Far From The Callous Crowd

by GRAND COLLAPSE

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about

Calvin Sewell (vox) Jon Powell (guitar) David Thomas (bass) Glenn Tew (drums). Recorded by Lewis Johns at The Ranch Production House (Southampton, UK). Mastered by Brad Boatright at Audiosiege (Portland, USA). Artwork by John Abell.

This LP is dedicated to the life and times of my brother, Joshua. Respect. Calvin.

credits

released June 21, 2014

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GRAND COLLAPSE Cardiff, UK

FRANTIC HARDCORE PUNK.

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Track Name: False Dawn
False Dawn

Once more the masses have all been absorbed. They laugh and cheer, completely enthralled. One man out runs them all. The anthem plays, the crowd applauds. Throughout the affair the flag waves proudly. A constant reminder of where I belong. I cast my mind back just a year, where the tunnel we thought would run forever began to bare light (so bright it blinds our fragile eyes, accustomed to this murky state). In went the stallions & armored combatants. The hooded army stood firm despite the largest of odds. Their anger could not be detained by batons or hoofs. As expected, the image that fills the screen is one of disarray; burnt out cars and shards of glass. A glut of buzzwords frames the scene. The column inches write themselves: ‘Arsenal at the ready!’ ‘Armored rear compartment’, ‘wire bars and bulletproof glass’. Live rounds are fired precise to 70 yards. Still the spotlight seems to shine on the throwers of stones and those prepared to toe the line that runs throughout everything that we’ve ever known. Etched, carved and cut into stone from the Ritz hotel to the Tesco store. Scratch it. Cut it loose.
Track Name: Far From The Callous Crowd
Far from the Callous Crowd

Far away from the callous crowd in setts and dens the weak distress. Huddled underneath the soil, so confused and so perplexed. The Glaring nexus evades us all. This disturbing image plagues my waking thoughts. How perfectly it illustrates our blatant ongoing neglect of everything that falls around our fabricated, blissful realm. In which we immerse ourselves in fables and guides. I sat in the back of the wagon that day, between the lab and the station gates. I’d never seen or met her before. She couldn’t care less about their numbers or rank. Half their size, but completely unfazed, she laughed in their faces. Whilst awestruck I noticed, right below the pin badge that affirmed ‘food not bombs’, the ‘NO BORDERS’ patches that were sewn into her hood. Nexus grasped. The placards that were held aloft in the distance read ‘shut it down’ as they marched right through the town towards Sequani. Shut it down.
Track Name: Just Add Water
Just Add Water

I can’t switch off this fucking gauge. The shit of bulls, it resonates. It’s all too much; I wish to live the malleable alternative. But it’s not possible. Once it’s on no going backwards, slowly becoming contemptuous to the bone. The illusory news flash reports; the recurring ad-break purports; the deceptive voice of god implores. The state official assures once more that it’s my interests to correspond, pray, ingest, assume & simulate. And I wish that I could obey, cos’ insight aint what it seems. Aspirational ease. I crave the dull routine where I no longer have to contend. Just add water to the blend.
Track Name: Divergence
Divergence

The waters muddied, the pieces falling short with no resemblance of human worth. The same end result, engineered conclusion. Barring any free flow, no compassion or refuge. No respite! Viewing the world through blind eyes. Detached and bought, you digest the lies.
Track Name: Touch Paper
Touch Paper

Touch paper lit. Flame moves ever closer to fuse. The instructions read ‘stand back’. They can now be found floating through the air, torn up by the mad and resolute that seek reprisal. This manifests itself in the newest of ways; bus fares in Sao Paulo incur the people’s wrath. Most of them were probably cyclists anyway. But tire or foot tracks, it doesn’t matter. They all lead to the same place. A common accent echoes loudly, falling perfectly into tune. I can hear it from where I’m standing; thousands of miles away where the wasters keep on wasting and the advisors always beam with satisfaction due to the inactivity of their subjects. I smell bullshit. I despair. The standby light turns red. Without even thinking my eyes glaze over & my ears digest what the box has to say. Hair and make-up complete, the painted man stares at camera three and critiques… I clench my fist in solidarity. Touch Paper has been lit. You can stand where you like.
Track Name: Memoirs of Heath Park
Memoirs of Heath Park

