Parade of Flesh presents . . .
PVC Street Gang, Street Arabs
1402 Main St.
Dallas, TX, 75201
This event is 18 and over
I’ve disconnected the doorbell; the phone is off the hook. The post office has been instructed to return all mail sent c/o Box 489 directly back to sender. These extreme actions have not been made in haste. The past year-plus has plum worn me out.
Ever since Slumberland Records lost a bet and released 2012’s Killing Time, it seems that the bored drudges of this outhouse Earth have done nothing but follow that album title’s orders, a.k.a. harass me. (Lord knows the everyday “fan” of these “guys” has nothing better to do). Visitors, calls, letters. Look, I know I’m the only known liaison to the men behind the man, but that doesn’t mean I have the answer to the burning question on everyone’s melon: WHEN IS THE NEXT TERRY MALTS ALBUM COMING OUT?!
Oh, wait, actually I do know the answer to that one! Terry Malts’ brand-new platter, Nobody Realizes This Is Nowhere, is being released on September 10, 2013, once again on Slumberland Records. The official full-length follow-up to last year’s year-end-list-thrashing debut, hot on the heels of two more blistering 7”s in the meantime.
Who are these Nobodies? Where is this Nowhere? The same crack-staff has been employed: Phil Benson (bass, vocals), Corey Cunningham (guitar, throat), and Nathan Sweatt (drums, confusion), recorded by they-damn-selfs in their “San Francisco practice space”, and again mixed by Monte Vallier (Weekend, Half Church). Hey, Parrothead: changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes, right? Right! Which is why the Malts tropes you’ve come to know and love haven’t gone anywhere: anger, hatred, exhaustion, delusion, seclusion, consumption, life, death, breathing, eating, and probably some sensitivity or something. It’s all right in front of your earballs!
Considering a stiff breeze could blow your web address over, take this “press-release” as a “warning.” NRTIN is a punch in the gut, a kick to the teeth, a tickle exactly where you want it (wink, wink). This thing is the toupee of your record collection: throw it on top of that embarrassing stack o’ wax by the stereo to instantly transform your reputation.
Look, we can’t do everything to help out you and those of your odor, but giving you this news is a step in the right direction. And this is coming straight from the top floor. Terry Malts’ Nobody Realizes This Is Nowhere shreds. It blasts. It blows (a good thing!). A dynamite record, that’ll prolly say “Play It Loud!” or whatever in the liners. But seriously, folks… listen to this thing and leave me alone!
Terry: just like the days of our pathetic weeks, a name that ends in “why…?”