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CAN'T BE ARSED

by POUND LAND

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1.
Twatted 05:59
2.
Brain Driver 06:23
3.
The consequences of the British pit closures in the early to mid-1980s were felt far and wide throughout the intellectual community. In a now infamous interview in 1987 with an anonymous coal miner from Derbyshire, who is simply referred to as ‘Tony’, it is revealed how Margaret Thatcher’s plans to transform labour dynamics in the UK were in part influenced by a primal desire to tear apart social co-operation and worker solidarity in the name of the practitioners of the dark arts, such as Aleistar Crowley, Leslie Crowther, Shirley Crabtree, and other seminal libertarians and occultists. Tony, helped my own late father, the Labour MP Chives Radstock, to formulate a feasible exit plan from the union headquarters on the corner of Mill Street, by the old Tudor chip shop, straight to the damp mossy caves located around the back of the Department of Agriculture, now of course, defunct and replaced by a combination of soft tissue and short variegated conifers. For Tony’s part in this ruse, we, as a nation, shall forever be grateful. That, of course, goes without saying. Tony, like so many other squat curly-haired men, was born on the cusp of Eden in the late 1940s, emerging from a dramatic backdrop of semi-phased limestone quarry-based local theatre and an eternal sense of almost Wagnerian injustice. After graduating from the LSD in 1966, Tony mined voraciously for 18 years until the impassioned strikes of 1984, whereupon he abandoned his previous allegiance to the cajoling approach of Antonio Gramsci and the Frankfurter School, in order to take up residence at the pioneering ‘Freedom Cottage’, a rather sordid squat on Charing Cross road, then run by Charlie Stammers, the lead singer of the punk band Mucus Patrol. We all know what happened next of course, a cultural paradigm shift resulting in tens of thousands of Boxer dogs being freed into the East Anglian countryside, only to be recalled later in the name of moderation, prudence and fiscal incision. Years of screaming later we arrive at a situation where the whip-hand is now held by a slender lizard-boy, masquerading as a fifth member of the once-dreaded 1527 Select Committee. Speaking unequivocally, the public purse has been thoroughly rung out and left to dry, and Tony recalls how a chance meeting with the head of the National Executive of Radical Cheese-workers, Dame Vera Malik, resulted in a new synthesis of left-wing politics and post-feminist literary analysis. Foaming at the anus, and gyrating almost daily, this unholy pairing of rustic artisan and urban demagogue has produced some of the finest quatrains in recent history. We arrive at an almost erotic conjunction today where no man who considers himself above the simple cattle in the field can reasonably hold his head up high and bleat…’I am aware of my own nostrils, my hands, my feet, for they are tools designed by the Elder Ones to rend, to drown, or simply to apprehend all incomers to the garden of fortune’. The at-once pleasing design of the adjoining Cadbury Estate hides a more sinister intent, and one that will be revealed only when the stars align with kettle and with cactus – we can only pray that that point is many years away, hidden in the ether of a musky Levantine evening. The strains of traditional Moroccan music, the desperate mating calls of spiteful little frogs, the hooting of a giant brass owl, all add to the impending sense of failure of one’s own career, and more importantly, the general failure of the West to reconcile tradition with consumer comfort. Thus, we arrive at a conclusion to the interview with the ex-miner Sir Tony of Glapwell, a conclusion that merely points to the end of history as realised by a fecund and fertile form of lysergic capitalism, a mode of production that knows not of material reality, but only of lascivious and cyclical dreams, borne aloft in the dying pineal glands of the last generation of our infinitely cursed and blessed species. Amen.
4.
Tapeworm 05:24
5.
6.
Cheshire Set 01:57
Mindless fuckers in 4-wheel drives Orange skin and empty lives Perfect teeth in rictus grimace A business mind that knows no limits Champagne lunch in a country pub This rich cunt dunt give a fuck Red Ferrari and bee-stung lips Villa in Spain and plastic tits Ant we done well? – we’re the Cheshire set Ant we done well? – we’re the Cheshire set Spawn of Thatcher – we’re the Cheshire set Cheshire set (repeat)
7.
I’ve been taught I’ve been tutored I’ve been schooled I’ve been sculptured And as a result, I often forget I’m free in my head I’m alive and not dead I don’t listen to what they say Ah mek up me own mind Ah do it my own way I read books every day I learn all the time I write down my thoughts I look after my mind I’ve been taught I’ve been tutored I’ve been schooled I’ve been computed And as a result, I often forget I’m free in my head I’m alive and not dead
8.
Chopped 04:50

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Second album from Pound Land. Released on limited edition cassette by Cruel Nature Recordings 4th March 2022. cruelnaturerecordings.bandcamp.com

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released March 4, 2022

All music copyright Pound Land 2022.

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POUND LAND Manchester, UK

Pound Land were formed in 2020 by vocalist/lyricist Adam Stone (Future Bomb/sometime collaborator with Dead Sea Apes) and multi-instrumentalist Nick Harris (Reverends of Destruction/ ex-Dead Sea Apes) - an absurdist post-industrial ‘kitchen-sink’ punk for a dogshit-dull Britain, set in both the recent past and the imagined near-future. Adam - vox/ Nick - gtr/ Rich - bass/ Steve - drums/ Jo - sax. ... more

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