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Metamorphejawns

by Ecce Shnak

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  • Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    Artwork by Rebecca Wasilewski & David Roush
    Formatting by Tristan Kasten-Krause

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1.
Yes, and just when all manner of mortal and divinity, robot and mailman were gathered there, singin’ and snoodlin’ and dancin’ and joustin,’ a curious cry rang out throughout the square: “Shit-Da! Shi-shit/Shi-DA! Shit shivi-dit shit, shi-shi, shi-DA!” Then Homunculus Floating above upon a star He Delivered a strange Little riddle Went Like “You, who bloviate… you shattered teenie-bopper star…! The holy family… your Cerbereus canine… He Three-headed beast Guarding the party-people well; You ought to play with the mailman’s balls. Be like, “Shit-Da! Shi-shit/Shi-DA! Shit shivi-dit shit, shit!” You got to play with the mailman’s balls. So the mailman, he let’s the party have its way: “I like that.” He, the murderer, repents, and so he joins the parade. Hark! The doggies bark and slobber on his happy face, and now they’re Playing with the mailman’s balls and conscience.
2.
You feel bad about yourself. You feel sad about yourself. You feel bad and mad and sad about yourself. So why don’t you go chase after a monster!? (What’ll I do?) And when you get your imposter, like a hungry velociraptor, Bring me his head on a birthday cake. Serve it up with a monster blood milkshake. Bring me his head on a birthday cake Serve it up with a monster misery milkshake. Today, I will trim my whiskers On my nose and my ears With a regular pair of scissors. Henry and I, We will toast to the sky To sadness and her twin sister. Because the heart can forgive a flagrant foul once or twice. Honey, thrice does not make a fragrant flower, Only sour wasted heart ache. So why don’t you go chase after a monster!? (What’ll I do?) And when you get your imposter, like hungry velociraptor, Bring me his head on a birthday cake Serve it up with a monster blood milkshake. Come get this monster, baby. Through my tonsils poke a hole. Get down like Patrick Swayze. Through my tushy push a pole. Make my dead ass eat a caramel apple. You’re in total control. High-five my eyeballs in front of your best friend To their total chagrin. Because the heart can forgive a flagrant foul once or twice. Honey, thrice does not make a fragrant flower, Only sour wasted heart ache… So why don’t you go chase after a monster?! And when you get your imposter, like a hungry velociraptor, Bring me his head on a birthday cake.
3.
We’re gonna send Ralph Nader a letter with a Liberty Bell forever-stamp. In blue and purple and silver and gold, I’ll scribble The sender’s address and the recipient’s, too. And I will happily lap the rat-rectum envelope seal With my single, stinkin,’ God-Given tongue. And while the plutocrats wrappin’ up another backroom-deal, Me and the boys stay bangin’ out another 2-5-1. We’re gonna send Ralph Nader a letter with a Liberty Bell forever-stamp. For Johnny Boehner it’s another day to yawn through, And for Barack Obama it’s another day to sing the blues. But ol’ Socrates also double-knots his shoelaces as he tosses back the morning glass of tomato juice. And while the plutocrats wrapping up another backroom-deal, he’s sharpenin’ up his single, stinkin,’ God-given, octogenarian tongue. We’re gonna send Ralph Nader a letter with a Liberty Bell forever-stamp. We’ll tell the po-po to chill the fuck out with the violence, And tell the cable, get Socrates on the news. Ralph Nader eschews your etiquette. Super cool guy from Connecticut. And while the plutocrats wrapping up another backroom-deal, he’s sharpenin’ up his single, stinkin,’ God-given, octogenarian Ken-penis.
4.
I’ll not do laundry today, Nor call mother: ¡Nay! For I’m earthen today: Dank, rotten, in love. Pride, it’s flower cannot bud. Promise I’ll stop trying to protect my ass (Alas!—what if I were not?!), and utilize my math homework to wipe my ass, no matter the aftermath. And I’ll spend all damn day in the kitchen. I’ll spend all damn day in the kitchen with you. ¡Yay!
5.
From Shadows Chaos, come the Rob't and the Mailm'n. Do you hear them howlin’ For the Rob't in the harem? Howlin’ for the Mailm'n? For the Rob't and the Mailm'n? Do you hear them howlin’ for the Rob't in the harem? Do you hear them snoodlin’ in the mire? See the funny little dance they do, the figures in the fire. They’re calling for mercy in death. Mercy in hatred. They’re dying for it. They’re dying to give it. So you can find me with the Rob't in the harem, snoodling in the mire. MbahhhMbahhhMbahhhMbahhhMbahhhMbahhhMbahhhMbahhhMbahhhMbahhh Hear them Howlin’ for the Mailm'n! Hear them howlin,’ “Justice!” for the Mailm'n! Hear them howlin’ justice! Justice for the Mailman: canine presence neutralized. Over-flowing garbage-cans, just as Mailman fantasized. Mercy in death. Mercy in hatred. Dying for it. Dying to give it. Still even the Mailman’s ringing the town crier, singing “Yes, you fuckers started the fire.”
6.
Love made an unborn child from the ghost of a windmill never built on a Kennedy estate. Love stank Of rotten omen And theological bile. Cape Cod, Cape Cod, Cape Cod! In the Vineyard or Cape Cod, Cape Cod, Cape Cod! In Quog, or Cape Cod, Cape Cod, Cape Cod! While the beaches smiled Stupidly… Devoured whole handfuls Of pomegranate seeds, White infants, And theological bile. Cape Cod, Cape Cod, Cape Cod! In the Vineyard or Cape Cod, Cape Cod, Cape Cod! FIRE ISLAND OR -- !? Your semen tasted of butterfly nightmare. You shot it off with no smile. I turned you from a virgin to a hypocrite scoundrel. Pierced me with your auburn eyes. Fixed you a picnic basket, rescued you from your parents’ house, by morning we were in love. You aimed and fired your butterfly nightmare. Pierced me in my hazel eyes.
7.
Picture yourself standing outside. Everyone marvel at the night sky. Later on when you’re all alone Once again stare into the catacomb. It makes you want to run, run, run! Run, run, run in the open air. No listen you should run, run, Run away! Never look better lest they see your face. Cause to the old world, everyone looks like a cannibal. And to the new world, everyone looks like a rising star.
8.
“Three Laughghirmations: I. Drake’s Apologue” There was someone looking at us through your living room, some creature, telling us how similar we all looked. I got the sense that he took us for slackers. This turned out later to be one of your uncles, and, like you, he is a main-line man from cradle to grave, uh, although sometimes I get the sense that you feel more at home in New Jersey. You had dragged us through a swamp in the hopes of finding peepers earlier that day. It is my feeling that the swamp was the goal the whole time. The smell and the aura of the place seemed to lull you into a trance. He can often be found in places like Korean supermarkets, abandoned golf courses, elbow-deep in a beehive, or even staring into an ear of corn. To put it another way, I think he can see the relationship between being alive and the number of earthworms to be found in any square footage of soil. Everyone has a native landscape, whether it’s the city, or the mountains, or suburban interiors, or the ocean. One might think that the Deep South would resonate with him on some squishy, reptilian level. You will probably be the only one of Jack Dejohnette’s acolytes ever to work for Dupont, although maybe there will be others… certainly few others who have slept in a bag atop Big Horn plateau with a strip of fabric holding their nostrils open. And despite the fact this will continue to provoke your temper, I am going to continue to do it anyway, because I know your weakness for bad humour. If you have still failed to crack a smile, take comfort, for I’m going to quit this diatribe and cede the platform to you. “Three Laughghirmations: II. Bill’s Response” [ -- ] “Three Laughghirmations: III. Birthday Card” Hello. I’m a bird chilling with David in the park.
9.
Privatize the religions! Not – for – profits over-size! Fanaticize the feeble ones! It’s time to capitalize! Vamanos, we’re going live! Comatose, you’re over-thrown! Over-dose the overdrive! Hyper-drive the hyper- “ [BOWL] “ Imperil the audience. Imperil the musicians, too. Just a bunch of shitty dudes. Belittle us and shit on us. Fuck us. Kill us. Thank you. Turn this mothafucka down Or turn this mothafucka down Flip this motha inside out Or burn this mothafucka down So let’s turn mothafucka out Or turn this mothafucka down Flip this motha Burn this mothafucka down Flip this mother inside out Turn this mothafucka round.

