Slow like black strap molasses
With your hands to the sky.
It's the tone of your skin.
It's the fire in your eyes.
Slow the motorcade creeps
To the White House, black gates.
It's the winter white skin
'tween red and the blue.
Slow the national anthem
Or the progress of man,
Or the death of a dream.
Such a stillborn relief.
Slow. There's nowhere go
And all of a sudden there's nowhere to run.
Hands up don't shoot.
Do you feel American yet? Do you have your hand on her neck? Slow, the blood drains. Black, the light fades.
Slow, put your knees to the ground.
Don't you dare turn around.
Don't you open your mouth.
Can you breathe?
How bout now?
like the heat of the night
And the pulse in your veins.
With your hand at your side...
Don't you train for this?
Fast like you've practiced before,
Like you dreamed of the power,
living black and red color.
Fast like the tear on the cheek
Of a baby to young to know what to do with a murder.
credits
from Don Jr.,
released December 31, 2018
Mastered by Travis Thatcher.
The latest from this one-man sludge metal project from Baltimore is discordant, spacious, and as heavy as a full group could ever be. Bandcamp New & Notable Nov 12, 2019
Witty and raucous as ever, the Chicago noise-rockers rip into "flat earthers" and "tween shitbags" with misanthropic glee. Bandcamp New & Notable Mar 21, 2019