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  • *BENEFIT CD FOR SURVIVOR FUNDS*
    Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    **PLEASE READ**

    We released this split with the help and artistic contributions of Chris Clavin, who was outed in 2017 for abuse and sexual assault. Consequently, we have cut all ties with PIX. When it comes to this split, it hasn't been clear whether the more accountable choice would be (a) remove all trace of this split from the internet, or (b) keep it around for transparency's sake. Then this fall, we received a bunch of CDs of that split that were never sold, which we could've destroyed. Instead, we're going to sell them for $10 and donate all income to a variety of public and anonymous survivor funds, such as www.gofundme.com/anonymous-survivor-fund. We hope that this can be a concrete form of mutual aid. If you have a suggestion of funds to donate toward, please send us a message -- note that Ramshackle Glory is an anarchist project which has typically avoided funding for-profit and non-profit organizations. For more information: www.facebook.com/ramshackleglory/posts/1547150671995052 .

    Includes unlimited streaming of Shelter via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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1.
Here's to the knives in your pockets, the gun in your trunk, the years it's been since we weren't drunk. The neighbor shirtless, face-down on the lawn. Here's to the BB gun holes in the wall, the burnt tin foil in the hall. The weeks I've spent in bed since you were gone. Here's to shitting my pants downtown when the dealer's late, stumbling home to the feds at the front gate, sleeping behind the school when the landlord comes. Here's to being young. I hope I die before I get old. Hell, I just hope I die before the spoon gets cold. Sing it with me now, while we've still got our lungs: Here's to being young. Buy whipped cream on EBT and huff it in the dark with me. There's a bill on the table, but I don't recognize the name. We just came for a good time. It's listerine, but it tastes fine, or at least it did last time you got the shakes. Here's to running out the grocery store with a thirty pack, punching the cashier that wants it back, booking it out of there before the police come. Here's to being young. I hope I die before I get old. Hell, I just hope I die. Blah, blah, blah. Sing it with me now, convince me this is fun: Here's to being young.
2.
When I was a young man, I lived in New England. I was sleeping on porches. Well, okay, I guess I weren't really sleeping. Officer, I know where we're going by the way the cuffs shine. Hell, sometimes, home is any place that's dry. Any place that's dry. I was working on Main Street, washing rich people's dishes. Get off, have some drinks with the waiters, fall asleep under county bridges. It was cold, it was wet, I would have sworn to you it was fine. Hell, sometimes, home is any place you find. Any place you find. A little bit older I moved across the country, running from old habits. Well, okay, I was running from most things. I swear that the desert's going to be the end of me when I look in your eyes. Hell, sometimes, I think home's wherever you die. Any place you die.
3.
Just like that it was winter again here in the desert. In June, our house was empty. In September it's full of house guests. They're too punk, or I'm too punk, for words to come out sitting here in the living room of our beautiful, broken-down house. I've been working so much lately, when I'm home I feel like a stranger in a foreign country where I can't speak the language of unemployment, minor crimes, plans to get the hell out. I mutter “fuck the police” and lie down in our beautiful, broken-down house. We were in the kitchen, it was the week you first moved in. I said, “We're glad to have you.” You shrugged. “Well, it's here or a ditch...” Thanks for dancing, thanks for singing, thanks for sticking around and making a home with us here in our beautiful, broken-down house. On my days off I like to sit up on the roof and watch the traffic. There's my buddy Micky from the laundromat, walking by looking pretty dope sick. And hell, I remember that walk, but I haven't taken it for three years now. So Micky, come here and lie down in our beautiful, broken-down house. The last couple weeks I know you've been having trouble breathing—and maybe, truthfully, trouble with most things—but don't you worry if the pipes freeze and power goes out. We'll just be friends who are cold, in the dark, of our beautiful, broken-down house. And just like that it was summer again here in Tucson. In March our house was a jungle, in July it's an abandoned parking lot. You move back to England, you move with the seasons, you move where it's hip right now. I say, “Fuck them all” and lie down in our beautiful, broken-down house.
4.
No shelter 02:48
There is no shelter when you alienate people by reading their palms or tarot cards without their permission. There is no shelter when my girlfriend's grandpa has alzheimer's, grandma drove off in the car. There is no shelter when they say I mesmerize people. They dug a hole. There was never a reason! A pyramid or an apartment complex: what's the fucking difference? Monuments to the dead, no place for the living. Shout out if you're down and out, picking bricks up to fix up the pricks up in high rise digs. We ain't fooling. Nah, whatever we're doing, we ain't afraid of ruins or pigs. There will be no shelter until we tear them to bits. There is no shelter when I have to choose between the monsters and a cold winter night. There is no shelter. When they can come to your house any time, what the fuck is a safer space? There is no shelter when the carpet smells like dog piss and beer. I've gotta rent a steam cleaner!
5.
It's dawn somewhere in Tallahassee. I'm still lying awake with you next to me, tired enough for misery but too miserable to sleep. You find a new date every day on the internet. I ain't found one for myself in years, I think. It's nothing personal, but I hate you right now much as I hate Tallahassee. This Chevy van is not my home. Tell me it's true, until I believe it, and I'll tell you that your dream is a prison. It's noon somewhere, I think it's Michigan. I'm driving fast as the hardcore tape you're playing, to make it to the show on time. As if I really give a shit. Because every song is a lie as soon as it's played twice, and by the hundredth time it's pathological. If I had any courage I would have quit a dozen states ago. This Chevy van is not my home. Tell me it's true, until I believe it, and I'll tell you that your dream is a prison.

about

**PLEASE READ**

We released this split with the help and artistic contributions of Chris Clavin, who was outed in 2017 for abuse and sexual assault. Consequently, we have cut all ties with PIX. We've deleted their side from our page, but for transparency's sake, we're going to keep the album art up as-is. For more information: www.facebook.com/ramshackleglory/posts/1547150671995052

credits

released June 1, 2013

On this album we are:

Disdane: held hostage by the pigs (as of April 4, 2013). not forgotten (ever). supportdanerossman.blogspot.com
Eric “Johnny” Freedom: trumpet, vocals
Luke Romano: drums
Nick Berger: accordion, vocals
Patrick Schneeweis: guitar, vocals, a little piano on track 3, organ on track 2, noise box/grungy keyboards on tracks 1 & 5
Potato: bass, vocals
Wyndham Maxwell: piano, vocals

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Ramshackle Glory Tucson, Arizona

Punk with all the wrong instruments from Tucson, AZ.

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