The mottled leaves swept by the autumn breeze went whistling past my snagged and muddied strides. Night began to fall, clouds gathered above and rain drove in from the sides. ‘Why the hell am I standing here?’ The odd tear fell from cheek onto soil as I fell back onto the bench that bears your name. I took a deep breath, then exhaled. There was no hopeful look up into the night sky or any of that shit. I just sat there numb and motionless amongst the disconsolate scene. It was pretty fucking drab. The open field gleamed beneath the moonlight as I wept and considered what had and will never be. There’s no one around. I’m not surprised. It’s just me.

These damp images flood right back as I lay anxious on the kitchen floor, hysterical. ‘No! Not again?’ But your face says it all; hand over mouth, eyes lowered, knees bent with your arms wrapped around me. I blame the floor, walls and doors. Striking out at the hand life dealt me. Rage, anger, wrath. Hurt, angry, weak. Can’t speak. Eventually the calm sets in and I consider all things I never said to you both.
Track Name: Slack
Slack

Recited defense. I’d heard it all before. ‘It could be so much worse’ he banally replied. ‘Your so full of shit’, I finally snapped after absorbing his pap for far too long. Those within earshot stopped in their tracks, open-mouthed. Their desperation was palpable. Begging me with their eyes to switch the conversation away from what could expose their slack, hollow judgments, held only to assume a ‘liberal’ standpoint. Don’t they all look swell? The ones in the back couldn’t hear a single word over their t-shirts exposing Che’s face, and Bono’s voice blaring from the over priced dock.
Track Name: A Room With A View
A Room With a View

A room with a view filled with leather green seats where the bastions of power sit and play their games.

Thumb over index they continue to orchestrate a finely tuned choir, singing songs of praise.

Hell, fire and mortar overlooking the water. A shelter for cowards finely displayed.
Track Name: Turbid Milieu
Turbid Milieu

Don’t give an inch! Bright yellow jackets neatly aligned, that never-ending drone of the chopper in the sky. The snap of the baton, a thud against the shield; be strong, keep moving and keep your eyes peeled. “Keep your hands off me”. “Why are you here?” Some are excited some are in fear. Well now aint the time to be weak at the knees. The battle lines are drawn, feel the kettle squeeze.

Don’t give an inch! Pile on the pressure. Don’t ever recoil. Operation Glencoe… Is that all you’ve got? The tension in growing, the cameras are rolling. A stunned Mr. Broadhurst clutches at straws.
Track Name: Snapshot
Snapshot

I’ll bet that the photographer laughed just as much as I just did. By the time I’d stopped a few more pages had been flicked. Same snapshot different dicks. I’m not sure if it was their ridiculous hair dos or misplaced pride. Either way, when put against the wank, soppy texts in the full length interview it became clear that this was slapstick at its very best. Buried on page twenty-three next to the perfume ad. You gotta laugh.
Track Name: The Starting Bell
The Starting Bell

Chinstraps are buckled. Boots are secured. The bookie ascents and chalks up the odds. In the background the popping of corks can be heard. The going is ‘good’. The paddocks are locked. Lights, camera, action; ridiculous hats fill up the concourse. Spirits are high as the passionate crowd part with their notes (3-1 the favorite). The sun begins to shine down upon on this dated scene where toffs and pretenders play out their roles as squires and lords. A pitiful sight; archaic wankers surrounded by shite. The P.A announces the main event. Mr. Claire Balding describes it again as the stars of the show are lead to the front in bright colored jackets, parading their crops. Cheers and excitement as they ring the starting bell. Drama and commotion, more of hope not expectation. Whipped ‘cos he aint fast enough then killed because he fell. Betting slips are crumpled out of anger and frustration. The starting bell sounds again.