released 16 February 2013
All Songs written and performed by Grand Collapse; Recorded by Lewis Johns @ The Ranch Production House, Southampton; Mastered by Jason Livermore @ The Blasting Room , Denver, U.S.A; Artwork by John Abell, Cardiff.
This way of life, much like the resources it callously consumes, is finite. Of this you’re aware but still you persist to hold up this structure, which is built on foundations that cannot withstand this pressure. When it crumbles the people will walk amongst it’s waste, and cry when they evoke memories of times gone by; where the few decreed the many. Alone and in tandem these powerful factions contrive to control and exploit the population. They convince us of their relevance, or threaten us if not; that dominating instinct just won’t go away. What will you do when you’ve taken it all? Or your only dimension has exhausted its ideas? When the people you shat on are knocking at the door; pitch forks, lanterns, feathers, tar. As the crowd begins to form, identity concealed but its wrath on show. In unison; for once in accord. Having dismantled those tacit divides.
Palms begin to moisten as you realize that your most fervent adherents are no longer at their posts. Resentful, but focused, their voices coincide – ‘we’ve had enough of listening to your systematic shite’. Alone and together, no matter the cost. Cracking mirrors, sweeping smoke. Ousting what has forever endured, plagued and scold our every move. Without the fear they had previously suffered, angered hoards advance on their captors. Eagerly anticipating, longing, waiting for their smiles to drop; towers to burn.
Track Name: Forecast
It’s the hottest day since records began. Unprecedented temperatures, due to man’s failure to realize what will soon be his demise. He shat on his own doorstep, but still wonders ‘why?’
His business partner smiles now that profits have soared. He’s been invited to dinner with the chairman of the board. Sure, he had to cut corners, but look what he has gained; there are birds drenched in oil, monkeys cling to what remains.
Water levels raise, in crashes the tide. You’ve reached the bottom of your limited supply. There’s nowhere left to run and no-one you can bribe; no amount of money can keep you alive.
Water levels raise, in crashes the tide. What the fuck did you expect? Are you really that surprised? You pushed it all too far, now we all pay the price. Not a ingle penny can keep you alive.
Track Name: Ailment (No Cure)
Mind fuck persists. Water drank, ticket claimed. Elation prescribed. The patient sighs in relief and retains peace of mind. Complete faith in their view and the letters that are post-fixed to their names.
Mind Fuck persists. False acronyms start to form. Powder encased in gelatin capsules. Retailers of calm; sedated consumers beseech no matter the cost. The crudest form of avarice.
Droves of children dosed up to the eyeballs. Behind them, parents, reaching for their pockets; held to ransom. Meanwhile men in white coats, with clipboards, patrol the caged aisles. The residents of which it is impossible to envy. Still, 'their plight is crucial to the progress of our race’. No, that’d be the market, you’ve got to ask the question - is there something sinister in their search for ... Remedies for ailments; no cure.