every day while you’re working for your money.

This county drips of stale invention, and this place…it thrives on division.
And I’ve made it a point to point out to all who’ll listen:
it’s time to start a riot in this orange-colored prison.

Stand up and fight.

And I’ve made it a point to point out to all who’ll listen:
it’s time to start a riot in this orange-colored prison.

Stand up and fight.
Track Name: Exit Bag
Everybody’s got a gun to shoot.
Metaphorical asshole attitude.
A lot of knives but no puncture wounds.
Empty words and tired platitudes.

Boring soldiers in an endless war on the creative brains and people who search for something more.

The future may be a drag, halcyon days came and went.
You’ve got to love a good war, or an extinction event.
So grab your exit bag, and take your last deep breath.
Cheers to our time in the sun, and corporate sponsored death.
Our lives became lame memes, things were as bad as they seemed.
A singleton to suppress all of our songs and our dreams.
What a bright future this is, too bad we all had to die.
And nothing left to mourn us, except the super A.I.

Is there something that can save us all?
Humanity about to hit the wall.
Some posit that life’s just a simulation,
or just another reason to get wasted.

Boring soldiers in an endless war on the creative brains and people who search for something more.

The future may be a drag, halcyon days came and went.
You’ve got to love a good war, or an extinction event.
So grab your exit bag, and take your last deep breath.
Cheers to our time in the sun, and corporate sponsored death.
It couldn’t be more easy, put the device on your head,
pull the cord with slight force, and let the gas kill you dead.
All of your idols are next, after they down a few pills,
And tweet out their last respects to a culture they helped kill.

Now I’ll admit that my nihilism
is a façade to hide my true position.
Romantic at heart;
an existentialist with rhythm.

You want it both ways, baby.
Individualistic supremacy,
while maintaining the intellectual upper hand.
Trying to play both the plebe and the man.

The future may be a drag, halcyon days came and went.
You’ve got to love a good war, or an extinction event.
So grab your exit bag, and take your last deep breath.
Cheers to our time in the sun, and corporate sponsored death.
It couldn’t be more easy, put the device on your head,
pull the cord with slight force, and let the gas kill you dead.
All of your idols are next, after they down a few pills,
And tweet out their last respects to a culture they helped kill.
Track Name: K.T.
California flora burning, showering us in ashes.
Worried people in the streets clinging to photographs.
We’re all dried out, just tinder for the next disaster.
A slowly burnt façade, the difference between our hearts and praxis.
I took a short drive to the place we saw our freedoms die, and let the pavement tell a poem.
A family’s peace left in a pool of blood by the bus depot.

The sun was obscured by a rust-colored shroud, coming from just beyond the city skyline.
The premium we pay, to live in the perplexing winter sunshine, is a serious distrust in the police and fear of our lives.
The pyrocumulous clouds rage above us, and we go on with our day.

Evil cruising streets in squad cars; whirling, cherry-topped doom;
murdering with impunity and untouchable in the courtroom.
The mangled mess that used to be a human being should be enough proof,
but compassion is abandoned and the jury of your peers has failed you.
We’ve gotten so used to living in hell, our senses dulled to the pain.

We all had our guts shot when the verdict was read, and felt embarrassed for the legal system that wants its citizens dead.

Murderous cops are a scourge,
and yet they’ll walk every time.
The law protects the money, kills those in poverty.
It’s fucking insanity.
.
The cops who set out that night to cause problems in someone’s life are walking free, thanking some dumb god for blind faith in that thin blue line.
Protesters gather up the strength to continue the fight knowing that as long as we give them power, more people are going to die.
The police will go out in full force tonight, armed and poorly trained.

My heart sinks at the thought of another person being murdered that way.
The epidemic of police violence is nothing new, but the militarization of these deadbeats is something that should scare the fuck out of you.
Track Name: This Used To Be Our Bright Future
The pavement bakes under a hot, holy sun that nobody worships any more.
Bikinis and shorts subbed for rags and dust masks and vacations under the floor boards.
The tract homes decay in the same way they were made: on the cheap and almost overnight.
The freeways you take, your job, the state; all incrementally devaluing your life.

The remnants of the Space Age. Beware of falling satellites.
This used to be our bright future; a paean to microchip life.

Everywhere that you look you see burned out tech, ghosts of a tomorrow that never came to pass.
The schools have long been burnt down by the kids, an artifice on the meaning of class.
The beaches used to be a bastion of fun, the boardwalks flanked by refinery smokestacks.
Now mutant teens have traded in their preening for sandy, drug-induced brass knuckle attacks.

The remnants of the Space Age. Beware of falling satellites.
This used to be our bright future; a paean to microchip life.

Tomorrowland stands, the future it told was a lie. A night in urban sprawl hell, illuminated by fireworks in the sky.

Fun in the sun and fights in the nights, heroin is the religion of the people.
Disturbing street scenes backlit by burning things in the shadow of the Crystal Cathedral.
I get the feeling everybody’s broken, just like the communities that our fathers tried to plan.
But you can’t get a good reading on someone unless you put a few bucks, or a gun, in their hand

The remnants of the Space Age. Beware of falling satellites.
This used to be our bright future; a paean to microchip life.

Stay in your homes unless you're fine in the grime, and get stoked on interminable brutality. Your future is here, and it’s just as prescribed: a lonely augmented reality.