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Strobe Light Shadow Play

by Lower Automation

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1.
The great pacifier, complementarian wrecking ball through grandma’s living room covered in idols and slogans to make sense of this Wild West It was you who pulled the trigger It wasn’t you who tore the flesh
2.
Shepherd, applying pressure. Availability is service. Urge us to worship your body like Christ, and give you ours like a tithe. You’re a magnet to a television. You’re a vacuum to our swollen hearts. Your 3 AM charisma strains all our colors into the flat tint of your glass eye. Cover us. Eye line to centerstage. We celebrate the restraint. This holy pipeline amplifies the profane.
3.
Lobby 02:12
I’ve waited the day away, candle to covenant. The heavy weight of nothing balanced on my chest. The wind blows over as it does the grass. Setting house fires to taunt fate. Re-bleeding every doorway. And the ghost won’t move. Elohim will have us wait to finish his cigarette in this autumn blizzard. Promises are a revolving door to a dim cellar where damp bones hang to dry atop a guilted gravity and a sharp hunger that won’t be erased.
4.
Entertained and drained, we look where we’re led and lose our heads again. Held down, in love in awe in bed with afterimages. You rear your head. High priest demands a coup. Let his wrath loose. You grip the wheel. All hail this insidious car wreck. We’re breathing it all in: the toxins, their futures with interest. The curtain lifts. The steel twists. The petrol pours. The wind shifts. The fire breaks. The curtain lights. The stage burns. We applaud. Self-immolate. The rhetoric replays. Flames paint a steel-toed grin and an empty grace. You’re not a martyr - You’re a congregant with a match.
5.
Genuflect 01:46
Listen to the tape recorder, face down on the floor. A warm voice prostrates. Listen to his consonants pressing your face to his breath, binding broken skin. This drying wind is lotion. Tertiary nails in tunnel vision ground and breathed into young lungs - suffocating the rest of their lives. Placed where you arrived - the beaten path of the evangelized. Arthritic for the rest of their lives.
6.
Comparator 01:01
Lurch through binoculars into the neighbors’ windows. Paths under microscopes like a thief in the night. Reduced to blinking lights. Swallow statistics incubated. Data recreated. It’s a race into a brick wall. Amnesia, a signing under duress. All I am is what I’ve done.
7.
The 99 01:51
With branded new spades, probe the limits. Strip the fossils of their teeth. One small step for the avant garde. One giant misfire for mankind. Bodies circle down, their heads still in the clouds: lubricated and elastic. Heaven’s interlocutor, the god’s suggest a restart for this trash collector rusted through. Look what our hands have done, so cut them off. Board the catapult giving bereavement wings. Let the bones of 1,000 mechanics lift you higher, ever higher. We’ll tell the world.
8.
Guzzler 01:53
Kids playing truck stop insert their futures into vending machines. The now springs like a fountain when you can buy everything. Before the black spots pierce through. Before the stitches loose. Kids playing truck stop offer caffeinated strain to fill in blind spots. Refill to relace the webs our peripheries create. We don’t think if we don’t stop pacing the aisles in this maze of options: display cases refracting There’s nothing to hold on to, and it’s bleeding through the thin film on our eyes like ink blots on paper
9.
New paint and new drapes, but time won’t melt. It haunts like headless horsemen. We’re intruding on our histories, circling the front lawn. Eras collide and kick back. They’ll bury us if we don’t leave and wash our memories. They’ll bottle us inside this stale world they keep. We weren’t us then and we aren’t us now. Low blimp looms over this small town, casts a shadow like the face of god. It’s the end. It’s always the end. They’ll bury us if we don’t leave and wash our memories. They’ll bottle us inside this stale world they keep. We weren’t us then and we aren’t us now.
10.
Acolytic 02:19
This erasure, this sleight of hand. Thick pen’s retreating steps, watermarked and backlogged like hope’s tongue depressor - the sharp sting of pine on splintered gums. Pray with broken nails. Deacons disposing Luminol. I’ve lost my taste for love. Reprieve me of idyllic retreats and their crash tests. The catapult in my head expands the cave in my chest.
11.
Heel Marks 01:42
40 years and we’ve never left this place. Motion’s stalling - it’s promised to in these flood light planes. There’s no safety net for this tight rope walk through fog. Wind shifts left to chance, the elements cast lots upon our backs. The voices pulling down, but I won’t let them go. Their hands around my throat. I’m hoarding all their words, but I can’t let them go. Swallowing until we choke. The mission shows no restraint and they’re coming for everything.
12.
End Scene 02:11
Satan hopes for a hole in the canoe like genes he’d impart to fishing lines winding home. Paying for my sins of sloth and critique. The surreal refers bones to wildfire. Every day was malleable, but now the plastic cracks in my hands. And it marks the end. Wait, I’ve got a case of imposter syndrome gnawing at my door. We’ve reached the other side in unforgiving light.

about

Vinyl available through Zegema Beach Records
12” /230 on Thick Wet Shadow 180g eco-mix marble vinyl

"Brilliantly unhinged hardcore-inspired songs that splinter expectations to smithereens with their split-second rhythm changes and wild vocals." - Bandcamp New and Notable

"One of our favorite heavy releases of the year, Lower Automation’s Strobe Light Shadow Play lives up to its name with disparate, chaotic parts appearing then reappearing in an instant, playing off of sludgy mathcore and spasming post-punk. The band’s distinct wail might push buttons for some, but for most of us, its sweet, untethered catharsis, and lends them a unique edge against the competition." - Feckingbahamas.com

"...Quickly explodes into the flickering, unstoppable, and agile balance between madness, melody, and abrasiveness that is the Lower Automation staple." - Heavyblogisheavy.com

credits

released November 22, 2022

Pastor Brian - Bass
Father Nighthawk - Drums
Friar D-Bag (the D stands for Dollar) - Guitar, Vocals

Recorded May/June 2022 in various locations
Mixed by Derek Allen
Mastered by Collin Jordan at the Boiler Room
Trombone on "Heel Marks" by Ty Staehlin

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Lower Automation Illinois

Noise-adjacent mathpunk from Illinois.

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