The Apartments, "apart"
White Vinyl, limited edition (w/ digital download), printed inner sleeve, comes with an exclusive set of 6,000 word liner notes wrote by Peter Milton Walsh.
2023 remaster.
Includes unlimited streaming of apart
via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
ships out within 1 day
edition of 500
1 remaining
Purchasable with gift card
€24EURor more
Record/Vinyl + Digital Album
The Apartments, "apart"
Black Vinyl (w/ digital download), printed inner sleeve, comes with an exclusive set of 6,000 word liner notes wrote by Peter Milton Walsh.
2023 remaster.
Includes unlimited streaming of apart
via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
ships out within 1 day
Purchasable with gift card
€22EURor more
about
Based on the 1963 translation of Charles Baudelaire's poem "Au Lecteur", originally published in 1857, by Robert Lowell.
lyrics
Infatuation, sadism, lust, avarice
Possess our souls and drain the body's force
We spoonfeed our adorable remorse
Like whores or beggars nourishing their lice
Our sins are mulish, our confessions lies
We play to the grandstand with our promises
We pray for tears to wash our filthiness
Importantly pissing hogwash through our styes
The devil, watching by our sickbeds, hissed
Old smut and folk-songs to our soul, until
The soft and precious metal of our will
Boiled off in vapor for this scientist
Each day his flattery makes us eat a toad
And each step forward is a step to hell
Unmoved, though previous corpses
and their smell
Asphyxiate our progress on this road
Like the poor lush who cannot satisfy
We try to force our sex with counterfeits
Die drooling on their deliquescent tits
Mouthing the rotten orange we suck dry
Gangs of demons are boozing in our brain
Ranked, swarming like a million warrior-ants
They drown and choke the cistern of our wants
Each time we breathe, we tear our lungs with pain
If poison, arson, sex, narcotics, knives
Have not yet ruined us and stitched their quick,
Loud patterns on the canvas of our lives
It is because our souls are still too sick
Among the vermin, jackals, panthers, lice,
Gorillas and tarantulas that suck
And snatch and scratch and defecate and fuck
In the disorderly circus of our vice
There's one more ugly and abortive birth
It makes no gestures, never beats its breast
Yet it would murder for a moment's rest
And willingly annihilate the earth
It's boredom. Tears have glued its eyes together
You know it well, my listener. This obscene
Beast chain-smokes, yawning for the guillotine —
You — hypocrite listener — my double, my brother, my sister
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