A hardcopy of Rob Getzschman's first album, produced by St. Louis' DJ Crucial, features all the things you think of when you think of a CD: A jewel case, album art with linear notes, a CD, a tray liner. The things you live for when you think "man, I want a compact disc!"
Includes unlimited streaming of Songs for the Anti-De-Counterrevolution
via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
Allow me to examine thee, thy broken mindset waiting for a fix
I think you'll find philosophy a delicious, inconsistent meretrix
And as I diagnose, please abandon every post
And regard the telling tales of history
With curdled eyes and self-demise, I've come to frown and dramatize
Each innocuous moment of my life
And every banner of the past, to me, stands at half-empty mast
Every last word draws attention to my strife
And of course, alone I feel this, though I boast myself a realist
Defining life in terms of Achilles' heels
But I can't be so convinced to so pretend
That I'm a pessimist until the very end
Gatherin' gigs of information, seekin' out soporific facts
Evidenced by an imperfected sense
Strippin' down the sacred town to uncontested, bared essential
Central proof to pronounce the layin' hen
Dead last behind the egg, and then the soup, primordial as the foster mom
The chicken coop of existence
But I can't be so convinced to so pretend
That I'm a positivist until the very end
On puppet strings and pendulum swingsets: every son and daughter
Singing empires of carpenters and kings
Whose pretuned voices have no chords to wage the frequency of war
Except the few for that they are chosen for
And I'm deaf to tones of free will spoke indicative of soulful choice
Some stubborn stone lodged in my idiodynamic throne
But I can't be so convinced to so pretend
That I'm a determinist until the very end
Or deeming one the chosen son by blood and guts and holy ruts
Worn deep into the huts of hoipalloic minds
Tradition's rag works twice as hard to polish the unnatural birthright, marred
Dissolving flaws into a cosmetic shine
Who sits and watches while the miles of peasants file by and say,
"Yes, m'Lord. All to thee, for thine."
But I can't be so convinced to so pretend
That I'm a monarchist until the very end
In the spirit here of sharing, dear, I'll prech in sweet delirium
Of platinum-plated theories born to die
What's yours is mine, what's mine is yours, even though I've put no labor towards
This capitol you'd like to propertize
And this is true utopia, my layman friend, we've reached the end
Your legal tender, let us ration and decide
But I can't be so convinced to so pretend
That I'm a communist until the very end
As a rabid fan of consolidation, I'm watching all the nation's wealth
Pulsing towards a pathetic one percent
The global scale weighs no different as the rich get better
And a growing class of debters begs the question
Is it subatomic force and fate which make it all consolidate?
Or does business sense make the world go hence?
But I can't be so convinced to so pretend
That I'm a capitalist until the very end
In a cynicistic cloud I'm seeing every institution speak
In a mix of unsuccessful tricks and rhetoric
And I have no faith in corporation, damn the woes of organization
Desolate, my self-justifiding place
And I see no light and feel no fight, I'm so impressed with hopelessness
The only promise I await is in my grave
But I can't be so convinced to so pretend
That I'm a nihilist until the very end
And as these "isms" stake their claims I watch the others taking aim
To knock their feigned foundations to the ground
For all the worth of human words, I'm watching great ideas blurred
And hearing the massive, mortal girth of opinion sound
And all these hoaxes in their camps brandish one same rubber stamp:
"Scientific," though every stance is graveyard bound
For convictions, prisons, block the door for everything laid on the floor
More dangerous than lies, Friedrich found
And I don't believe a word that I've said
I put my faith in stuff unwritten and unread
So count your chickens before they've had their fun
And I'll let you know when my shell has come undone
Having stepped on ground where other men have stood
I can't be convinced of anything but good
Rob Getzschman is a singer-songwriter and producer from Omaha living in Los Angeles. He was previously front man for DC-based Analog Jetpack, played bass for LA's Highland Hawks and writes and produces music for Mighty Good Road. www.mightygoodroad.com
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