about

Ecce Shnak’s first full-length album, “Metamorphejawns,” is a study of change. Everybody from Siddhartha Gotama to Ovid to your friend Larry will tell you that change is a basic challenge of human life. This fact is as old as the hills. But the present century, fraught with the perils of climate chaos, artificial intelligence, resurgent fascism, and other kinds of madness might be the most uproarious period in human history. While these wild winds are added to the storm of human life, the throes of romantic love, sexuality, and loneliness in the lives of individuals do not relent, either. “Metamorphejawns” is music that attempts to struggle with and respond to these endlessly changing changes earnestly and positively, both in seriousness and in good humor, with Ecce Shnak’s wildly idiomatic synthesis of styles, irreverent-but-not-misanthropic lyrics, and party attitude.

credits

released July 19, 2019

Guitars: James Fantom, Jeff Lucci & David Roush
Drums: Bill Ricci, Eli Litwin & David Roush
Keyboards: Jeff Lucci & David Roush
Bass: Mike Corso, Liam Wilson & Jeff Lucci
Vocals: Roush & Co.

Compositions David Roush, Jesse Lindsey on Catacombs, Drake Tyler and Bill Ricci on Laughghirmations

Engineering and Production by Jeff Lucci
Mixed by John Agnello
Mastered by Greg Calbi

Artwork by Rebecca Wasilewski & David Roush
Design and Formatting by Tristan Kasten-Krause

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Ecce Shnak New York, New York

Ecce Shnak (pronounced Eh-kay sh-knock) is a 7-piece art-rock band. We're based in NYC. We're one part pop music, another part classical music, and a third part punk music. Our songs are about love, sex, death, change, bravery, and food.

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